Pig roasts and hockey and leisure time reading — I’m finally starting to enjoy my vacation and it’s over on Tuesday. Superstar is no longer MIA, and though I know it’s temporary it’s good to see him still being ridiculous. That’s the only way I know it’s him and not some cheap domestic imitation, like the kind that give you really bad hangovers.

Saturday night I’m mulling over what to wear when I’m suddenly informed we are going to a pig roast. Coincidentally, I always know how to dress for farm functions and feel pretty comfortable covered in dirt, which is a little known fact about me. If you want details, ask me about the time I flipped a sheep or milked cows, or even better, how I earned my cowgirl stripes (I have many). Those are always good stories. Jeans, t-shirt, sweatshirt, boots, and I’m off.

While the main vice welcomed at a pig roast appears to be gluttony, other defects such as drunken impulse buying are also encouraged, as evidenced by the large number of arts and crafts and junk dealers in attendance. Nomadic grazing is the tendency, as, after stuffing yourself with four or five rib racks, you will inevitably leave your table to stroll through the grounds, thus discovering even more food as you wander. Such functions seem to rely on “carnivore guilt,” or that feeling that after eating half a hog, you really need to eat some non-meat product, even if it consists primarily of starch or sugar in various processed forms. And of course a pig roast wouldn’t be complete without numerous trophies displayed with spotlights in front of the “restaurants,” declaring them #1 best sauce or #1 best ribs or #1 best source of acid reflux, live country music, and fireworks spewing from the french fry stand (that one was for Pittsburgh). Well, we just ate way too much. Thank goodness we went skating the next day.

Tonight was the Piranhas’ final pickup game of the summer, and we had a good turnout of gals and guys and people who take pickup way too seriously. Two goalies too, so even hockey snobs were inclined to play (though I won’t mention any names). I am playing and skating better, although for some bizarre reason I often fail to admit that, I suspect because I subconsciously think I should be an expert after seven months and therefore if I’m falling short of that mark, then I couldn’t possibly have looked very good tonight. Ok, so that is totally unrealistic and I realize that, however, I’m afraid only a lobotomy is going to cure me of this little psychological quirk. Superstar was, well, a superstar, and as hockey-deprived as he was you would’ve thought he was the only one out there. He’s also an after-game car coach, which I don’t mind at all, but if he’s that keen on giving pointers I know a good place on the west coast that needs a hockey coach… (Hey it was worth a try.) Speaking of tips, Coach nearly killed one of our players tonight with a slap shot from the blue line; I have this feeling everyone is going to be very attentive at practice next Sunday. The most practical thoughts come at the most inconvenient times when you are running in your skates to find the first aid kit, such as “I don’t have health insurance until Tuesday…” Luckily the rest of the game was bloodless, and Coach’s big sister wrote to me later: “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Couple of stitches and she’ll be good as new.” Spoken like a true hockey player.

I’d just like to mention in closing that Bizzy brought me the best t-shirt from Toronto and the Hockey Hall of Fame! Thanks, Biz. I admire you for braving terrible Canada to get that for me.