Breather

Foliage is just past peak here in central Mass. Apples are at the apex of exquisiteness and I have two bags of Empires in the fridge. [note: with all my dental work, I cut my apples now. Not quite the same pleasure as biting in, but we make compromises, don't we, dear reader?]

As the Red Sox travel, we get a chance to catch up on ordinary life.

Right?

What is that anyway? Oh yes, my regular job. I'm entering the Wicked Witch segment of the semester, which is entirely appropriate around Halloween, I suppose. I seem constantly to be bitching and harping about one thing or another, primarily spelling other people's names right. Here are some common wrong spellings.

Hemmingway

EM Foster

Steven King

Edgar Allen Poe

Updyke

I always ask my students, how do you like it when someone gets YOUR name wrong? Sometimes if I'm very quiet, I can hear their answer from inside their brains: I DON'T GIVE A FK.

All right then. Here are a few thoughts.

What's with these big thick ropey necklaces some of the players are wearing? We've gone from 50-karat blinding gold to hemp. Is it some kind of pot-smoking message? Marijuana solidarity between the boys? I have no clue.

I hardly ever watch TV, so I'm seeing all these commercials for the first time. I'm already sick to death of watching that girl run into the car. I'm not quite sick to death of the guy with the lap dog, but I'm close.

All this talk about the high altitude having an effect on the game strikes me as not unlike the alarmist talk around the Y2K thing, if anybody remembers that.

But the big question is:

What will we do when the Series is over?

Be here now, reader, because it's all good.

A bientot

love,

becky