It was 7 a.m., it was pre-coffee, and I was making scrambled eggs, treating Oliver’s infected paw, on the phone with my N.Y. daugher re: travel plans, adding ingredients for turkey loaf to my mental grocery list, and stepping out to retrieve the newspaper, at which time the sprinklers popped up cheerfully to douse me. So when the vuvuzelas started, I was already in a state you might call irritable.
But then soccer took over. Tom and Nora have been obsessed with the World Cup, but I’ve been more, shall we say, aloof. (The most emotion I’ve displayed vis-à-vis the Cup is bitching about the vuvuzelas.) This morning, however, my family’s intense focus zapped me. I turned to the television and, within seconds, I was hooked.
I stood in my damp bathrobe and got acquainted with Landon Donovan, and life’s irritating factors evaporated. Even the vuvuzelas lost their edge.
After The Goal (note-to=self: get that YouTube vid on my iPhone), I skittered across Twitter and now I (along with 60,000 other stalkers) am following Landon. His tweet after the victory? “WOW!” (Well, whattya want, the Gettysburg address? The guy was pooped, for chrissakes.)
After the thrill of victory dimmed slightly, I got real and made a turkey loaf, fantasizing about tweeting old Landon a dinner invite, which would probably be his 59,999th offer of the day. Maybe I’ll invite Stan McChrystal instead. Bet his dance card is empty.