Oh, Thursday Thirteen, I love you so! You give my crazy week a little bit of shape, meaning and (dare I say?) structure.

Go say hi to Carol and Beth now.

Thirteen Things I’ve Figured Out in the Last Three Weeks:

13. Everything I do makes a difference/nothing I do makes a difference.

12. I’m cool with that.

11. You can apply for jobs out-of-state, pack up your house, and get things rolling in an amazingly short period of time. You can change your whole life around. You can cry while you’re doing this and ten minutes later smile because the daffodils and crocus have sprung and it’s all OK. You can recycle a ton of documents you really do not need and suddenly your load feels much lighter. Then you find an old dog toy buried in the yard and start crying again. And then the sun will come out and for a minute, things will be alright.

10. Remorse and regrets shut me down. I cannot afford to be shut down.

9. Instead of fuming, it’s better to attempt to be straightforward and deal with the problem.

8. My kids drive me nutty-cuckoo every day.

7. My kids save my sanity every day.

6. Even if the breadmaker breaks, you can still bake bread.

5. I am profound, no? (Sorry.)

4. It’s OK to ask for help. You may or may not get any help, but sometimes, it is greater than you can imagine, the love and support that is out there.

3. If I stand by the ocean I realize how tiny I am.

2. If I volunteer in my kid’s class one extra time during the week, I realize how important I am.

1. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, or no matter what you do, people (and critters) just don’t get better. Cycle of life. I’m not saying I like it, but I am saying I need to accept it. Will continue to try.

Yours,

WM

“I would like to have seen Iowa. Carl [Van Vechten] and [William] Cook are from Iowa, you are brilliant and subtle if you come from Iowa and really strange and you live as you live and you are always very well taken care of if you come from Iowa.”

— Gertrude Stein

In an attempt to swap out all the pooch ads over there on Google, I say…

CATS! And/or kittens.

Meow.

Wacky Cat Two, the Stripedy One, is losing his little kitten brain trying to dash outside to play a game my son fondly calls “Catch-Kill Birdy.” Wacky Boy likes playing this game himself. This game, it is not good. And it’s especially tempting to play it on gorgeous, sunny and clear days like today. It must have gotten to sixty degrees earlier — it’s fabulous. Wacky Boy and I gardened and weeded all afternoon, then brought out the wagon and walked over to pick up his sister from school. He fell asleep on the way there and is still asleep, two hours later, nestled in a bed of blankets and coats. Thank you, Radio Flyer.

Wacky Cat Two is a fierce, efficient hunter and has been known to dart outside, kill a critter, leave it on the front porch for our admiration, then dart back in the house for kibbles all within a ten-minute period. We try to keep him in as much as possible — he’s also a street-fighting cat and I can’t afford the vet bills. Or losing another pet. Also, he enjoys sunning himself in the middle of our fairly busy street. Not the best survivor instincts, our guy. But with Wacky Pooch gone, he is more playful than ever.

I thought at least he’d mourn for a little while, maybe look around for his former buddy. But no. He is playful kitten again, our nine-year-old cat, and loves to play chase, grab paper out of the scrap bag and throw it around the room, climb under the covers and tickle feet. He’s giddy. I guess he was tired of the dog trying to rip off his limbs every time he walked through the room. (Me at the time, rationalizing: “The dog sure seems to be nipping at the cat a lot. Wacky Dog, no!”)

No Catch-Kill Birdy today, friend.

Wacky Cat One, the sleek beauty, is coming into her own now, too, at nearly 12 years of age. More playful than ever, will snuggle in on my lap without digging in her claws (this is new) and doesn’t slap Wacky Cat Two nearly as much.

The teenagers led the service today and were as irrepressible as ever.

One of the homilies from a senior girl went like this:

“This has been what I’ve found with my religious education:
1. I don’t know.
2. You don’t know.
3. No one really knows.
4. Let’s go get coffee.”

God bless the Unitarians.

“Can you believe how much I vacuumed today?”
— Hockey God

People, I am telling you. If you want to feel better and stop sobbing your eyes out, either decide to sell your house or at least pretend you’re going to sell your house. It is like Mary flippin’ Poppins around here, in the nursery scene where lickety-split everything gets picked up in ten seconds flat and Michael almost gets smashed flat in the closet door.

We’ve packed away toys, books, videos and clothes. We’ve given away so much stuff that my friend C growled at me the other day, “No. More. TOYS!” a la Joan Crawford “No. Wire. Hangers. EVER!” Then she (to retaliate) brought me a huge bag of hand-me-downs from her son to mine. And then I, in turn, gave her my broken breadmaker (which miraculously works at their house but not ours. Whatever, breadmaker. This is the respect I get? After all the yeast I’ve provided for you?).

Goodwill? Four boxes and four more to drop off this week.

Breast pumps and baby gear? Off to a friend in need.

Family photos, my dad’s old rocking chair (from when he was a wee tot) and his high chair (ditto)? To my sister and mom.

Doghouse? Don’t make me cry. It went to C’s crazeee-kooky shaggy black dog, who reminds me a lot of Wacky Dog.

“Nice, with the moldy sleeping bag inside,” her husband D told me.

“It’s only been in there a few months!” I told him.

Then I packed up half the china cabinet. Recycled half (or more) of our paperwork. Hockey God decided which half of his albums he’s keeping (K-Tel, Grateful Dead and Rush, yes; Pablo Cruise or whoever it was, no.) Our attic is stuffed full; our rugs are vacuumed. Our dishes and laundry are done; we still haven’t found jobs.

But we will.

And then, Iowa City, Iowa, our family, Coralville Lake Reservoir and our friends at The Mill, here we come.

(PS — I believe this makes it five posts in one day. A new record.)

Why post once a day, when you can post four times?

“There is only one true happiness in life: to love and be loved.”

— George Sand

I think I was 12 or 13 the first time I read “Memoirs of an Ex-Prom Queen” by Alix Kates Shulman (274 pages; $15; Farrar, Straus & Giroux). It was my mom’s copy — she let me read anything I wanted. Thank you, Mom!

First off, I identified with the book, like most other females have for thirty-five years now (??? what???), even when I got to the intriguing, horrible and mystifying parts (her molestation; her hideous illegal abortion; her running off to upstate New York to wait tables, wherein both a millionaire and the chef fall for her; her European adventure, where she gives her lover “the Clap”; her mishaps in college and marriage). I adored this book then and adore it now. So to have an advance review copy fall in my lap (newest edition; paperback) it was like getting a box of bon-bons.

Laced with Scotch.

(Also, I was fascinated by the author’s name: Alix, not Alex. Kates, not Kathryn or Kate. Exotic! And the character was from Ohio — all of the heroines in other books I was reading where from the West Coast. Or New York. But the Midwest? Intriguing…)

She quotes Emerson, in a Dear John letter to her beau:

“Did I hurt you by leaving without saying goodbye? If so, I’m sorry. I knew you’d understand eventually. I just had to go without anyone’s permission, not even yours. As Emerson says in an unbelievable essay called “Self-Reliance,” I must be myself.”

(Yes! My 12-year-old self thought: Sasha Davis is brilliant! I, too, must be myself!)

OK, no spoilers here, in case you haven’t read this book — but the ending is what you’d expect and not at all what you’d expect. This novel really is a feminist classic.

“‘You’re a sweet boy, George, but I’m off sex.” He probably didn’t even find me pretty.

‘Oh well. It’s been very nice knowing you anyway, Sasha. I liked you.'”

Next up: “Babyproofing Your Marriage,” by Stacie Cockrell, Cathy O’Neill and Julia Stone (289 pages, $24.95, HarperCollins Publishers). Ladies, where have you been for the last ten years? Because I’ve needed some help in learning how to “laugh more, argue less, and communicate better” as my family grows.

Learn about…

“Scorekeeping: An exceedingly complex, often relentless tit-for-tat war waged by husbands and wives…”

“The Ten O’Clock Shoulder Tap: Considered by many men to be a form of foreplay…” and…

“Clash of the Grannies: Who gets to be called ‘Grandma’…” and much more. No wonder it doesn’t seem like it was waaaaaaay back in 1972 when “Ex-Prom Queen” was published — what the hell has changed? We need all the help we can get around here, in the land of Domestic Strife and Chaos.

I also received a review copy of “Good Kids/Bad Habits,” by Dr. Jennifer Trachtenberg ($21.95, 319 pages, HarperCollins Publishers). I don’t even want to find out my RealAge. I’m a bit concerned that I’m actually 77. She includes loads of information about the health crisis our kids are facing. (Hints: No video games, less sugar, more exercise and a better diet is a good start. Just fyi.) Did you know that American kids are facing battles with adult diseases such as high blood pressure, clogged arteries and weak bones? Did you know that this is the first generation that may have a shorter life expectancy than their parents?

On a lighter note, Trachtenberg is opposed to the “five-second rule” (“If the food lands where the bacteria are, it will become contaminated almost immediately”); she is pro-consistency. I think this book is going to be my new Bible for some time to come. She also tackles teens, and who doesn’t need help there? She includes some recipes, some checklists, and some sound advice. And the book includes a comprehensive list of websites for parents and kids. Wacky Girl’s favorite is the Yuckiest Site on the Internet.

After reading these books, I had to scoop up the kids and love on them.

Wacky Boy says, “I will give you a hug first, then one of my special kisses.” (It’s a kiss on one cheek, then the other, then the lips, then you rub noses. It will do you in, a kiss like this.)

“What would I do without you?” I asked.

“I dunno. Cwy?” he says as he runs out of the room. He calls over his shoulder, “You wouldn’t have anyone to teach you everything.”

Now that is for sure.

re: a video they made my daughter’s class watch today:

At the end of the videotape, one of the girls started hissing, “Booooo!” and (this is when the class, as a group, really shines) then the kids yelled (pretty much in unison), “BYE, LOSERS!” (When they’re in the mood for singing, they do a nice medley of “We Are Family,” “Dance to the Music” and “Give Me Some Money.”)

Yours,

WM

Dogs!

“Luck”
by Langston Hughes
(1902-1967)

Sometimes a crumb falls
From the tables of joy,
Sometimes a bone
Is flung.

To some people
Love is given,
To others
Only heaven.

I posted early for the Thursday Thirteen; my husband posted late. It’s his best one yet, in my humble opinion: War Must End (and Thirteen Imaginings for a Better World.)

Read it if you have a chance.