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Posts Tagged ‘ellen’

Tea tastings and asian markets… Here’s some shots from my week:

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Triple Shot.

Canada’s history magazine is called “The Beaver.” I would hate to do google image searches for past articles.

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My brother sent me an e-mail that he was checking out at the grocery store and the clerk saw his ID and said, “Oh, are you related to Tim Sullivan!?” My brother said yes, that we were brothers. and the cashier said, “Oh! I used to take his yoga classes!”

“Were they any good?” my brother asked.

“Of course! I love Tim!”

“We must be talking about a different Tim Sullivan,” my brother said.

Thanks for the e-mail bro.

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Me:  Crap.  I need some triple shots.  I don’t have anything written down.

Ellen: Sorry. I wasn’t very funny this week.

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Monday night is movie night. 1.11.10

Here’s some of my last week:

Ellen says, “You had a boring week.”

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Triple Shot.

I was reading reviews online of an anesthesiologist Ellen used to work for. I read some of them out loud.  Ellen said, “What do you want? It’s the fucking anesthesiologist. If you wake up and you’re not dead, he’s great!”

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At Whole Foods, Ellen and I sat next to a group of middle aged women who were incredibly excited about their new mutual find: knit jeans. One of them described them “feeling like pajamas!”  Another said, “I saw them on sale at Marshalls!” Then the women all gave each other high-fives and agreed to go together. If I ever high-five over mom jeans, kill me.  Just kill me.

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This weekend I spent with Mad Dog margaritas, poems about siblings, Everclear, Zombies, a fishing trip, family in town from far, families coming together, and a forced order of mozzarella sticks.

I got inspired at work today, which seems to happen often, and how often can you say that?

Now, Ellen has been in the kitchen braising lamb and cookin’ up some sweet potato biscuits. I’ve got a soon-to-be-full belly and a pocket full of love.

The good times are ones when there’s nowhere else to be but now.

The grass under my toes is as green as it gets.

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Past your house.

The morning light seeps in through now, with the time change,

and I get confused when I wake up.

I count them, twelve steps to the bathroom, fourteen more to the tea kettle.

I lose track on the way to the balcony. Good morning sun.

Seen so many places, vast empty spaces, that I adapt to the crickets in the morning.

My own feet on the ground, shifting weight, and I wonder if the air will ever smell like winter here.

Those first chills always came early, summer days moving by fast, and people’d say, “fall’s comin’ on quick this year.”

At night, I play this game; I walk past your house on the way home from work. You’ve been gone but I think of you.

What’s the game? I hum your melodies backwards.

I thought you’d like it.

Because no one brings the guitar now, and no one the bottle of wine to share.

But the kettle rings, the tea steeps, thirteen steps to the dresser drawer, and from there, always far many more than a day should have.

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halloween at the clubhouse.

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