“Ah, not a good year for your clan, huh?” a friend of ours asked my sister and me toward the end of 1997. We ran into him at a party. It was the first social event I’d attended in ages, other than funerals.

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From Wacky Boy: “Mom! Flush toilets in Iowa! With a space cracker!”

And really, I did not know what to say to that.

We all have sun poisoning and some of us have mojitos poisoning here after a big, long, fun weekend. Went with our friends and their lovable children to Cannon Beach. Four parents, five blonde kids and the windiest day I’ve ever seen at the beach. The guys immediately begin digging a large hole for us all to put our chairs in. It was an admirable effort, you should have seen it. The women decided to bail and go shopping because Cannon Beach = shopping. I restrained myself and bought only a small gift for my mother-in-law, who is visiting soon, and two tiny bags of rocks for the kids. Not just rocks! Fancy rocks. In tiny black velvet bags. You find yourself doing things like this at Cannon Beach, convincing yourself, or worse, your friend, that more than anything you need that tiny bag of pretty shiny rocks.

And Hockey God forgot to pack a bottle of pinot grigio for me. So what was I supposed to drink, in the hole, with my chair? Away from the wind and the sand and the attacking seagulls. No fear, I had Bocce Pinot Grigio with dinner, and a glass of another white, too. It was… who knows. But it was delicious, as well.

I highly recommend Fultano’s Pizza in Cannon Beach for dinner, and Moe’s Restaurant for breakfast, lunch and dinner. (How many Moe’s are there? Three? One at Siletz Bay, one in Tolovana Park on the far side of Cannon Beach, one… somewhere? Damn. Sorry. Memory lapsing.)

Cannon Beach is home to the Cannon Beach Bakery, where they sell loaves and loaves and loaves of Haystack Bread. You will also see one of the Oregon coast’s Haystack Rocks. (This article says there are two: one at Cannon Beach and one at Pacific City, but an old friend says there is a third, and insists it’s at Rockaway. I can find nothing to back this up, but he’s adamant about it. And says that the one at Pacific City is the “real” Haystack Rock; the others are mere impersonators. Yeah. See what I mean? The beach… rocks… things take on a big significance there, you’d be surprised.)

Must get sleep now, too tired. Have a great week. I’m off to housesit for a friend in a couple of days, and Internet connections are supposedly spotty out her way. How can this be?

Have fun, must run.

Love,

WM

(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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