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Sunday for the Scrapbook

You ever have one of those days? You know, when you mean to do something — you really intend to do it; like, say, write a weblog entry — and then, at the end of the day, it just hasn’t happened? That happen to you?

That was my day yesterday. But it’s not my fault, particularly — there were three big honking events keeping me from my appointed bloggy rounds. So let’s hear about them, since I’m a little tapped out on anything else to write about right now.

(Hey, I’ve been sick — cut me some damned slack. You wouldn’t be writing now, if you were as freaking phlegmy as I am right now. Be cool.)

Anyway, here’s a bit of fluff about the Sunday I had yesterday:

1) St. Patrick’s Day Parade — because the key thing you really need, when coming off an illness, is to stand in the middle of South Boston for four hours with several thousand other people in rapidly chilling weather. That’s ‘doctor’s orders’ right there, folks.

Seriously, though, it was a nice little soiree out there on the streets of Southie. Lots of bands, plenty of uniforms, and all sorts of other baubles and hoopla and crap going on. Among the more interesting things to be seen there:

• A column of local Star Wars geeks in full stormtrooper regalia; there must have been a dozen of them in suits of various kinds — old Darth would’ve been so proud!
• Random strangers in various parade vehicles throwing candy to kids along the route. Candy! From strangers! Won’t some-Irish-body think of the children?!
• Dozens of women with strings of green beads who didn’t get them for showing their boobs… or at least weren’t asked to show their boobs, if there truly is a god. *shudder*
• An exceptionally impressive float built by a local elementary school… just a few slots before a half-assed, rickety float put together by the local electrical workers’ union. Makes you think, eh?
• A bus full of Guinness drinkers, taunting us on the streets with their full beers and happy smiles. I have never wanted to cry so badly — or torch a bus full of people — in my life.

Anyhow, that was fun. But then, it was time for a bit of work. So, I headed home, slunk into the basement, and had my:

2) Big Laundry Adventure — this part just sucked ass. Long story short, I put a load of laundry in the washer. They washed. And apparently didn’t spin or wring or blowdry, or whatever the washer is supposed to do to help the dryer’s cause. So, when I stuck the clothes in the dryer, they were dripping and heavy and soaking wet.

(And no ‘I likes my women like I likes my laundry’ jokes, okay? I’m tellin’ a story over here. Perv.)

So, of course, the dryer promptly shut down, and wouldn’t come back on. I pushed buttons, turned knobs, and yanked levers — nothing. I unplugged the thing, and plugged it back in. Nada. I scratched my crotch. Zippo. The damned thing wouldn’t come back on.

Which means that the wife and I went out this morning to buy a new one. That’s a whole other adventure in itself, probably. But meanwhile, we also had to find somewhere in the house to dry a dozen soaked, ass-dripping, full-sized towels. Which wasn’t damned easy — we’ve got towels on the bannisters, towels on the shower rack, towels on top of towels… And now, after a night of that, I think I can tell you, with little fear of contradiction — ‘the wife’s side of the bed’ was not a bright place to put one of the towels. Nor was ‘draped over my computer’, or ‘on the dog’s back’, I’m thinking. Nobody ever said I was the oiliest stripper on the pole, folks.

Look — let’s just move on to:

3. The Fantasy Baseball Draft — yes, folks; just this once, I forwent… um, that is, I forgoed… er, forgotted? Forgoeded? Whatever. What I’m trying to say is that just this once, I eschewed blogging — yeah, show of hands, fuckers; who thought I’d pull ‘eschewed’ out of my ass, eh? — to put together an all-star squad of steroid-bloated baseballers, to keep me entertained for the next six months or so with their kooky shenanigans.

Now, never mind that I’ve got three more teams to draft in the next couple of weeks. Somehow, just at that moment, full of green beer and sitting next to the soaking-wet towel-covered dog, drafting a team was the most important thing I could be doing.

Okay, maybe not ‘most important’. Would you believe ‘most frivolous’? ‘Most likely to waste time until one thirty in the morning’? Eh. In any case, that’s what I did. And now I’m writing about it — I’m not sure which I should feel more ashamed about. Let’s just hope I finally shake the remnants of this damned cold before long, and I stop blogging about shit that actually happened. These posts are just fricking painful.