I pink puffy heart Mike Lowell. Papi and Manny get all the glory, all the media, all the attention, and there's Mike Lowell, quietly belting things over the fucking Monster and making incredible plays at third.
I love post-season play. Love it.
Do you remember the mug? I blogged about it a while back, but I can't seem to find the post. I have this mug that I love. I got it at a craft fair. I am not a craft fair person. At all. There's usually entirely too many booths exhibiting the gingham dog and calico cat type of craft and that sort of thing makes my teeth itch. But this craft fair is different. It's juried, first of all, which means the wares exhibited tend to be less of the hearts-and-flowers/crocheted lady toilet paper covers and more of the turned wooden bowl/Reiku pottery type of thing. It's nice stuff.
Anyway. I bought a mug there about 6 years ago. I loved that mug. It fit perfectly into my hand and had a great handle with a spot on top to rest my finger. It was a gorgeous shade of green with a sort of oriental feel to the design. A few months ago, it developed a crack. I was devastated.
Oh, I found it. (Nothing like a little stream of consciousness blogging, huh?)
I went to this fair today specifically to find this potter. And was he there? Nope. There were lots of other potters (and a wonderful photographer from NYC - Zim Photography - if I had money to spare, there were four or five of her photos that I would have bought in a heartbeat, the one I linked to is the one I loved the best, but they were all stunning.) but none of them had just the right mug. Some came close, but alas, no dice. So once again, I'm mugless. Well, I'm not mugless, I just don't have MY mug.
It's ridiculous how attached I am to this stupid mug. I realize that.
But just on the off chance that any of you recognize the potter's signature, I'm asking again. Anyone have any ideas?
And why does my post title say that I'm old? Well, I'll tell you. Not only did I go to a craft fair today and thoroughly enjoy myself, I also listened to A Prairie Home Companion on NPR on the way home. And laughed my ass off.
This distresses me. Why? Because I used to roll my eyes and groan at my mother every Saturday night when she'd squeal and run to the stereo to change the station from WBCN over to WBUR. "God," I used to think, "how can she find this crap funny? She's so oooooooooold. She's so not cool. I'm never going to be like that." Yeah, well, be careful what you think about your mother. Some day you'll find yourself driving home from a craft fair, giggling away to Garrison Keillor. And I'll be there saying "Told you so."