(Sung to the tune of Smelly Cat):

“Scabby dog/
scabby dog/
what are they feeding you?”

Conversation between Wacky Mommy and Hockey God, re: Wacky Dog, whose tail is chewed on, scabby and disgusting:

“How many scabs is it going to take before we have him put down? Four? Five? Twenty? What?”

“I think you were the kind of girl who brought home the puppy and then got bored with him.”

“You’re not the one who just smeared Vaseline on the dog’s ass.”

A good quote to remember, every day:

“First they came for the unions, but I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t union. Then they came for the communists, but I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a communist. Then they came for the Jews, but I didn’t speak up because I was Protestant. And then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak up.”

— Reverend Martin Niemoller, German Lutheran monk arrested by the Gestapo in 1937

“I love being a writer. What I can’t stand is the paperwork.”

— Peter De Vries, editor, novelist (1910-1993)

Happy First Birthday, Thursday Thirteen!!! Woo-hoooooooooo… let’s have some virtual cake now.

For your reading pleasure this week, here are:

THIRTEEN THINGS I DO TO FUCK WITH MY CANTANKEROUS NEIGHBOR

13. Travel on the weekends with my extremely handsome and virile husband. (She gets a little jealous.)

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My favorite kids’ cookbook title, until today, was Feed Me! I’m Yours. As of today, it is Just Two More Bites! Helping Picky Eaters Say Yes to Food. ($13.95/paperback, Three Rivers Press, 294 pages; Linda Piette.net)

(What is it with the exclamation marks! And parenting books! We are the world! We are the parents! De-exclamate, already.)

Yes, nutritionist and dietitian Piette has brought us the recipes we’ve been waiting for: Poop Goop I and Poop Goop II:

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And I mean it. Unless you are my daughter or my son, don’t call me mommy.

ie — the pediatrician, “So, Mom, how have things been?”

ie — people mimicking my kids, “Mommy! Can I have…”

ie — anyone who calls me a Mommy Blogger. My bad: Yeah, it says “Mommy” right there after “Wacky,” sure ‘nuf. That is me, Being Ironic. Sense the irony? No? Yes you do. Because I said so.

Now comes Miss Zoot, fresh off a plane from BlogHer. They had no Diet Coke in the hotel for Miss Zoot. Do they not read her blog out there in San Jose? Maybe next year, Zoot.

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Wacky Boy: “My pet slug is the best pet I’ve ever had.”

me: “What about your dog?”

WB: “Yeah, he is even gooder.”

No, said Nanny, an echo in Melena’s mind (and editorializing as usual). No, no, you pretty little pampered hussy. We don’t go on having babies, that’s quite apparent. We only have babies when we’re young enough not to know how grim life turns out. Once we really get the full measure of it — we’re slow learners, we women — we dry up in disgust and sensibly halt production.

from Wicked by Gregory Maguire

This whole vacation-from-blogging thing? Yeah, it went OK. But I have a lot to say and dammit, this is the place to do it. Like the quote? I frickin’ love that quote. Thank you L for sending it to me.

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Oh, Thursday Thirteen, you are cool.

THIRTEEN THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WACKY DOG

1. His name isn’t really Wacky Dog. But he’s in a sort of Witness Protection Program and I cannot give his real name.

2. I stole him.

3. Make that “I liberated him.” He was chained up, freaked out, no food, no water.

4. I meant to take him back.

5. Really. But then we fell in love.

6. He’s an 85-pound black Lab, who has weighed as much as 100 pounds. You should know that no one in our neighborhood, at any time, posted “Lost Dog” signs for him. And no ads ran in the paper. “Finders keepers!” Wacky Boy would say about all this.

7. He really likes to eat. When people ask if he’s full-blooded, we say, “Yeah, full-blooded Fat Lab.”

8. Oddly, he goes on hunger strikes and sometimes refuses to eat for two days or more.

9. This doesn’t seem to affect his weight. His vet’s evaluation: “Doesn’t look like he’s missing many meals.”

10. He’s on anti-anxiety medicine and thyroid medicine cuz he’s teched. Not touched, teched. He freaks out when left alone, eats the woodwork, eats books, eats magazines, chews down fences. Sort of goat-like behavior. He loses his frickin’ mind when fireworks go off. Or gunshots. Or bubble wrap. Or anything that sounds like bubble wrap or a gunshot. Or a door slamming loudly. He’s jumpy, in a large dog sort of way.

11. He is the most loyal, best dog in the world. When he chews through the fence when we leave him alone out back, he waits on the porch for us to come home. I will never be even half the person my dog thinks I am.

12. He loves swimming in the river and will chase a tennis ball all day long. Refuses to look at a Frisbee.

13. Bays like a bloodhound as soon as we walk in the door. Then we all sing together. We have, I dunno, 12 or 15 songs dedicated to our dog. A sampling: “Wacky potato chips/are the chippiest chips aroooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuund!” (I did not say they were good songs); “Wacky Dog/Wacky Dog/running through/the fog/Wacky Dog” (and a refrain) “Wacky Dog/whoa-oh-oh/Wacky Dog/whoa-oh-oh”; “I got my dog right here/his name is Paul Revere/and a man that says when the weather’s clear/can-do/can-do/the man said my dog can-do”; “Where is Wacky Dog/where is Wacky Dog? Aroooooooooooooooooo!” (That one he loves the most.)

Still not blogging. Sob. It’s weird, not blogging. Cuz I love you, Internet. Naw, it’s been alright. The kids and I are having fun. And fewer headaches since I’m not transfixed by the monitor. Ommm, ommm.

Here’s a list put together by the inimitable Portlander, Rebecca McVicker, so she’s the guest blogger today… Who knew there was so much fun stuff to do in Portland? (Some offerings are not limited to PDX.)

Stay cool.

WM

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