I haven’t been kidnapped, unless you count rhinoviruses as felons, in which case I have. I’m done with my five-day antibiotic course, I’m eating Sudafed like popcorn and still — the snot fountain flows afresh. Excuse that disgusting image, but I’m beyond that particular emotion at the moment. Surround yourself with a growing mountain range of used tissues, and that’ll happen.
But I will not be brought down too far. I’m two-thirds of the way through a rare three-day weekend, planning all sorts of krayzee fun for tonight — why, I might stay up until 10! Have TWO glasses of wine! Watch the last half of “The Manchurian Candidate,” because I fell asleep halfway through last night, when I nodded off at 10:05! (Codeine cough syrup.)
Life in middle age is fun. It’s just a different kind of fun.
In its own sort of way, it was an eventful weekend. Alan went fishing Friday and Kate starts school tomorrow, so mother and daughter had a errand-y couple of days of looking for school shoes, buying the last of the unbought supplies and trying to get this kid in a going-to-school frame of mind, no small affair. Frankly, I’m relieved, but not for the usual reasons — Alan’s had the child-care deal this summer. It’s just that it’s time. Turn, turn, turn and all that stuff. Plus, if she spends any more time scampering around the neighborhood she’s going to turn into a monkey.
I was weak and dizzy frequently during my all-day slog through the housecleaning today, which was a good excuse to turn on the TV and inhale some brief puffs of the Olympics. I ask you: Is anything not an Olympic sport? Track and field, swimming, gymnastics — sure. But…trampoline? Badminton? Seventeen different kinds of rowing? Canoeing? I’m a traditionalist, sure, but even beach volleyball seems like a waste of time. Doesn’t regular old volleyball showcase the sport enough? No wonder this shindig costs $8 billion. In a few more years world cities are going to compete to not have to host this boondoggle.
Dump all that stuff (OK, guys, you can keep beach volleyball if it gets you that hot and bothered) and bring back pankration, I say. (On the other hand, I enjoy lots of the weird winter Olympic sports. Curling? Gotta love it. Biathlon? Love it more. But mogul skiing is stupid.)
Also, I love Svetlana, too. She’s one competitor who makes me with John Tesh still had his gig.
And those laurel wreaths? That’s a hard look to rock.
OK, bloggage. I’m days late catching up, but what the hey, here’s a mixed grill:
This is long, but I really liked this Gene Weingarten piece about the psychology of terrorism — of the terrorized, specifically. It reminded me of chatting with our Israeli fellow last year, who was always so amazed that Americans spoke of feeling unsafe in their own country. Want to feel unsafe in your own country? Emigrate to Israel.
Another WashPost piece from last week I liked was this, about the nature of the questions at those “Ask President Bush” campaign stops. Like? Oh, like this: “Mr. President,” begins a young man in a baseball hat. “I just want to say I’m praying for you and God bless you.” And then one questioner later: “I would just like to say that I agree with this gentleman, that we should all pray for you.” OK, glad to hear it.
More tomorrow. Really.