Ry & I were walking down the street and he sees this huge beer ad. But it’s just the label, right? Only my son, born to 2 boozers, recognizes it immediately and says “oooh beer. big beer. daddy big beer.” I laughed. You can’t put anything past this kid. He knows his beer.
The old man starts his winter league hockey tonight. I love that he plays hockey. First of all, because it’s hockey. Second, and most important, it means he is out of the house and my hair for at least one night a week. And that means that I have the whole place to myself for a good two hours, if he sticks around after the game to drink with the guys, as he almost always does.
So once I get my kid to bed, I am free to do whatever I want. I can watch TV, I can go on the computer, I can do crafts, I can jack and jill up the hill, I can read a book, I can take a shit without the entire clan in the bathroom with me, saying “what are you doing. why? why? mommy mommy christa mommy christa pay attention to us!!!”, I can sit in the darkness and the quiet and just be alone, alone, sweet alone alabama. It’s my one night of complete, total freedom (within the confines my house and finances, natch).
His game nights are the greatest nights of my life.
Speaking of hockey, the season starts in about a week. I have high hopes for the B’s. Maybe cam neely can do some good for this team, short of strapping on skates and hitting the ice. at his press conference yesterday, he said “We all know the type of fan that Bruins fans are and what they expect, and I think the players have to understand what they have to do out there. As I’ve always said when I was playing, you may not play well every night, but you can work hard every night.” Hear that, Savard? Chara? all you new guys? You bleed black and gold now, so leave your skirts at home and play some fucking hockey.
right now, at almost 9pm, Ry is in his bed, shouting my name to come in, even though I’ve sang him songs and kissed him good night and told him I loved him and the whole bedtime shebang. It’s his new way of drawing out the goodnights.
So I’m doing my best to ignore him by drinking my amaretto sours and computing at my computer, clack clack click click, boom.
who do you think will cave?
Yeah.
see you in 5…
You know how you have a favorite author and they write something that doesn’t impress you or move you or really do much of anything for you at all, other than make you cringe just a little teeny bit?
And you say, “oh they must have lost their Muse.” Only you don’t want to admit that, because you carry that writer so deeply in your pocket, you can’t stand to think of him/her not being perfect, even in their glorious imperfectness. No one likes to lose things they’ve got inside their pockets.
The flip side? You don’t want to admit that it’s not the writer, it’s you, the reader. The writer hasn’t changed, the writer is the same old chap with the same old muse, churning out the same keen and delicious drivel as always. But you’ve changed, something inside you has turned over in its sleep, and now everything is different.
Still though, sometimes that author just writes shit, his lousy muse is nowhere to be found, and you only hope it’s not a permanent condition.
Now, for an excellent read with a lot of Musing going on, I recommend Kurt Vonnegut’s Hocus Pocus. It is timely and funny and interesting and just all of the things you think of when you think of KV.