It’s been a beautiful week, in terms of weather. We’re at the tail end of a five days of lovely, warm weather–Summer’s last gasp, I suspect-=-a little warm, but blue skies and puffy clouds, regular but not incessant rains that have kept everything green and vital, and cool nights. I’ve been keeping busy in both my job (mindless labor) and my work (the novel), while ignoring this blog for several days because I haven’t had much to say that interests me. Sorry, but it’s not as if you missed me, right.
It’s not an excuse. I have 89 pieces in my “drafts” file, another file with close to 200 “found” internet photos and other questionably acquired tidbits waiting for their shot at greatness, but every time I sat down to do some writing this week I’ve either drifted off to sleep* or wasted all my time reading other blogs–your blogs.
The week didn’t start out great. We have a corner of the garden that is largely unkept, owing to the presence of a clump of what I’ll generously call “vintage’ raspberry brambles–spindly things that never produce fruit, but which my wife in her eternal garden optimism thinks may surprise us “this year.” On Monday (Labor Day!) I announced, string trimmer in hand, (“announced,” mind you, not “asked”) that the berries–and the entire corner of the garden, would be giving way to the future. I pulled the cord and bravely slashed into the brambles….
Five hundred really pissed off yellow jackets later, I was doing the “hornet dance’ down the garden path, slapping at my ankles and thighs and…that’s right–inside my shorts. I was lucky, getting only 7 stings and another dozen or so glancing shots. The little bastards. No, it was my fault. I’d remarked to someone just last week that I’d gone through the entire summer without a bee, wasp, or hornet sting and very nearly wrote a blog entry of all the various indignities I’ve suffered at the tiny winged terrorists–not to mention all my juvenile acts of vengeance. Not to gloat, but I survived to weed whack another day, and the pain was somewhat
There is plenty of stuff I could be writing–it’s football season and I love football, for example. Two of “my teams” that began play last weekend–Pitt, and the local high school–did well. Pitt clobbered Delaware, which I despise for no other reason than because it is the alma mater or Baltimore Ravens
Frankenstein Creature, er, Quarterback Joe Flacco**.
But I digress.***
When “my” sports teams win, it’s satisfying. I’m not one of those chumps who follow whatever team happens to be winning (just look at all the Seahawks gear out there–until last season NOBODY outside of the pacific northwest) so I endure plenty of suffering and disappointment. I’ve often thought about how pleasant it must be to simply switch loyalties when the chips are down, but I’ve bragged up my loyalty for so long that were I to do so the ignominy would be unendurable.
The local high school took out a highly ranked adversary, against all odds and prognostications, with the two young men who spend time with my daughters making significant contributions to the effort. It was exhilarating, inspiring, archetypical small town Friday night stuff.
Now we need to get my college alma mater, IUP, and the Steelers on the bandwagon this weekend–and the high school needs to lock down a team that won 55-0 last week. We’re a little stoked for the both games–we’ll likely listen to IUP on the radio while working in the garden on Saturday, but we plan on making the Steelers thing into an event. We’ve already got some Victory IPA in the fridge, and I’ll be making stromboli, from scratch. We’re playing the Browns, and even though the Browns have been terrible for years we love to hate them as much as the dreaded Ravens (who used to be the Browns, you know).
*Have you ever fallen asleep sitting and dreamed that you couldn’t stand up–your balance askew, you stumble, your knees go weak like you’re the Scarecrow from Oz?
**Flacco actually signed with Pitt, but he ran away like a coward little child rather than compete with Tyler Palko for the starting role. The baby–he’s playing for the wrong Harbaugh .
***I’ve been very intentionally trying not to use this phrase, but the heart wants what the heart wants, I suppose.