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another shrill post from your bitch, Wacky Mommy

January 5th, 2009

“Don’t call me shrill, ho.”

The last time I was called shrill, hmm, let’s see. Hmm, hmmm, hummers! That was it! My boss wanted me to blow him and I wouldn’t.

Then one of the other managers (female, unbelievably enough. Oh, wait. Naw, I can believe it) wanted me to explain myself. Apparently he thought blow jobs were part of my job description, complained to her, she was dispatched to “deal” with “the situation.”

“It’s just, you don’t usually sound so… shrill,” she told me.

So forgive me, Anna Griffin, that I am a little “p.o’ed” at you for calling our recently-elected City Commissioner “shrill.”

Steve just wrote a good post about said column. Then told me, “Doesn’t matter, all their links go dead after two weeks, anyway.” So I won’t bother giving them a link. But I’ll give him one. A link! Settle down, now.

Hockey God and Jerry Lewis: The Hidden Link

December 29th, 2008

Hockey God is International Stud.

But you already knew that.

First, the Starbucks bloggers are all abuzz over him. So you knew who had to be next, don’t you?

That’s right. The French, they love my husband. (Or, would you prefer it translated?)

Of course the French love Steve. ?Por que no? Oh, wait. That’s Spanish. But say it out loud and it sounds the same in French.

What’s not to love, for reals? All of this coffee and love and international patter reminds me of the Planet Nomadics, when they visited last summer. They stopped by for my birthday, and Elliot missed the singing (in French and English) and candles.

“They sang en Franzosisch!” I told him.

He looked at me, perplexed, “They sang in German?”

Ba-da-BUMP! Ha ha ha ha heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Happy Monday, y’all.

Happy early anniversary, Hockey God. Welcome to my brain and how it works.

August 22nd, 2008

I have this problem. For me, it’s a small problem. For my husband, dear, sweet, understanding Hockey God, it’s a big, big, big, huge, frickin’ out-of-control problem. It’s all over the table, floor, stacked up in a rack next to the china cabinet.

It takes up a ton of room in the recycling bin and is heavy.

It makes his brain hurt when we talk about it, when I won’t pay attention to him at the table, because I’m absorbed in the obituaries, the recipes, the People column.

Newspapers. I have a pretty serious newspaper addiction going here.

A-hem. A few of his frequent comments go like this:

“Why don’t you read it online?”
“You know you can read it online.”
“Can I recycle these? All of these? No? Why not?
“Really. Why the hell not?”
“Can we cancel our subscription? I mean, permanently?”

Yargh, the pressure, I cannot take it.

I like a newspaper. I like the heft of it. The thud when they throw it on the front porch. The slick ads. The metro section. The metro brieflys, about horrible, random things happening to random people (who are usually not horrible. But sometimes I suppose they are. Like when a drug dealer’s house burns down because his gro-lights got too hot. I’m supposed to feel bad about that? If he had little kids, I’d feel bad for them. But usually child welfare has already nabbed them. Or when two guys are drunk in a bar and beat each other up, then crash their trucks into each other in the parking lot and get arrested, and their girlfriends won’t bail them out. Hmm…).

I digress.

How will I know about these horrible, random things if I quit my subscription?

Then one day it occurred to me: Why do I want to know about horrible random things? It’s enough to give you a headache. Why give yourself a headache on purpose? That happens enough on accident, no?

Then one other day it occurred to me: This is the only reason I keep my subscription to the Oregonian. That’s right.

Don’t judge me, you. I never claimed to be all fancy-schmancy over here.

For Better or Worse is a good reason to stay married (ten years for us next month!) (and happy 25th to my younger-than-ever girlfriend L and her youthful groom, by the way). But subscribing to the paper just so you can read For Better or Worse? Not reason enough to pay out the money.

Subscription now canceled.

My daughter will miss the funnies but y’know? She can read all of them online.

I’ll get her a free subscription.

“I swear to God…”

August 12th, 2008

Hockey God, to Wacky Boy, while they were both inside the pit toilet because… You know. We didn’t want him to fall in:

HG: “I swear to God, if you don’t quit whining about the smell I’m never taking you camping again.”
WB: “I swear to God, why did Mommy make us go camping???”

my husband made a movie

July 14th, 2008

No, not of that. Damn. Of his favorite love next to me and the kids… BIG SHIPS! I love how the little boats go zipping around, like the Roadrunner on water or something.

(The song is funny, too, you’ll like it.)

(Who the hell knew he could make movies? Huh.)

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