the Buzz for June 16th, 2008


So, the event itself had the phenomenally awful timing to fall during the most brutally busy weekend of my entire year (which explains why this is being posted twenty-four-plus hours past the fact), but the fabulous Sherry Ann celebrated her birthday yesterday. I phoned her at midnight to offer her fond wishes (a tradition we began back when we were but wee chillins), and she was ringing in the day by camping out in the front yard (in a tent and everything!) with her two sons. When I expressed disbelief at the mere idea of this, she informed me, as if it was the most (and perhaps only) natural thing in the world to say, “I’m the mother of boys. Boys like to do boy things.”

After our (too brief) conversation, I was left to ponder how (and why) I never really cared to do so-called “boy things” like camping (which, as my mother and sister will haply attest, I hated — and, often, flat ass refused, with adamant vehemence — to do) and fishing (the single time I went with my grandfather on a walleye hunt, the revelation that subduing our quarry actually meant touching it revolted me so much that it took me weeks to surmount the trauma) and watching football (a hobby I didn’t stumble onto until I was well into my twenties, and the only reason it happened then was because I thought UT’s then-QB One Major Applewhite was the most hopelessly adorable guy I’d ever laid grateful eyes on) and working on cars (can change a tire and check the oil, that’s pretty much the extent of my skill set). Rarely ever have I felt even an iota of angst about my lack of interest in any of these pursuits, which means this entire post has nothin’ to do with nothin’ (and certainly has no relevance vis-a-vis Sherry’s special day), so even though it may or may not like I’m aiming for something profound here, I’m quite honestly just musing.

Had “boy things” filled the gaps in my attention span, it’s a pretty safe bet that the Buzz would be non-existent, so even if it accomplishes nothing more, may this silly blog illustrate with fierce and unyielding precision that “boy things” are overrated anyhow.

Much love always (and happy birthday!), Sherry Ann.

P.S.: The maid’s name was Florence. 🙂