Olympic Fever (And I never want a cure. Unless it’s more Olympics.)

So, I hadn’t started this blog last night for the Opening Ceremonies, or I’d have written about it.  I’ll touch on it now.  To start, so we are clear: a 100 foot Voldemort was slain by an army of Poppinses.  I will hereby submit that there is nothing about that which could not be considered awesome. It could only be topped by a gaggle of Dick Van Dyke-esque chimney sweeps going through to sweep up his ashes.  Also- Kenneth Branagh in a top hat reading Shakespeare (swoon!) and cool drumming and Paul McCartney and… I will just leave it there.

On to tonight.  I love Men’s Gymnastics, but with the guilty self-knowledge that at every moment deep down I am hoping, nay ACHING to see someone fall and/or suffer injury.  This is against all of my Olympic spirit! What is wrong with me?!  I’m not going to lie, I squealed with every replay of those Chinese dudes falling on their heads.  You heard it here first, kids.  I am a horrible, terrible person.

Swimming- I am touched by the gold and almost get an allergy attack while the anthem is played…until my head gets going- Ooh, Michelle Obama looks fabulous! Sorry, that wasn’t where I am going.  What I was really thinking was- how do these get invented?  Like, how long until someone else comes up with a new stroke?  Maybe you have to swim 50 feet, do a little twirl in the water, do the monkey, then do the doggie paddle the rest of the way.  In some ways, the Olympics is the global version of my brother and I inventing new jumps into my Nammie’s pool when we were little and seeing who could do the best Nestea plunge. (Sadly, it was him.) THAT is what makes the Olympics fun.

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Ermagherd! A Blerg!

So this is it. I’m starting a blog.  For what, you ask?  Who knows.  Will it have any focus, you ask?  Nay, Dear Reader, I think not.  Although if you wanted to place bets on television, cats, and my foibled attempts at cooking, you’d probably be on the right track.

Consider the blog started………now.

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