Finally, a memoir where someone doesn’t lie their head off. “Grace After Midnight” is the story of Felicia “Snoop” Pearson (who played Snoop on the acclaimed HBO series “The Wire”). (Grand Central Publishing, 2007, $22, 233 pages.) She is one amazing Baltimore woman. As a teenager, she landed in Jessup State Penitentiary for killing a woman in self-defense.

Whether Pearson is writing about her birth (as a three-pound, cross-eyed baby who was addicted to crack), about her mother tearing the dress off of her baby girl’s body and selling it for drugs, or about her knack for selling dildos and perfume in prison, she writes it raw, pure, and poignantly. She’s got a sense of humor, too, thank God for her. (more…)

I love Tinker Bell, know why? No, why? (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) The new movie is coming out, and I am even more excited about it than my children are. And they are quite excited, having just seen the original Peter Pan not long ago.

Read more…

(Comments open on full post.)

POEM AGAINST THE FIRST GRADE
by George Venn

“Alex, my son, with backberry jam
smeared ear to ear and laughing,
rides his unbroken joy with words
so fast we let him get away
on the jamjar without clean cheeks first.

I hope for a bad seal on Ax and tister,
encourage the mold of joyous error
that proper sad giants, armed to the ears
with pencils and rules, all forgot.”

just for the next week or so, I am taking a break and will not be blogging.

xo

wm

When I was young and drunk, I dated a large Irishman, who was 6’5″ and, like me, an English major and writer. He also liked to drink. And have conversations that were apropos of everything and nothing at the same time. (more…)

I believe you already know that nothing makes me, Wacky Mommy, hap-hap-happier than a few new fish! Today I took the only person who loves fish more than I do — my son, Young Wacky Boy — to the fish store, where we purchased:

* 2 little tiny leopard catfish
* 2 more little tiny Killer Dwarf Frogs , to keep our lone Killer Dwarf Frog company. About him, the clerk said, “He did not eat your male guppy. The guppy must have died of natural causes. Probably of a heart attack.” I’m thinking, yeah, he heart attacked while a killer dwarf frog was gobbling him alive. Which brings us to…
* a male Black Velvet guppy, cuz the female, she was lonely
* a tiny freshwater shrimp, who scoots around like a madman and somewhat resembles a seahorse
* another Blackskirt Tetra — this one looks a lot like an angelfish and was lovingly hand-raised by one of the employees at the store, who only agreed to let me take the fish home after I promised I would keep his tank spit-spot clean, not overfeed him, and coo at him through the glass to let him know we adore him
* nine new live plants — some very tall, some very small
* a siphon thingy (thank you, Funsize)
* replacement parts for the filter/pump (foam and charcoal)
* more food
* more dechlorinating drops
* a thing to scrape and clean the walls of the tank AND to plant plants with! (It’s quite a doohickey.)

I know, I am a geeb about all this, but my son and I are so happy now.

My daughter: “I cannot believe you did this. Oh my gosh, look at the catfish they are sooooooo cute!“

I may do yardwork this fine, sunny fall weekend.

I may not.

I may go to church for the first time in months.

I may sleep in with Hockey God.

It’s always good to have options, no?

Whatever you do this weekend, I hope it is relaxing and fun.

love,

wm

POEM AGAINST THE FIRST GRADE
by George Venn

“Alex, my son, with backberry jam
smeared ear to ear and laughing,
rides his unbroken joy with words
so fast we let him get away
on the jamjar without clean cheeks first.

I hope for a bad seal on Ax and tister,
encourage the mold of joyous error
that proper sad giants, armed to the ears
with pencils and rules, all forgot.”

I’m talking to one of my Jeff Demo friends today and I say, You know last year, when I thought the Demos weren’t going to take both titles (men’s and women’s, 5-A b-ball), I’m not saying that I would have died, had they lost, but I would have died if they lost.

And now I’m feeling like, if Mr. Obama loses, I’m gonna die.

She says, He’s not losing and you’re not dying.

With that in mind, I taped the debate today between Mr. Obama and John McCain and… here we go. I’m fidgety, I’m a little aggravated, I’m having trouble watching this, because my heart is pounding so loud.

Lady from the audience: How can we trust either of you, when both parties are the ones who got us into this mess?

Me: That’s what she said!

Tom Brokaw: How can we all stop getting drunk?

Me: Don’t drink and drink!

My husband: I was really hoping to watch this.

Me: Yeah.

That reminds me of a joke Zip-Zip told me:

Sitting behind a couple of nuns (whose habits partially blocked their view) at a Toronto Maple Leafs Hockey Game, three men decided to badger the nuns in an effort to get them to move. In a loud voice, the first guy says: “I’m moving to Manitoba, there are only 100 nuns living there.” Second guy says: “I wanna go to Nova Scotia, there are only 50 nuns there.” Third guy says: “I want to go to Newfoundland, there are only 25 nuns living there.” One of the nuns turns around and says: “Why don’t you go to Hell, there aren’t any nuns there.”

Back to the debate:

Mr. Obama: …we need that money at home!

Me: Tell it like it are, Barack!

And… one more from the Anti-Christ:
Mr. McCain: If it’s left up to me, we’ll win this war.

Me: We’re not leaving it up to you.

Go, Mr. Obama, go. Win this race. (McCain didn’t do well in the debate, in my opinion. How can you tell he’s lying? His mouth is moving.)

Go, Mr. Obama. Win it.

First of all, girls only. Boys gone? OK.

Cannie’s back! Fans of Jennifer Weiner’s awesome first novel, “Good in Bed,” will remember Cannie Shapiro well. “certain girls” picks up thirteen years later, with Cannie, her husband, and Cannie’s about-to-be-bat-mitzvahed daughter. (Atria Books, $26.95, 386 pages.) The chapters alternate in voice, first Cannie, then her girl, and Weiner digs right into the drama. I was lucky enough to score an advance reading copy and was thrilled because it gave me the best excuse to ignore my Psych 311 textbook.

Who needs Psych? I’ve got Cannie. What to know how it ends? Psych! Won’t tell you.

I was also happily distracted by Bridget Asher’s book, “my husband’s sweethearts.” (I kinda like writing out the titles very ee cummings exactly how they’re written on the covers.) “my husband’s sweethearts (Bantam Dell, $22, 271 pages) opens with a little “what would you do about this one?” scenario. What would you do if your adorable, sexy, estranged husband was dying, and you found his little black book? Would you drunk dial? Sober dial? Dial at all?

Lucy decides to call each and every one of them, and what she discovers isn’t exactly what she thought she would find. Great book, and hard to put down. (And speaking of chick lit, since we are — I love these books because they satisfy my need for a girly, drama-filled book that is down to earth, but at the same time, the writing in both of these novels is so good. The storylines go zipping along and you find yourself getting really attached to all the various characters, major and minor. Nicely played, you two.)

Did I have a date to go with my sister to see Sex and the City: The Movie? Yes, I did. Did dear, dear Felicia send me an advance copy of the sister book, so I could pair things up a little? Yes, she did. Did I do my reviews? NO. But I am right now.

I ordered the DVD on Netflix. It arrived. I shipped the kids off to Grandma’s. I fixed a quite lovely brunch for my sister and now, even though it was just a short week ago, I have no idea what we had. Oh, wait! Some kind of coffeecake? Fried eggs on toasted homemade cheddar biscuits, with butter and sweet-hot chili sauce. Fruit salad. And an entire pot of strong, good Stumptown coffee. Because watching those skinny girls brunch, brunch, brunch makes me want to devour a lot of food.

No Aidan, though, sorry. And the men were given pretty skimpy storylines. So were the women, come to think of it. But the movie was still pretty fun, although we found ourselves screaming, “Grow UP already!” at the TV several times.

“They’re still doing stuff we stopped doing in our early 30s,” my sister noted.

“Or late 20s,” I noted.

The book is shiny and perfect for the coffee table and looking through it is just like watching the movie all over again. (Amy Sohn and Melcher Media, Collins, 176 pages.)

Today’s books: