Little situation with School Idiot? All cleared up. Until your urchins reach school-age, you don’t know just how much of a role your kid’s principal is going to play in your life. Sorry no details or I’ll start throwing things again. Or throwing up.

Flu? Wacky Girl and I are good; Wacky Boy is not quite up to speed. Wacky Daddy? Skiing. On company time. Oh, to be gainfully employed. They all get drunk on the bus, on the way there and back. Bastards. “I won’t hotdog it,” he promised me last night. “I don’t hotdog it anymore! I’ve got to stay uninjured for hockey.”

Oh, OK then. I feel all better.

And now, the Friday Advice Column for Wacky Mothers & Others:

Dear Wacky Mommy:
After you whack your hair off and get hit on (by a girl) and you’re way past the age of thirty… It’s just enough to get the right color socks on lately. What is my question? How do you deal with it? No, it’s not somebody I work with or see all the time. Is it OK to go for it? OK, is it wrong to enjoy that kind of attention?

Signed,

Married and Straight Girl, By the Way

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There’s some idiot at school who you just do not want to deal with, and the principal has to deal with it for you, and you’re PMS, and your kids have the flu, and everything is making you cry, and the cats always PUKE ALL OVER THE HOUSE and it is NEVER GOING TO STOP RAINING, oh wait, it DID STOP RAINING AND THE SUN IS OUT AND I STILL FEEL LIKE CRAP, and why can’t your husband work four 10’s, instead of five days a week, or three 10’s and one day from home and you drink a nice glass of Pinot Grigio and all it does is make your HEAD HURTand food tastes ICKY, and the PUBLIC SCHOOL CLUSTER BULLSHIT IS JUST BULLSHIT and 7-12? WTF? No, 7-12 girls in one place, 7-12 boys in another, and 9-12 coed in the boys’ school (WTF? again) and uniforms for everyone, but only for the poor kids, the rich kids can still wear whatever they want okay now no uniforms, but yes to all the other crap, and maybe we should go private (uniforms!) or move to Canada or something?

It means you, my friend, have the flu, too. So off to get rest now, Wacky Mommies. More later…

“Do you know why the menopausal woman crossed the road? To kill the chicken.”

— Jane Condon

Dear Martha Stewart,

Hi, it’s me. What should I do, Martha? I just want to slap the shit out of practically everyone I run into. (Not my spouse or kids, thanks. I have some, but not much, self-control.) I can’t go slapping everyone who pisses me off. I mean, there was that kicking incident at Staples recently (see Jan. 10 entry). Pattern may be emerging.

So how did you handle it in prison?

It’s like your theme song, “…am I the same girl?/yes I am/yes I am…” Am I the same girl? I don’t think I’ve always been so irritable.

Please advise.

Love,

Wacky Mommy

You’re probably wondering to yourself, “Self, I wonder what the hell Wacky Mommy is cooking in that Rival Crockpot today?”

Chili with Wine, baby, and it is goooooooooooooooood.

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RIP Shelley Winters, Aug. 18, 1920-Jan. 14, 2006.

“I have bursts of being a lady, but it doesn’t last long.” SW

“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”

–Ludwig Wittgenstein, philosopher (1889-1951)

Dear Wacky Mommy:

What’s the secret to maintaining self-esteem while maintaining a home? I provide childcare, and I am a stay-at-home mom. I know this is what I am best at doing, but it is hard in a society that doesn’t really value this as “real work” or especially “smart work.” Really hits on any insecurities that one may have about their intelligence and purpose anyway. Kind of like your story about visiting your old work — “Uh, yea, it’s all I’m doing.” Just doesn’t seem to be enough. And it doesn’t sound great at cocktail parties. These damn gray days don’t help either. geezus.

Signed,

SAHM

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Searches that brought people to Wacky Mommy:

i flashed my boobs to my neighbor

lazy husband advice sleeps a lot

hirsute dudes

how to make a parade float out of a shoebox

booty dancers

cowboy caviar shoepeg corn blackeyed peas

drunk mommies

neighbor’s panties

brooke shields father

are fibroids aliens

i’m a doctor, not an escalator and friday’s child

uterus contractor

Especially not when home is your former place of employment. I realize one is not supposed to blog about one’s workplace Dooce (like Deuce), but this is my former workplace.

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