Me, “The Phone Talkin’ Redhead,” as my Uncle R in in Tennessee fondly nicknamed me, yes, Wacky Mommy has met her match in Wacky Boy.

WB, on “Finding Nemo”: “How do those divers get in and out of the fishtank, huh? Mommy! How would they do that? What if the divers were swimming around, then they growed bigger and bigger, then they would just break the fish tank! And then, and then, and then, they would all they would get so wet, all the fishes would get so wet, too! Everything would get wet, even the floor!” Oh, he loves “Finding Nemo.”

If you don’t answer his questions (and with a lot of his questions, honestly, I have not the words…) you get this: “Mommy! Mommy!!! Did you hear me, Mommy! The divers, what if…”

I love these pumpkins of mine.

“The biggest myth about Southern women is that we are frail types — fainting on our sofas — nobody where I grew up every acted like that. We were about as fragile as coal trucks.”

–Lee Smith

Go see “Walk the Line,” it rocks. June Carter Cash and Johnny Cash, you’re living forever in our hearts.

A paragraph from an e-mail I just received from Wacky Mommy B in West Africa. She and her husband (they’re formerly from Oregon) are living there with their three children, experiencing the carefree life of living abroad, teaching English, taking photographs, and writing. I’ve decided I don’t mind the cool Oregon weather so much, after reading this.

love,

WM

“Well I�m tired. It�s hot. Did I mention the heat? It�s no longer the hot season — our house is no longer inundated with cockroaches (although we do have dragonflies now), and it cools off at night and the heat is drier so much more bearable. But today the sun was like a hammer. It was 104. Of course, it usually is, but today it was 104 for much longer, and the night is not bringing those cool ocean breezes mentioned in the brochure.”

Dear Wacky Mommy:

My husband sleeps until all hours of the day. He sleeps too damn much. How do I get him to not sleep so much? He says sex will help, tit for tat or something, I say forget it.

Help?

Signed,

No Sex for Sleep-In

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So I’m at school, waiting to pick up Wacky Girl, and one of the mommies is yap-yapping on her cell phone in my ear about, “The c-section rate in this country is 30 percent, and most of them are unnecessary, and it’s all about medical malpractice and yadda-yadda, a lot of women think it’ll just be easier to schedule a c-section…”

And I’m thinking, “I’ve heard this before. I’m so frickin’ beyond sick of this topic.”

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“The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.”
— Humprey Bogart

Note to self: Get ads on site, raise a little money, become a full-fledged slut and blog disclaimer.

To my Loyal Readers:

Just because there are ads for martini glasses, sex toys, multi-level marketing scams or whatever the hell else on this site does not mean Wacky Mommy endorses the product/scam in question.

Kisses,

WM

PS — I will heartily endorse Music Together classes though — Wacky Boy loves them and I do, too. Thank you Wacky Neighbor S for recommending these.

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“Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, or a new country.”

— Anais Nin, author (1903-1977)

My lovely, talented in-laws arrive today, so in honor of their visit, I’ve purchased a half-gallon of Tanqueray and a half-gallon of Absolut. Wacky Daddy, even though he was the one who sent me to the liquor store, knowing that I would have both kids with me, knowing that this makes me look like the biggest losingest DRUNK IN LIFE, “Nice influence on your kids, Lady!” did the same. Yes, we now have a gallon of gin and a gallon of vodka in the house. He even bought maraschino cherries, so Wacky Girl and Wacky Boy can have Kiddie Cocktails.

Get ’em started early, that’s our motto. “Mixed nuts with those cocktails, kids? Stuffed olives?” So I’d better write the advice column early, before I’m too drunk to type…

And now, without further ado, The Friday Advice Column for Wacky Mothers & Others…

Dearest Wacky Mommy:

Help! I’ve lost my husband. First there was the goatee. Then there was the mustache that sort of morphed into the goatee. Then the mustache took on a life of its own — sprouting these “handlebar” things –giant curly wisps of hezz hezz hezz. And now…it’s the beard. Not so much a beard as patchy clumps of hez-short and hez-long scattered carelessly about what used to be a very adorable, soft, baby-smooth face.

Hezz! Everywhere! It’s in my mouth and up my nostrils when we kiss. “Stuff” gets in it. Food. Beverage. Lint. Legos. Small animals. My own personal bodily fluid…

The horror. The horror.

It’s gotta go. My husband has turned into some sort of urban Grizzly Adams. We were having sex the other day and I kept getting distracted, thinking he looked like he had a Tribble on his face. The thing is — he knows how I feel about it, and he refuses to…compromise. I’m normally a shaver, but I’m seriously considering letting my dark Slavic genes get their fuzz on. What’s a gal to do?

Signed,

Grizzly’s Wife

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Dear Wacky Mommy:

Signed,
Pizza Mom

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