“Words are things; and a small drop of ink / Falling like dew upon a thought, produces / That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.”
— Lord Byron, poet (1788-1824)

me, this afternoon: “I’m going to write for a while.”

Wacky Girl: “You always write! That’s all you do!”

me: “You should be glad you have a mother who’s an artist. You could have some boring old mother.”

Wacky Girl, leaving the room and calling out over her shoulder: “Writing. Is. Not. ART!”

I’ve started writing up my Grandma’s life story. She’s 87 next month. She’s a pistol. That’s what everyone says when they meet her: “Your Grandma is a pistol!” I’m like, damn straight.

You know her a little from what I’ve written here, here and here. She of the Coconut Cooky fame. She can tell a damn story. I wish I could share it with you, but I can’t. But once we get it published on Cafe Press you can order a copy. Pictures, recipes and all.

So, Internet, is writing art? Or not?

WM

It’s time for the Thursday Thirteen again, and IT’S TIME FOR MY BIRTHDAY this weekend. 43??? Yes, forty-three. I love you 43, cuz you’re not 23 or 53. (But 33 would be alright again. I liked being 33 1/3 — a long-playing record!) You know what I want for my birthday? Clothes. New clothes. Skirts, tights, dresses, lingerie, maybe a few new blouses and some shoes. And a personal shopper, because I hate trying on clothes — the lights, the dressing rooms, the back and forth, this is too small, this is too big…

Would that be the best birthday, or what? Just me, some silk, cotton and linen, and someone to say “Fabulous, darling”…

(Edited to say: My husband swiped my idea! And my pajamas!)

13 Favorite Clothing Items of Mine, Past and Present:

13. A leopard-print flannel shirt that had “Wildcat” embroidered on the pocket.

12. A mustard-yellow bowling jacket that was embroidered “Rita” on the pocket.

11. A vintage rayon dress I bought for five bucks in the East Village in New York, at a big clothing warehouse. Black, with a pattern of white swirls. Long, simple, slinky, with buttons up the front, short sleeves, a v-neck. I wore it ’til it was in tatters.

10. A short blue and white flowered cotton dress I bought at the same place, same day, same price. It kinda looked like a flapper dress. It was the perfect summer dress.

9. The sexy, perfect, tight little black dress I wore all through college. Sigh.

8. The turquoise tank top I wear all the time now.

7. My wedding dress.

6. The red maternity dress my husband bought me when I was hugely pregnant with our first baby and too fat for all the other maternity clothes (the “Pregnancy Kit” with shirt, skirt, leggings; the khakis; the shorts) he’d already bought me. Ditto the blue denim maternity dress with Winnie the Pooh on the front that I wouldn’t have been caught dead in any other time. It was so roomy, and had pockets. It was summertime. The weather was too damn hot. I wore it for a month straight.

5. My Ann Taylor jeans.

4. My Old Navy white dress shirt. Plain, one pocket. Goes with everything. I’m wearing it right now!

3. The sundress and matching scarf my mom made for me when I was six — it was a long granny dress, white fabric with a pattern of tiny blue and yellow flowers. She added turquoise piping and a matching scarf. It was my favorite outfit ever, to this day.

2. My Levi jean jacket. That I lost. And the Iowa Hawkeyes jean jacket. That I lost. And my new Levi jean jacket, that I hope to never misplace. (I have a history of misplacing jackets. I’m on my seventh fleece jacket as of this writing.)

1. My blue string bikini underpants that my ex stole when he moved out. Freak!

Happy Thursday!!!

Edited to say: Thanks, Tink, who reminds us: June 21 “we celebrate Litha, also known as Midsummer, Summer Solstice, Alban Heruin, Sun Blessing, Feill-Sheathain, Vestalia, Thing-tide, All Couples Day, Feast of Epona, Saint John’s Day, Ivan Kupala Day or Gathering Day.” Happy Solstice, all!

“I’m like old wine. They don’t bring me out very often, but I’m well preserved.”

— Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy (1890 – 1995)

(i turn 43 this weekend. What??? wm)

Now let’s see… what haven’t I run? My grandma’s Banana Bread recipe. (Extra-good with chocolate chips.) (What isn’t?)

Granny’s Banana Bread

1/4 cup shortening or butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs
2 med. mashed bananas (or substitute shredded zucchini for zucchini bread — one cup or so?)
2 cups flour
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. soda
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 cup buttermilk or milk
1 cup chopped nuts (optional)
1 tsp. vanilla

Cream shortening or butter. Mix well. Add eggs and bananas and mix well. Add salt, baking powder, soda and cinnamon to flour. Mix. Add to creamed butter, sugar and bananas. Mix. Add milk, vanilla, nuts and mix (but don’t overmix). Pour into two loaf pans, and bake at 360 degrees for about 45 minutes. Test with toothpick in middle.

Bon Appetit!

WM & her Granny

The last few months have been bleak for me (if you’ve been reading me much, you knew this already). But I feel like I’m getting past it. Finally. And I’ve figured something out.

The happiest moments — you rarely know they’re the happiest moments when they’re happening. It’s only later when you realize “That,” you think to yourself, “That was happiness.”

The way the grass feels under your feet, and the way the apple blossoms look on the tree, early in the morning.

The way you are (were) adored by your dog.

You just have to grab ahold of life and love it, okay? Even when you hate it.

“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…)

My dear Mallory tagged me. As she knows I love memes.

Without further ado:

7 Random Facts About Me

1. I have many secret crushes — all of them innocent. Crush #1: The UPS guy.

2. Crush #2: The Fed-Ex guy.

3. Crush #3: All the blogger kids. This is infatuation, more like. Some people do aromatherapy, I go to Amalah, Mrs. Flinger, Y from the Internet (Joy Unexpected), Zoot, Rockstar Mommy’s and Dooce’s sites and admire their kids. Even when they’re older kids, looking surly, like Mallory’s kid, here. I like kid pix! (I read a ton of blogs, sorry to play favorites. But these are my comfort blogs.)

4. Speaking of RSM — She and Ty need their own reality show, doncha think?

5. That’s not really a random fact about me, that’s a random fact that speaks to what a geeb I am. I have a crush on RSM! And her husband! No, I don’t swing. That’s another fact:

6. Hockey God and I do not swing. So don’t bother asking.

7. Right now, I am having lunch (macaroni & turkey salad and an iced coffee) while the kids play in the yard. The yard which is nicely mowed. Thank you, all bow down to Wacky Mommy.

It will be Monday morning. You will be mowing your lawn and weeding. Because you were too busy reassembling the house Saturday and cooking, doing laundry and dealing with a vomiting kid on Sunday (Happy Father’s Day! Arf.) to mow over the weekend. Also, you wanted your husband to have the weekend off, but instead you worked him like a dog and put him in charge of vomiting kid.

You might feel a little bad about this. Or you might not.

“No, you can’t have mac and cheese. Let’s see if you can keep the toast down, first.” (Moments like that I adore my husband. I had no idea what love was until the first time one of the kids caught the flu and he took care of them.)

The neighbor dog will be yipping at you. You will be a little concerned that the crazy door-to-door salesman (“Ma’am! I’m not selling anything!”) who came by last week and refused to leave your porch will return.

Salesman-Who-Is-Not-Salesman: “This is my job.”

You will be wearing your husband’s sweats and a stinky v-neck white T-shirt (Hanes) and the lawnmower will start smoking and there will be four guys from the City of Portland (“The City That Works!” The city that works my frickin’ nerves, make that) and they will be parked on their fat asses on the neighbors retaining wall at the end of the street, checking you out.

You will ignore them.

They will continue to take a break and stare. For 20 minutes they sit there, bs’ing and staring.

Apparently sweaty housewives cussing at their lawnmowers are all the rage.

“The most powerful prayer, one
well nigh omnipotent, and the
worthiest work of all is the
outcome of a quiet mind.”

— Meister Eckhart

“If You Should Meet a Crocodile”
(anon.)
If you should meet a Crocodile
Don’t take a stick and poke him;
Ignore the welcome in his smile,
Be careful not to stroke him.
For as he sleeps upon the Nile,
He thinner gets and thinner;
And whene’er you meet a Crocodile
He’s ready for his dinner.”

Dear Hockey God,

You are grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat! Thanks for all the lovin’.

WM, WG & WB