Little good to say, so back to Ireland

Jack still doesn’t have a physics teacher so we’ve hired one (if that is not antithetical to the mission of public education…), I just watched a professional dog walker let four pups pee and crap all over my front garden (non-yard green space is EVERYWHERE around), a guy laid on his horn this morning when I stopped for a school bus letting elementary schoolers board, and I was nearly hit by another driver who seemed to feel it her right to turn left because she wanted to. Italy has elected a hard-core right-winger who cozies up to people like Steve Bannon, Berlusconi, and the other right-wing Italian political parties, trump is still not in jail, and high schoolers in VA are walking out en masse today because Gov Youngkin is trying to enact anti-transgender legislation. You go, students! I am totally with you!

I am really pretty sick of all this crap, and I am also sick of mosquitoes and still heartbroken over Federer’s retirement.

So, back to Ireland. We paused as I was about to share Day 6 of my Ring of Kerry tour. We began by driving through Cahersiveen, home of Monsignor O’Flaherty, a significant member of the Catholic resistance to Nazism during WWII. He was responsible for saving ~6,500 Allied soldiers and Jews! Thank you, Sir!

Then to Killorglin where, every August, the Puck Fair is held. As I learned, most Irish towns have annual festivals of which they are enormously proud. Killorglin’s is one of Ireland’s oldest festivals and involves men heading into the local mountains to capture (kindly) a wild goat and bring it back to town. There, a chosen girl anoints the goat king (King Puck), it is tied in the center of the festivities, and everyone drinks and celebrates (and cares for the goat) for three days. The goat is then returned to the spot it was found and released.

Signs were everywhere, for the Fair was quickly approaching. I was quite sorry to miss it, frankly, but maybe another time. As you can see in this article and the following photo from said article, it was extremely hot at this year’s festival and King Puck received hourly vet visits and plenty of cold water and shade. Delightful!

I do regularly wonder if the chosen goat is enormously confused during its three days away from its flock, if it is then happy to return, and if the others know and/or miss it during its absence. Hmm.

A year

Since I last wrote on Mardi Gras, we passed the mark of a year at home, Jack has still not returned to any in-person school, Ol turned 12, my parents are fully vaccinated, my in-laws have each had one shot, spring is emerging in fits and starts, I took on a volunteer leadership position at a wonderful political organization that I admire, and the cats still disdain each other. Or rather, Nutmeg is still irritated about Ruthie coming to live with us. WHY do cats let their tongues hang when they’re resting?!

We have explored more of Virginia and West Virginia and been simultaneously awed by their beauty and much of the friendliness we’ve encountered and appalled by their racism, mad conservatism, and overt Confederate loyalty (more pronounced in the parts of western VA we spent time in).

I have gut-laughed so hard —see this link for a recent delight—”punches and scratches to the face…” I have cried, too.

I have learned fascinating things, from tidbits like this evolution of the UK flag:

to information about long-haul Covid.

I maintain that Freddie Mercury and Roger Federer are two of the greatest artists to ever walk this Earth. Witness remains an excellent film. Weekend at Bernie’s is an appalling blot on film history; my bright memories were justly extinguished one evening when I convinced Tom to subscribe to Cinemax and the boys to settle in for a treat. Any new or old faves for you?

I rarely enjoy cooking anymore and have lost interest in most meals. It all seems to taste the same; several of my friends feel this, too. I hope this disappears when Covid recedes into memory. Have you experienced this?

Have you watched The Last Kingdom or The Queen’s Gambit? I love the word gambit, and both series are utterly engaging. Plus, Alexander Dreymon? Meow!

Records are meant to be Rogered

Y’all, I am a truly outstanding Roger Federer fan. Really, he couldn’t ask for a more committed, enthusiastic supporter, and I have been that for so many years now. I watch every possible match whilst wearing my official-from-his-website RF hat. I know that he and darling wife Mirka have two sets of twins, Myla and Charlene, Leo and Lenny. I feel that Roger has great hair, including the perfect amount of arm and leg hair, and lovely skin and incredible legs.

As you can see from the six recent examples below, I am not kidding about the extent of my fandom.

Roger is class incarnate, just champion AF. I once heard him say that in his early years on the pro tour, he would sometimes emote in peevish fashion, yelling, say, or thrashing his racket. Watching replays of his behavior embarrassed him, and so he cut it out and has since acted with elegance and grace as far as the eye can see. Would that everyone be so self aware and willing to work on themselves, including in small ways like changing a bad hairdo (see early Roger below; OMG, code red).

Roger has both temper and hair fully under control today, and he is a shining example of masterful sports psychology, self-containment, and on-court compartmentalization. As I pace, cringe, jump up and down, hide my face with my RF hat, talk to the cats, text friends who sympathize, post updates to Facebook as if it’s my only outlet, send Mirka vibes of strength and understanding from afar, and quietly wish bad things toward Rogie’s opponents, Roger is cool as a cucumber. I mean, in today’s Wimbledon semifinal against Rafael tic-master Nadal, Roger lost the second set so mortifyingly badly (6-1) that John McEnroe and Chris Fowler were nearly speechless. Which is saying a lot. They finally concurred with much brevity that it was the single worst set Roger has ever played at Wimbledon.

Did Roger freak out? No he did not. He came back and whipped out wins in both the 3rd and 4th sets to advance to the finals, Rafa picking at his nethers and obsessively aligning his water bottles all the while.

Me:

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Roger:

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I mean seriously. I had to go work out after the match because I was a mess.

I actually made this during the match because Mirka, me too! I feel you! But, our man won.

Meanwhile, the man is a month shy of 38 years old and is setting records left and right. In the quarterfinals earlier this week, Rog became the first player in history to win 100 matches at Wimbledon. He has won more Grand Slam singles titles -20- than any other male player and more Wimbledon championships -8- than any male peer, spent a record 302 weeks as the world ranked #1, and won a slew of sportsmanship and humanitarian awards. His eponymous foundation has invested nearly $30 million in education and children in Africa and Switzerland.

I love him. He’s a total dish.

Nanny and I always loved the same players. We were hardcore Sampras fans for years. YEARS. We called him Petey and cooed sweet nothings at the TV every time he played. Then came Roger and our adoration moved on. I still think of Nanny every time I watch Rog play (and also the way I used to mock how nervous my dad and grandfather would get during sporting events and now realize that I am exactly them), and I thought of her today. Send vibes for Sunday’s final, Nanny. It NEEDS to be Roger’s day. Novak “I look like an angry muppet” Djokovic has years more to play and win. Step aside, sir.

You know where I’ll be this Sunday! Breakfast at Wimbledon hoping Rogie rogers another record: becoming the first man to win 9 Wimbledon crowns.