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I’m a little heatstroked… heatstruck… overheated… uh, toasty right now.

It may have something to do with the fact that I spent four hours at Nat Bailey Stadium today watching the Vancouver Canadians WIN!

(Unlike the last time I went.)

Honestly, there are few sports I don’t like to watch live… hockey, football, soccer, and yes, the boys of summer, too. Especially the Mariners at Safeco, but you take what you can get on a Sunday afternoon.

($6 tickets with our Entertainment book! HA!)

We had a sweet time. Like we always do. That’s because Catherine is fun. And I get to be fun by osmosis!

Now, the funniest thing about watching the Canadians play (because I don’t really follow single A ball) has something to do with this young man:

We used to see him on this show (yeah, yeah… we all have guilty pleasures!) His mom is one of the most successful realtors in Coto De Caza, CA and his dad is an executive (and former player) for the Oakland A’s. We recognized his name the first time we went.

Funny how the Canadians are the farm team for the A’s. Hmm…

Anyway, Shane Keogh ain’t much of a hitter — .165. But he’s a good fielder, a great base-stealer, and well, kind of a looker. And we saw him on TV before we saw him in the dugout, which is just weird.

But.

I’m tired, y’all.

And working on loving my summer.

So I better rest up.

When I was a kid, you were the second most thrilling time of year. Wintertime always came out on top, of course, because… SNOW!

But summertime meant no school! And homemade popsicles! And staying up later! And bike rides to the Red Rooster! And a month in Vancouver with Poppa and Nonna and everyone else on this side of the Rockies!

I could be barefoot more often than not.

I could wear shorts more often than not.

I could be outside more often than not.

I remember my favourite outfit of all time: a pink seersucker one-piece ensemble with straps that tied at my shoulders. I felt so glamourous and sophisticated in that little pantsuit, even as the seersucker was scratching the life out of my fresh Crescent Beach sunburn.

Beauty is pain. I knew it even then.

But.

Summertime was the apple tree in bloom in the backyard on Waverley.

Summertime was the blue plastic pool on Tutshi, sending tiny ants out to sea on the BatBoat.

Summertime was barrel rolls down the toboggan hill with Shelley, grass stains on our knees and elbows.

Summertime was white sandals on Sunday mornings.

Summertime was Baskin Robbins on 49th, eating Golden Delicious Sherbet out of a small, polka-dot cup.

Summertime was pre-bedtime walks on Cannon Beach, whispering secrets to Margie.

Summertime was a week at camp, avoiding giant spiders and crashing windsurfers into old, faded docks.

Then summertime was camp for three months… for 15 years.

Did I really do it that long?

Whole staff-fulls of friendships.

Hundreds of pairs of flip flops.

Thousands of hours spent on boats circumnavigating the island, and on ferries to and fro.

So many cans of Coke consumed trying to stay awake that I fear my tan was really an overdose of “caramel colour.”

More crushes than I can recall, some of which only existed in memory until they existed again on my Facebook (huzzah!)

And most importantly, thousands and thousands of kids that I loved, and laughed with, and listened to, and saved from certain peril with Dean in a Whaler because they — like me, years before — could not tack to save their lives.

Now summertime is work of a different sort, at a job indoors where I do not have to convince 9 year-old boys that sunscreen won’t melt their skin off.

Now summertime is a warm apartment at the end of the day, offset by the most gorgeous sunsets on our deck.

Now summertime is friends visiting from far away.

Now summertime is our crazy Aussie bellowing from the deck upstairs, or Karen’s tan rocking harder than ours, or Presley in sundresses.

Now summertime is no one questioning my Havaiana habit.

Now summertime is dining on patios, whenever possible.

And now summertime is actually September, when we head off for our vacation on a real, live airplane.

But most of all?

It’s perfect. And freckly. And shining. And crisp and sweet and fresh like watermelon. And not over yet.

I love you, Summer.

Thanks for coming out.

Love,

Meg

Never wear a shoe named after a noise you might make while ill:

“Ugg, I feel gross!”
“Croccc!” (overheard from washroom)
“I’m feeling totally Skechers today!”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid your condition is rather Gravis.”

But remember… it’s okay to feel a little Blahnik now and then.

1. 25 out of 30 people who read my blog WOULD like some tea, thanks.

2. China does a WAYYY better job with the fireworks than anyone else as far as the HSBC Celebration of Light goes.

3. Watching things from your balcony? Good.

4. It’s more important to me to grow and move on than to get my jabs in.

5. I am an overcommunicator. Not in the I AM TELLING YOU TOO MUCH sense, but in the SHHHHH Meg I am trying to THINK sense DON’T tell me any more about your need to HOLD A PENGUIN.

6. Sometimes you just need to put on the crapass dance music to get through the day.

7. There is no such thing as “enough coffee”, but rather “am I alive?”

8. I can’t always clear my heart out by writing.

9. The ability to sleep is not only enviable, but essential. I think I need to get more rest just to avoid wrinkling up like a wildebeest.

10. It is possible to get bored of sushi.

I’m officially tired enough to be segueing into flaky at this point. Or maybe I’m just tired from being flaky?

I’m not so sure.

What I do know is this:

Yes, did you feel it? That’s right. NOTHING.

I don’t know if it’s hormones or the summertime or the fact that I haven’t slept for more than 4 hours in DAYS… but yeah.

I got nothin’.

So, for you, a list of things that have hopped into my mind to fill the void for the moment (and yes, I am astounded by my own vapidity at times, thank you!):

1. Celebrity pregnancies — Why do I hate the expression “baby bump”? Why is it so magical that stars get pregnant? People in Arkansas do it all the time. So do teenagers. And Mormons.

I mean, there are a lot of people who can’t get pregnant, sure. I’m one of them, so my specialist says. Not being able to get pregnant is not fun.

But I don’t think that being able to get pregnant is something to add to your resume. Being a good mom is, for sure.

Pregnant, though? Luck and genes, baby.

Back to this baby bump thing for a moment: how would you like it if people followed you around on your bad posture days and plastered you across magazine covers and television screens speculating about the condition of your womb? I don’t care how thin you are or how athletic you are… you’re going to wear a shirt or stand at an angle ONE OF THESE DAYS that will make you look as though you maybe, potentially, possibly… could be with child.

I’m just saying. There’s a huge difference between one too many cheeseburgers and an ill-fitting shirt, and being knocked up. And if there wasn’t, many, many women would avoid cheeseburgers.

2. Tearjerker movies — Why do we watch movies that make us cry? Is it catharsis? The need to reconnect with primal emotions? The release? The makeout potential of chicks seeing you weep like a baby at The Notebook? I don’t know, but whatever the heck it is, maaaaaan. That will wear you out.

I recently read a list compiled by Entertainment Weekly of the 25 Biggest Tearjerkers in movie history, and I was actually GETTING EMOTIONAL JUST READING THE SUMMARIES. Good heavens. That’s powerful stuff.

Whenever my life is remarkably overwhelming (as it seems to be at present), I crave a good tearjerker… just to take me completely over the edge. How’s that for a tipping point, Mr. Gladwell?

Eh, it makes me sound like a Cathy cartoon.

3. What I shall have for dinner? — If you know me, you know that I don’t like shopping for groceries in advance — especially produce. I know that’s probably the least brainy thing I do, seeing as you save money when you plan ahead, and skip hours of errands in a week chasing down the type of salmon you’re craving, or some odd herb for an odd salad you read about on Barefoot Contessa’s or Jamie Oliver’s websites.

But I don’t know what I’m going to want to eat three days from now, either. And yes… I want to eat what I want to eat when I want to eat it. I am ruled by my cravings!

No, that’s not even true.

The truth is, I eat one meal a day, essentially (NOT A WORD, MOM), so I’d like it to be amazing. Which means that I haunt recipe sites on my off-hours, searching for the ultimate marinade or pasta dish or some sort of unconventional use of vegetables (that sounded wrong.)

So. I don’t know what I want for dinner tonight, and usually, I would know by now. This confuses me. I’m thinking on it, though. Which is fun. I’m also a little famelicose. Which brings me to…

4. Really odd lists of words — Have you seen this? Good land. Odynometer? Scaevity? Zygostatical? Yeah. I’m a former English student and a present writer, but I keep wondering if I’m missing some magical linguistic nerd gene that makes people want to bring back words like weequashing into the modern vernacular.

Does it make me any less of a humanities geek? I still love words.

I just have no use for anyone who needs to have a doozy like brephophagist in their verbal quiver.

And on that note….

What was I saying?