“i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)”

“i carry your heart with me(i carry it in”
from “complete poems: 1904-1962”
ee cummings

• I planted purple clematis from my neighbor L out in the yard, let’s hope it takes.
• hung out laundry, brought in laundry, folded laundry, kids put away half of it, I put away other half, Steve said, More laundry? Rinse and repeat. Entire summer has pretty much equalled this = laundry. Everything’s always wet, dirty and/or muddy over here.
• had our awesome friends and their cool little kid over for dinner. They brought me us a bottle of the best damn rose ever — Juno Cape Maidens, from South Africa. “A refreshingly crisp, deep salmon pink wine with hints of pomegranate, green toffee-apple and cherry,” sez the review. Yes, that’s just how I was going to describe it! Thank you, you two. It was very sweet of you. Come back anytime.
• Steve did the cooking cuz he’s in charge if we’re going vegan for dinner. (I offered up cheese enchiladas but we decided against those.) The guy knows his way around the kitchen. Also is a slut in the bedroom so this is just a win-win for Wacky Mommy.
• “Be a duchess in the drawing room, a chef in the kitchen and a slut in the bedroom.” Let’s all remember that, ‘k?
• Roasted potatoes with garlic; a pot of brown rice; his world-famous cholle, aka chana masala, aka garbonzo stew that was so spicy and good; salad with lettuce, tomatoes and nasturtiums; a little dish of chopped onion and jalapenos to garnish; a pot of mac and cheese for the younger diners; for dessert, watermelon (which we forgot to serve) and those yummy chocolate toffee cookies from New Seasons. I loved every single bite of this dinner, but I really should cook all the dinners the rest of the week to make it up to my man for knocking himself out tonight. Grilled cheese for all my friends! And tater tots!
• I am happy and full. Good night.
• ps I am back at work, so if I disappear, do not fear! But you know me, I’m never gone for long.

xo

wm

Facebook, you have turned me into a slut. Just sayin’.

World, I didn’t go to the PTA meeting at my kids’ school tonight because I knew they would nominate me Queen of Something or Another and I CANNOT LIVE WITH THAT KIND OF PRESSURE.

I’m a little tipsy. I went out to Yetti’s with A and we drank a bottle of Terrapin Pinot Gris, plus we had bacon-wrapped dates (don’t tell my vegetarian son, because he’ll wail Why would you eat meat when there are so many other things to eat in the world? Yes, son, but none of them taste exactly like bacon. Except BACON that is) and we also had a dish of mixed nuts.

Did I mention that we’re watching the Pens play the Flyers and THEY JUST WON 3-1!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Woooooooooooo-hoooooooooooooo, we love Pittsburgh. Three games to one, let’s hope we wrap it up and move on.

Blazers won, too, by the by. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiip City. That’s right.

Wooooooooooooooooo you would think it was Facebook or something, the way I’m writing this. Damn you, BlackFriend for getting me all over the Facebook. It is awfully fun.

* Adjust and overcome

* Edge

* Puck control

I think we can all learn a little something here. Adjust and overcome, edge, puck control. And this: “You got to play with that edge, but you can’t cross that line.” And… “You got to know where the edge is.” (May I add, You also need to know what the edge is, when they keep talking about edge, edge, edge.)

“Edge! Play the blues.” — Bono, U2

Hockey God, rolling his eyes way back in his head, “Edge, who can’t hardly play guitar.”

One more, from the announcer: “Take the puck, with a sense of purpose, to the paint.” Got it? Now drop the frickin’ puck! It’s Stanley Cup season! (Even though TV Turn-off Week  is right now — it always falls during hockey play-offs — no problem — we make a special exception for my husband and the NHL. No TV unless it’s hockey. Sorry, kids. I know it seems unfair but you can deal.) Ready? Steady? Go!

“They’re all growing their play-off beards, you don’t see that in the NBA. Not since Bill Walton.” — Hockey God, pleased as hell, watching the Washington Capitals/N.Y. Rangers game

(And another quote from Hockey God, while watching a Blazer game last week: “Foul? You call that a foul? They didn’t even touch each other.” Me, mouthing what he always says: These basketball players — they go out there and just, like, hit each other with their purses, oh, I’m sorry, did I hit you with my purse? Oh, excuse me, I think you just fouled out! The ref wants you to go now. Oh, no problem!)

Etc.

I still like basketball more better, but que sera sera.

Did I mention that when I woke up this morning I thought I wasn’t assigned to a school next year, but now, end of day, I have found out YES I am assigned to my school again? Yes, I am. (Budget cuts are brutal this year, we’re all a little worried.) (“A little” is a huge understatement.)

Oh, being gainfully employed, what a beautiful thing. I was so thrilled that I cut my class and took Steve out to lunch to celebrate.

“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 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.

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.

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???”

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.)