http://youtu.be/9gKW4S4fdjM

man. remember when i said, don’t blow anything up outside my bedroom window? what I meant to tell the neighbors was, PLEASE blow up a bunch of fancy fireworks make ’em go boom-boom-boom right outside my window.

i am not one for fireworks, but since Dear Wacky Dog has been gone for some time now, it’s not as bad. God, he had a miserable time with the fireworks. Here’s the story: the “good” fireworks are “illegal” in Oregon, but “legal!!!” in Washington. We lived in North Portland, which is, like, border town to Washington state. So everyone, but not their dogs, because their dogs frickin’ hate fireworks (and not us, because I’m too cheap. Plus I like to keep it legal, thank you) drives across the bridge, loads up on the “good,” fancy fireworks, then drives back and makes ’em go oh-oh-oh BOOM-SNAP-CRACKLE-POP.

When we moved to fancy westside suburbs, I thought, This is no border town. It’s a border town to the Wine Country, and the ocean breezes, that’s about all it’s a border town to.

“Surely people won’t bark at the moon and shoot off their guns out here, like they do in North Portland?”

Last year we were enjoying the ocean breezes, so this was our first Fourth in the new house. Man. People do it UP out here. We walked around the neighborhood and watched the little shows, then walked up the hill and could see four or five big fireworks shows from all over town. Then we figured out the best show around was right out in our backyard. The people in the cul-de-sac behind us partied all day, and once it got dark did a fireworks show that went on forever.

I finally fell asleep about midnight, hearing faint boom-boom-booms from all around. Crazy.

This morning they were out there with their leaf-blowers, cleaning up.

#suburbsareatrip.

Have a great week!

— wm

Dang, summer gets busy, doesn’t it?

Happy Sunday to y’all. And to those of you patriotic types out there, happy Fourth of July. Try not to blow up anything right outside my bedroom window, okay? OK! Hey, I know I’ve been missing in action. But I also know that you don’t read blogs anymore, cuz you’re so busy with that little hussy, Facebook. I have a whole long essay I’d like to write, re: Facebook, but they did a switch-up and made it so you can easily cancel a friend request, if you so desire. And that makes me happy because, you know. Drunk Facebooking: Why It’s Bad.

Kidding! I stopped drinking two months ago! Just booze. I still drink water and iced tea, fyi.

So I cannot blame The Booze for anything anymore. But I never could, anyway. I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I’ve lost some weight and my blood sugars seem to be not freaking out as much, and that’s good.

Oh. Here’s a social etiquette FB question for you: Let’s say you have a friend, and your friend changes her home number, her cell number, gets a new job, doesn’t give you any of the three new numbers… OK. That’s bad enough, right?

(“Grab a fucking clue!” — my drug-addicted friend’s drug addict boyfriend, when I called her before noon one time. She hung up, then when I called back, he yelled that in the background and she hung up again. Later, this happened. (Different guy.) Uh, yeah. I used to have the sweetest friends!)

Where was I? OK, the phone number thing, then she de-friends you on FB. But keeps your husband as a friend? I think not. She’s not even real-life friends with him! We were friends from, you know, back in the day, WTF? Steve is all, Cat fight, i’m out of here. hahaha. I sent her a friend request, then thought, What am I, nuts? (Grabbing clue, canceling friend request.) The Nice Girl inside of my head keeps saying, primly, I’m sure it was all a big mistake.

Ha.

Here’s how kids cry in the suburbs: “Hu-waaaaaaaaah, hu-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, hu-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh…”

Here’s what the moms say: “If everyone can’t play together nicely, then everyone will have to go home.”

Kids: “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!”

(verbatim dialogue from across the street.)

So my question is, I guess: Do I call her? Oh, wait… Alright, if she calls me, do I ask, WTF? Do I send her a message on FB, asking her if we’re still friends? (What am I, a teenager here?) We didn’t have a fight or anything, that I can recall. To the best of my recollection. She got pissed off about something, but that was a long time ago, and I thought we patched it up? (It wasn’t me, anyway — it was a third person, and was just lame.) (I wasn’t even there, alright? Long story, nevermind.)

(here’s some skateboarder dialogue from midnight, the other night. we live on a steep hill that the long-boarders loooooooooooooove. It’s like the Mountain Dew action tour, every frickin’ day):

SPECTACULAR CRASH, followed by:

1st skater: “Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

2nd skater: “Dude!”

1st skater: “Dude, seriously. I just fucked up my leg.” (Thirty-second pause.) “It’s okay, it’s just fractured, not broken.”

(thoughts from Dr. Mom: Really? Without an x-ray you just diagnosed that in less than one minute? Wow, you are good!)

2nd skater: “Which direction did your board go?” (we live in the suburbs — it’s like the country out here, at night — dark and everyone asleep in the barn.)

1st skater: “That way. Aiiiiiiiiiiiiii why did I think I could pull that one off?”

Man.

What else? Steve and the kids made me the best birthday dinner last night. (The guys were out of town last week, so we had a belated celebration.) Homemade Cheese Ravioli (thank you, Wacky Girl — your pasta-making skills astound me) and Cake Poppers, a la Zoot. (Thank you, Wacky Boy, for your willingness to smush together cake and frosting and turn it into art). (More pix over here.)

What? It’s not your birthday?

Frances (from “A Birthday for Frances”): “That is how it is, Alice. Your birthday is always the one that is not now.”

i (heart) my family for a lot of reasons, and especially because they always make my birthday special.

Now they’re at a family barbecue, and I am not. Which means I need to get back to editing, already.

hugs and kisses, little fishes,
xoxoxo

me

what’s up, y’all?

— wm

“He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.” — Clarence Budington Kelland

Subject: A Hockey Story

Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final, and a man makes his way to his seat right at center ice. He sits down, noticing that the seat next to him is empty.

He leans over and asks his neighbour if someone will be sitting there.

“No,” says the neighbour. “The seat is empty.”

“This is incredible,” said the man. “Who in their right mind would have a seat like this for final game of the Stanley Cup playoffs and not use it?”

The neighbour says, “Well, actually, the seat belongs to me. I was supposed to come with my wife, but she passed away. This is the first Stanley Cup we haven’t been to together since we got married in 1967.”

“Oh … I’m sorry to hear that. That’s terrible. But couldn’t you find someone else, a friend or relative, or even a neighbour to take the seat?”

The man shakes his head “No. They’re all at her funeral.”