…I think I’ll write up a bunch of crap. While I’m eating a handful of those delicious little gummie Coke bottle candies with the sourpatch coating.

also, I just invented “Steve’s List of Forbidden Things He Cannot Do While I’m Finishing My Grad Program.” Perhaps you could send him notes or leave comments on his blog, reminding him to back off, honk honk? Thanks, I appreciate that.

They include, but sadly for him are not limited to, the following:

1) let the printer run out of ink
2) imitate his former boss’s voice (by former, i mean 15 years ago. why does this man’s voice continue to haunt us? “Is Steve there?” Now imagine teeny-tiny voice, making the words clipped, “Yes. He is. Would you. Like to. Talk to him?”) (aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.)
3) Mention Juice Newton, or any other performer I hate. Because of this is why: My only mad skill in the world is I remember every lyric to cussin’ every song (almost) that I hear. So when you say, Juice Newton! to me, I will get “Queen of Hearts” stuck in my head. If you yell, Blue Oyster Cult! at me, I will get “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on auto-repeat. Then I will have to sing it out loud to rid myself of it. It’s like song exorcisms, it’s cussin’ horrible, okay??? But we all have our crosses to bear. I actually like Blue Oyster Cult, but not for four days running, aight?
4) avoid the cat litter. He must deal with the cat litter more than I do. (i can deal with it fifty percent of the time, but no more. NO MORE.)

the end.

oh p.s. — Jew Among You is all freaking out on us, and you know we live for cuss like this.

no, I mean it, the end.

dream wish fly if a bird asks you how imagine

like a friend jump with me and pretend

“I will not die an unlived life
I will not live in fear of falling
Or of catching fire
I choose to inhabit my days
To allow my living to open me
Making me less afraid
More accessible
To loosen my heart
So that it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise
I choose to risk my significance.
To live so that that which comes to me as seed
Goes to the next as blossom
And that which comes to me as blossom
Goes on as fruit.”

— Dawna Markova

“Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted.” — Jules Renard, author (1864-1910)

don’t i know it.

so, we attempted to enjoy a day at the beach yesterday. here’s the thing about the Oregon coast — it is what it is. times 100. so even when you know that it’s going to be blustery and cold, it’s still nice to take a not-too-long drive and get there, just for the sake of breathing the salt air. (from our new place, it’s 71.5 miles to the nearest beach — less than 2 hours by car, and I really do wish the trains still ran to the beach. i’ve heard tales and it sounds so good.)

all i wanted to do, with my one little measly day off, was walk on the beach (we brought our boots and raincoats), breathe in the good, wet air, have a bite of lunch somewhere, do a little window shopping at one of the chi-chi overpriced boutiques (seashell assortment, anyway? fudge? ice cream? Christmas ornaments shaped like ugly little elves?) then drive home.

but Hockey God and Hockey God Jr. had a different plan, namely, horse around in the ocean, get run over by a sneaker wave and almost die.

I like my plan better.

Also, this is where I really, really hate the whole “parenting together” thing. So when my son, soaking wet, sandy, exhilarated because they didn’t die, isn’t that great? told me, “Dad said you were going to punch him in the face for this…” well, OK. Let’s slow this down for a minute.

1) I’m glad they didn’t die and wow, that really is great, sweetheart. However…
2) If they hadn’t been reckless in the first place, this wouldn’t have cussin’ been an issue (see: a) don’t turn your back on the ocean b) stay out of the ocean pretty much Oct-April in Oregon and Washington c) why don’t you ever listen to me? You don’t see sneaker waves getting mommy, do you, now? d) aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargggggggggh)
3) they now have new sweatpants (thank you, overpriced gift shop!) and really awesome matching bright red sweatshirts and T-shirts. Hockey God’s says:

Cannon Beach
Established 1890
Oregon
Search & Rescue
Mouth to Mouth Certified

(which is hilarious! because he’s not.)

Jr.’s says:

Cannon Beach Oregon
Beach Patrol
Off-Duty
Save Yourself

That is more fitting somehow, no? Anyway, I don’t think I really should have rewarded them with a way to commemorate the whole cussin’ thing, but they were both nearly-drowned rats, I had to get them some warm stuff to wear. And no, I didn’t punch Hockey God in the face. On the one hand, I’m glad that he and the kids take some risks, live a little, blah blah blah. But there’s being adventuresome, and then there’s being unnecessarily reckless. I hugged my son, and told him, “You, I care about. Daddy, I don’t.”

My daughter: “Mom! That is not very nice!”
My husband: “You really are the meanest wife.” (looks worried.) “Are you going to punch me now?” (offers up his arm.) “Here! Punch me here! Just get it over with.”

I cried a little, then I calmed down and told my husband that if one of my kids (mine, not his, just mine. Cuz I’m the one who carried them for nine months, nursed them and kept them alive, they’re my babies til the day I die, mine, mine, mine) ends up harmed or worse because of his recklessness, then he had better go ahead and drown himself before he comes home. Cuz I can’t guarantee his safety.

That’s fair, isn’t it?

OK. Deep breaths.

— wm

“I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.”

— Walt Whitman, from “Leaves of Grass”

i’m watching only movies with a school theme. so far I’ve watched:

“Over the Edge”
“Dead Poets Society” (half-way through — just finishing it — have mad crush on Josh Charles)
“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”
“Fast Times at Ridgemont High”

next up:
“Good Will Hunting”
“Goodbye, Mister Chips”
“To Sir, With Love”
“The Breakfast Club”

what are your favorites?

this was the poem for yesterday, September 11th:

Dance

— Rumi

I found this poem (or part of a poem?) last week, tucked in with some letters. It’s pretty — I wish I could claim it, but I’m not the author of this one. No clues, no attribution, just a phone number on the back for someone named Renee, and a note scribbled down that says, B wc at 3. (That translates, in Nancy-speak, to B. — B. who? who knows — will call at 3.)

And now, the poem:

“This was the place where in spring
the ground swelled with the
burst of growing things, where
in summer, like now, the air
was a beautiful blue.

In autumn, in this still
place, the vesper sparrow
sang in the mornings, and,
according to his moods,
throughout the day, but sang
his sweetest, conducted his
best services at evenfall.”

i love my girl Yvonne.

found a reference to this in one of the diaries, too. yum. i miss being an English major.

— wm

Hyperbole and a Half, do you know this blog? You should walk over right now and introduce yourself.

happy weekend.

xo

me