(ignore the subliminal messages. just enjoy the song.)

On this beautiful Monday morning, remember the words of my late friend Beef: “Life gets better after you give up all hope.”

ps go look at the most perfectest strawberries I grew! Yeah, they grew themselves, I had nothing to do with it. And this is the gorgeous blue heron who parked his feathery butt on the neighbor’s roof.

“Solitude has but one disadvantage; it is apt to give one too high an opinion of one’s self. In the world we are sure to be often reminded of every known or supposed defect we may have.” — Lord Byron, poet (1788-1824)

Presenting the Sunday edition, now with more bullets!

* Not real clear on why my son was sleeping with a softball last night. (more…)

That’s this weekend! Don’t forget…

My Pittsburgh Penguins are singing We Are The Champions and I am so proud, Hockey God is blissed out, our auntie Mia is hap-happy watching the game with my in-laws in Iowa City… and my late friend Regis is smiling in heaven, wearing a suit and a tie, lookin’ good just like Mario Lemieux.

A young girl was allegedly raped at Beach K-8 school on May 15 and no one reported it. Except, thank God, the parents of a witness, and it sounds like that’s the only reason anyone in my neighborhood and city is hearing about the alleged attack.

You can read about it on the Fox 12 site, on the KXL Radio site and on Victoria Taft’s blog. Steve also put up a post, so people might be leaving comments.

I could throw up about this. A girl, crying and hurt; a nine-year-old being called a liar, when he’s trying to rescue someone and stop an alleged crime; a boy who is allegedly a perpetrator and most likely not getting the help he needs. Alternately, this may mean there is an alleged witness who may need assistance.

I would like to give the principal, the school staff, everyone involved, the benefit of the doubt. But they have a history of doing some messed-up stuff at that school, and not handling things appropriately.

I wasn’t there.

I don’t know.

But I do know that something ain’t right.

Edited 6/18/09 to say the following: I’ve gotten some e-mails and calls on this one, and have also sent some e-mails and made some calls. I’m not an investigative reporter here. Have heard: that the administration at the school “mishandled” the situation; that they have been “dealt with”; that things have been “handled”; and, who cares, anyway? cuz the principal at the school is leaving the school (district, city, state) and won’t be “a problem” anymore; and “Somewhere a police detective is holding his head in his hands and quietly weeping.”

That’s all.

Sending out a wish for peace and safety for our kids and community.

Hey! Nan at Things I’ve Found in Pockets gave me a-award (as my kids refer to receiving “an award”). Thanks, Nan!! I’ll linky-link love later.

Guess what I found in my son’s pocket this morning when I was doing laundry? That’s right — a rusty nail! Summer is here!!!!

me, on the phone with Hockey God a little bit ago: “Do you remember that time I was so sick on the plane flying into Belgium? And I couldn’t stop throwing up and wouldn’t leave the bathroom? And they almost couldn’t land the plane cuz I wouldn’t come out of the bathroom? That’s how sick I am, right now. Only without the throwing up.”

Hockey God, in perky Belgian accent: “Perhaps you are pregnant?” (Some of you may recall that that’s how we found out we were expecting our first baby — a perky, blonde Belgian stewardess told us. Also, the skinny-redheaded guy in that story? He’s now our brother-in-law. Ain’t love grand?)

And no, I’m not pregnant. I’m menopausal. Which is the same thing, just about, with the morning sickness, the mood swings, the weight losses and gains. Only it doesn’t end with sixty-five hours of labor and an unplanned (and 2 and a half years later, planned) c-section. Oh, no. It ends with sweet freedom from cramps and random pregnancies. Yes.

So, feeling a bit queasy and hormonal, I read these three great books, yesterday and today, but now I’m too sick to write real reviews. Suffice it to say — all three are fantastic. (When the hell do I get through three books in two days? That proves how excellent they are.) So check ’em out, you’ll like ’em. “Love Is a Mix Tape” is one of the most beautiful love stories I’ve ever read, written by rock critic Rob Sheffield for his late wife, Renee. He went through her mix tapes, his mix tapes, their mix tapes, and, with the help of their favorite music, wrote a love letter.

On watching an En Vogue video with his wife (where the band shimmies wearing foxy red dresses and his wife informs him, “They’re not wearing underwear”):

“There’s also a scene in the video where one of the guys in the audience slips his wedding ring off his finger and hides it in his pocket. Renee hated that scene, but I loved it because it reminded me that it was time to do the dishes. Whenever I did dishes, I had to slip off my wedding ring and put it on the microwave so it wouldn’t go down the drain. So, I think this is the perfect pop song — it reminds me of not wearing underwear, and it also reminds me of the dishes. What more could you want?”

It made me stay up til 1 a.m., this book, and then I had to have big nooky with my husband. I, too, ask: What more could you want from a book? (I think it was also cuz Sheffield quoted Bratmobile, which his wife liked to listen to while she wrote: “If you be my bride, we can kiss and ride / We can have real fun, we can fuck and run.”)

And for a very different kind of love letter… “Live Through This” is mother Debra Gwartney’s heartbreak memoir about her runaway daughters. It is a harrowing book, and it’s not truly heartbreak, because everyone is okay now. Even though I knew everything would end okay, it still flipped me out. Because, you know. I have a girl. And a boy. Let’s not be judging each other as parents, okay? Because you never know the whole story unless someone wants to share it with you. Thanks and love to Ms. Gwartney and her daughters for their fearlessness and compassion in sharing their story.

“The Passion of the Hausfrau” is (get this) a graphic novel by a mom, for women (and men will like it, too, I guarantee it. Also my 9-year-old just picked it up and looked through it, intrigued. A first, that she’s interested in one of my “mom” books). And by “graphic novel” I don’t mean “Wifey” or “Princess Daisy.” What motivated her? A jerk-o football player (biiiiiiig NFL star, BFD) from her hometown who “wrote” his memoir with the help of a ghostwriter and a life coach. Her mom gave her a copy of the “memoir” for her 39th birthday. What the heck is that supposed to mean? Well, two can play at that game, and Ms. Nicole Chaison doesn’t need the extra help, thank you. She wrote and illustrated it all by herself and it is spectacular.

Reading this week:

What we’re listening to at our house…

…and…

shoop, shoop, shooooooooooo…and, of course…