Happy Saint Paddy's day, everyone. I hope you're wearing something green. The ground sure is. Everywhere around here is fresh grass, clovers, daffodils and little white blossoms on the fruit trees, so I guess it's spring. It was never truly winter--not in these parts--but there's no use arguing with a polar vortex. Best just to put on a tank top and enjoy the 75 degrees.
We went skiing on Saturday, which was my kind of skiing: the warm kind. I woke up Sunday morning with sore muscles and had to stop and consider if the soreness came from softball, hockey, or skiing. This is an unfamiliar conundrum for me.
We have an inter-office softball game coming up at work. The after-work trips to the batting cages and lunchtime games of catch have been great fun. Nothing heralds the start of spring like the sound a ball makes tinging off a baseball bat.
And between softball practice and hockey games and the odd ski trip, this has been a pretty sporty season at Casa de Swingbug. Also a busy season. The obligatory corned beef required this time of year is patiently sitting in the fridge, waiting for us to be home and awake for four hours straight to give it the attention and tending it deserves.
But I did take the time to queue up some Flogging Molly and Dropkick Murphys today, and I took my five seconds of silence to remember Charlie Mopps. I hope you managed something festive too, and got outside to see the flowers going berserk. If they're not peeking out just yet in your part of the world, hang in there. Spring's on its way.