My sister decides she’s going to get a dog. I think, Good! Big dog! Big dogs good!

She says, No big dog, medium dog.

I think, Eh, medium dog OK. Maybe a 40- or 50-pounder?

She is pleased as punch with 16-pound squirrel killer, The Ratter, aka Random Pooper because, you know. These are the reasons Random Pooper has been 86ed from our house, from time to time: Random pooping, licking her own ass and then my kids’ faces, licking the cats’ asses (repeat), kicking the cats’ asses, OH! Litter boxes! MORE cat ass! Good grazing.

Me: Fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa.

My sister: I’m sorry!

Me: Why? Did you poop on the floor?

Then the Random Pooper shows up at my door, dressed up as a dinosaur, and how can I refuse her? (Notice she stays on her leash, so she won’t commit any crimes while she’s here.)

“I won’t fuck with the cats. Or eat their poop. I promise.”

“AIIIIIIIII AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII I CAN’T SEE! HELP ME!”

“Are the cats here?”

My mom: “I tried to find one in Wacky Dog’s size — they didn’t have one!”

Me: “That was sweet, Mom.”

Wacky Dog: Thank you, Jesus.

Ready for holiday shopping yet?

Look over there — on the right. Cool stuff for sale, designed by Hockey God and approved by me. All proceeds from sales benefit our writing careers and my coffee habit. Hoodies, magnets, bibs, bags, stickers and T’s. Go for it.

Love,

WM

At the Book Fair yesterday at the North Portland Library, we received a FREE copy of one of the Addy, American Girl books. (Wacky Girl adores American Girl anything, especially now that Emily, Molly’s English friend! has arrived! Much excitement at Wacky House over this. I told her if she scams enough Christmas money, then maybe.)

MORE REVIEWS:

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Let’s say you have a dad who is, eh, for the most part pretty nice. Takes you to ice skating lessons, teaches you to ride a two-wheeler, makes you chocolate chip waffles for breakfast. But he has this habit of saying, “Drink your milk. The whole glass. Drink all of it. All of it. Now. Do not pour it down the sink. I said don’t pour it down the sink. I can’t believe you just poured that down the sink after I told you not to.”

A solution?

How about you stand up at the breakfast table, pretend to pour the entire glass of milk in your ear, then douse the front of your nightgown, the chair and the rug with it. Problem solved! Now you’ve just got to clean up the mess.

“What were you thinking?” HG asks.

“I. Don’t. Knoooooooooooow!!!” she trills, jitterbugging around the house.

I (heart) Wacky Girl and her sheer, unbridled enthusiasm for life.

For my Thursday Thirteen I present:

THIRTEEN THINGS MY GRANDMA LIKES TO SAY (over and over and over…)

13. “Depressed my ass! She needs to clean her house!”

12. “Who do you think you are, Little Miss Astor Butt?”

11. “Get on down here to dinner or I’m throwing it out.”

10. “Elvis. That poor boy just had too much too fast.”

9. “Patsy. Ol’ Patsy had her a hard life.”

8. “How are you, sugar?”

7. “Bacon! I love bacon. It is my downfall. But I’ve had to cut back — I only eat it every other day now.”

6. “Randy Travis — your grandpa just loved Randy Travis.”

5. “I made you some of that Ambrosia that you like so much.”

4. “I made your husband some of those Ranger Cookies that he likes so much.”

3. “Now I grew up during the Depression. I do not throw things away, like plastic bags. Your aunt always throws away plastic bags. And shops at Nordstrom. She refuses to shop anywhere but Nordstrom.”

2. “I do not drink. Not even a sip. But I do put wine in my fruitcake.”

1. “Men are like streetcars — there’s another one along every fifteen minutes. Miss one, catch the next.”

I have this sweetie of a girlfriend in town, one Leslie Gould.

Quick! Go look how pretty she is. Sweet, no?

I met her through a friend, who was helping me land a freelance job. Leslie became my editor, then my friend, then my buddy. Usually I don’t use my friends’ real names on this blog, because of, y’know. This, and maybe this and a whole lot of this. I don’t want to identify the mommies cuz I don’t want to identify the kids. Sometimes we need our privacy, yes? (What happened to my Friday Advice Column, anyway? Any questions? Fire away. I had a batch and, uh, misfiled them in a sub-folder and now who knows where they are. Truth is out. I cannot file.)

No anonymity here though — Leslie must be outed, because you need to buy her books. Besides, what wouldn’t I do for her? She is that kind of girlfriend to me. She lives in the neighborhood where I grew up. The woman is a career Army wife. Brave? Yes. She has four gorgeous kids who play soccer and are brilliant artists and gifted, and kind, to top it all off. Her family is involved in their church, and their community, and oh, yeah. She writes. She writes and writes and writes.

In her spare time.

On October 10th her third novel, Scrap Everything, arrives in stores.

Perfect for the crafty types in your life, for your best friend, your family members, your child’s teacher, a neighbor — it’s a great book. It’s about two women, Elise and Rebekah, who strike up an unlikely friendship and bond over scrapbooking, their families and their faith. Her two previous novels, Beyond the Blue and Garden of Dreams are equally incredible. Beyond the Blue is about international adoption and its impact on two families; Garden of Dreams is about two women friends, in love with their husbands and their kids; the community they live in and sometimes struggle with; and a secret.

If you love to read about friendship, faith and dreams, you will love these books.

A request from Wacky Boy:

“I want you to blog about monster trucks. I want you to say that monster trucks can jump on cars. Also say ‘monster’ means ‘big’ and monster trucks are big. Monster trucks are in demolition derby. My favorite monster truck is my toy ones. The ones we bought at the store. My second favorite one is Bigfoot. The toy. My other favorite one is Bigfoot, the real truck. Some people like monster trucks.”

First of all, Rockstar Mommy, my best friend, sent me lovin’ on her blog and I am so blissed out now. Really. It is better than the elusive “O.” And I was feeling so fat today! Now I feel skinny and pretty.

Love you, too, babes. She’s getting the Internet to buy her new breasts. Or new bandwidth, whichever. She is not fussy. Can you dig this? The girl is brilliant in so many ways. And she does not need new tits, her current set is fine (in my humble opinion) but we all are allowed our freedom of expression. Me? I’m going to go for less freedom of expression. I will get the Internet to buy me a roll of duct tape so I can tape my mouth shut because really? It has gotten me in too much trouble this week. This is the case every week, but this week in particular. I cannot give you details on EVERY MISTAKE I MADE ALL WEEK LONG that involved my large mouthy-mouth, but let’s just say, if your older kid goes to private school, and you’re too good to go to our low-rent public school, but oh, you’re not too good to swoop down on our free preschool AND THEN TELL EVERYONE “OH, WE’RE JUST HERE FOR THE YEAR, THEN WE’RE OFF TO CHI-CHI PRIVATE SCHOOL UP THE STREET…”

(May I just say, the district erred in allowing her in. Recognized their error, called her and said, “Whoops.” And she refused to back down. They were trying to re-neg, dammit, and she would not. Have. That.)

And ON TOP OF THAT you then TRY TO FIGHT ME FOR ONE OF THE PRECIOUS MORNING SLOTS because “I work OUTSIDE of the home…” (She works two fucking mornings a week. Two. I work seven days a week, people, because I not only am trying to please all of you, but yes, I write freelance and edit, too… And also, there are the kids. They require a large amount of care and refuse to be ignored.)

And then, Chi-Chi Girl, you ask me to provide daycare for your child, because you cannot be troubled to get your sorry ass to school to pick up little Lord Fauntleroy, and you assume I babysit to pick up extra cash to, you know, support my meth addiction and… where was I going with this?

Please, Chi-Chi Girl from the fancy neighborhood up the street, you really did not want to get on my bad side, the way you did. Just sayin’.

Thank you. OK, I’ll install a PayPal button soon so y’all can buy me a few rolls of duct tape. I need ’em.

PS — Yes, we got a morning slot, in spite of Chi-Chi Girl’s machinations. Ooooh, big word for a girl from the wrong side of the tracks.

For the Thursday Thirteen, MY THIRTEEN FAVORITE THINGS ABOUT BEING A MOM

(This one is so easy now that they’re both in school. Up until last week it would have been “My Thirteen Least Favorite Things…” Heh heh.)

13. My kids are delicious. I inhale them all the time.

12. I love that they know how to dress themselves now.

11. I adore working in the yard with them and teaching them all the names of the plants.

10. On the walk to and from school we talk and talk and talk…

9. When I put on Sly & the Family Stone or the Chieftains or any good dance music and we dance all around the house.

8. Even though they’re not always good for me, they’re generally good for everyone else — grandparents, friends, teachers, relatives. And that’s what you want out of parenting, after the day is done.

7. They both love to read and be read to. Right now Wacky Boy is enthralled with Stuart Little and the McDuff books; Wacky Girl is reading all 100-plus of the Boxcar Children mysteries.

6. I love how much my husband loves being a father. I always knew he would be a great dad, but he just becomes a better one every day.

5. The way both kids come into the kitchen and say, “What are you baking? It smells delicious!” whenever there are cookies in the oven. (WG trained WB to say this because she knows I love it and thus will keep churning out the cookies.)

4. Watching them play and make up crazy-funny little voices and stories while they’re setting up a demolition derby, or a zoo, or the dolls.

3. Every age that they’re at is my “favorite” age so far.

2. I love writing stories with them on the computer. WB has a wild one he’s working on right now — “Swamp Frog Bob.” I’ll type up the chapters, his sister will illustrate them and voila! Christmas presents for all our friends and family! He’s on chapter five already. It’s called, “Want to Swim?”

1. No matter how frustrated I get, all I have to do is think back to the magical days they were born in April and September, and the first time I laid eyes on each of them, and it’s all better.

Wacky Boy loves preschool. Everybody say: Hallelujah!

He denies it. He says he doesn’t want to ever go back to school, but every morning he trots into class, and hangs up his coat (on his own hook, marked with his name) and his little canvas bookbag. He decorated it by himself with waterproof felt pens — it has all different colors of squiggles and a big smiley face. His teacher wrote his name on it for him.

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