“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.

I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves.
— August Strindberg

He’s wrong. I do bite. And yes, yes, I know. People can’t help that they’re stupid.

(PS — By the way, all of these stupid comments were made to my face or over the phone. Not on the blog. You all have been incredibly supportive and kind. Thank you. You would think, since we don’t know each other in “real” life — most of us, anyway — that that would mean license to be flip, or rude or whatever. Maybe we just save our best manners for the people we don’t know “face to face.” We should save our best manners for everyone, because you never know what someone’s deal is. I appreciate you guys, and thank you. You mean the world to me.)

(PSS — Thanks to Carol and Beth for keeping Thursday Thirteen going.)

For my Thursday Thirteen, here are…

Thirteen Stupid Things People Have Said to Me Since Wacky Dog Died

13. He was really old, right?

12. He was neurotic.

11. Your dog was really neurotic.

10. He would have drove me nuts.

9. All of that chewing would have drove me nuts.

8. You’d better find a way to deal with it, because he’s gone.

7. He’s still lost? (This from a friend who got my message saying, “We lost the dog.” Apparently my sobbing into her voicemail didn’t tip her off.)

6. Yeah, Labs have problems.

5. I’m glad we have a small dog. Small dogs live longer.

4. You’ll be glad not to pick up after him anymore, I bet.

3. At least he was old.

2. It just seems so… sudden.

1. Was he even sick?

Yeah, I know. I need to keep my mouth shut. More secrets = more better, right? Less information = less hurt. Yes, in some cases. But when you’re crying for a week solid, and you still have to do things like go out in public to get your kids to and from school, people ask questions. And what a lot of people don’t know, because 1) it’s none of their business and 2) I keep it guarded like the dark secret it is — people know that my Dad jumped. (I wrote about it here.) But what I never tell people is — he took our dog with him and killed her, too. (Because what? It wasn’t going to damage us enough, with the suicide? He had to throw a little more damage in there? Thanks, Dad.) She was a black dog, and really sweet, with a white blaze on her chest. She looked like a miniature version of Wacky Dog. And I was just a little older than my daughter when it happened. So analyze that in your spare time.

Also, Wacky Dog was our last dog, and some of my sorrow is because of that. I love dogs, even the crazy-kooky ones like Wacky Dog, and I’ve never not had a dog. But my husband and I decided this a long time ago. He’s not really a dog person, and I cannot deal with this kind of grief and sorrow again. Not when I can have a choice in the matter.

A lot of people have said the right things. Not everyone is stupid. So I give you:

13. I loved Wacky Dog.

12. He was a great dog.

11. You guys were a great family to him.

10. It’s good that he’s not in pain anymore.

9. My dog will miss him — they were good friends.

8. He was the best dog.

7. He ruled.

6. You’re going to keep hearing him — and looking for him — for a long time. I am sorry to tell you this, but for me it was (two months, six months, or just a pause, and then, “a long time”).

5. This must be tough for the kids.

4. This must be making you really sad.

3. I am sorry.

2. I wish there was something I could do.

1. He had a good home with you guys, and you did all you could.

Funny, since there’s no snow, that we should have a two-hour late school opening today. And no morning pre-k for Wacky Boy. There is the teensiest bit of snow — a dusting on the cars, a few flakes (that are already melting) on the lawns. Go talk to PPS about this one, would you?

I’m a slacker, in general. And a stay-at-home mom, to boot. So I don’t mind a mellow schedule. But my kids are hardly ever in school.

“Rarely is the question asked, is our children learning?”
— George W. Bush

Ed. to say: 1 p.m. no snow at all. In fact, we didn’t have any “real snow” over here at all — just gray skies, clear skies, sun and a little bit of a breeze. This being Oregon. I took FOUR BOXES OF STUFF to Goodwill and left a ton of recycling by the curb. We’ve also packed a dozen boxes of stuff we can live without to go into the attic. Less clutter = less crazy. Who the hell knew? (My husband. He’s been begging me for years to get rid of some of my junk. Probably one-third or less is his — the kids and I can claim two-thirds, or possibly more…) Anyone who walks into or near my home is getting a door prize — maybe a plant. Maybe a book. Maybe some recycling, because ALL OF THIS IS NOT GOING TO FIT INTO THE BINS.

I even itemized the Goodwill drop for the tax receipt. (You have to do this to figure out how much you can write off — go here for details.) Plus, the nice man who took the donation (all of it, even the ripped flannel shirts and college textbooks) gave me a dozen boxes when I told him we were moving. I’m getting lots of tips on moving from Iowa Drift — they’re relocating from Iowa to Massachusetts. She writes one of my favorite blogs — I love her style.

Yours in order and precision,

WM

No, the Thursday Thirteen is not going away. Yay!

To those of you pooh-poohing this idea, this grand scheme to leave the moldy-wet, expensive and fast-paced Pacific Northwest and move to my husband’s hometown of Iowa City, I ask, do you even know what the Big Ten schools are?

Harry: Yeah, nothing from her, not even a smile. So I downshift into small talk, and I asked her where she went to school and she said, “Michigan State,” and this reminds me of Helen. All of a sudden I’m in the middle of this mess of an anxiety attack, my heart is beating like a wild man and I start sweating like a pig.
Sally: Helen went to Michigan State?
Harry: No she went to Northwestern, but they’re both Big Ten schools. I got so upset I had to leave the restaurant.
(from “When Harry Met Sally”)

And without further ado, they are:

* University Of Illinois
* Indiana University
* University of Iowa (which is IN IOWA CITY, thank you)
* University of Michigan
* Michigan State University
* University of Minnesota
* Northwestern University
* Ohio State University
* Penn State University
* Purdue University
* University of Wisconsin

I know. Penn State makes it eleven but everyone still says Big Ten. Midwesterners are generous that way.

Also, the naysayers are not the readers of this blog. Oh, no. All of you are asking me, “How can you put up with that rain? Yes, move. Damn. You cannot build a rainman, can you?” No, and I would not want to. I am saying, “We will move.” And we will. Because I am Through with this place. Through.

See? I blame it on Nora Ephron.

Harry: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.
Sally: And Ingrid Bergman is low maintenance?
Harry: An L.M. Definitely.
Sally: Which one am I?
Harry: You’re the worst kind. You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.
Sally: I don’t see that.
Harry: You don’t see that? “Waiter, I’ll begin with the house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing. I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side, and then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side.” ‘On the side’ is a very big thing for you.
Sally: Well, I just want it the way I want it.
Harry: I know, high maintenance.