The Start of the Seasons/Unofficial Lineups

Apparently, Dustin Pedroia is already on fire, and baseball season's still so young that I can barely sniff the Fenway Franks. But if the tease of sunlight and warmth we got in Rochester last week was any indication of Spring--I'll even take the return of the family of bluebirds in the backyard as a sign--then the sounds of Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy can't be far behind.

And you know what that means: it's music season. Better--it's FREE music season. Our Little City by the Great Lake does a fair job of providing its residents with decent music through the warmer months. Residents can perambulate downtown, white wines or beer or whatever in hand, and catch live acts, from old bluesy men and their guitars to international-music quartets that can get even the most reserved of the white winers to shake their merengue-makers.

This year's lineup includes Jeff Beck (the first of two shows is already sold out), and a show in the Bowl with Phil Lesh and Bob Weir. And someone else.

A Yankee.

In December, buying a ticket didn't seem like such a bad idea. Seeing Bernie Wiliams work his fingers around a six-string posed little threat in the off-season. But if he's good--as his website proposes--I'm going to hear even more about how talented the Yanks are than usual. It will make for a rather unharmonious domestic situation, I think, as the Sox/Yanks rivalry in our house is as permanent as our 50-year-old furnace--and burns as hot. I bought the ticket in my husband's interest--as going to the Jazz Fest and the NYY's are two of his summertime staples. I'd hope that if Papelbon or Beckett were touring and touting some artsy wares that Heath would thoughtfully surprise me too.

So I'm a good wife. A really good wife, and will even stop my tongue from making Tea-Party type jabs and quips during the concert.

But after that: Game ON.

First Day of Spring

My day really began early, when Dev, on the changing table, took my hand, inspected it, then held it to her chest and patted it. Then, upon reinspection, she kissed it. Twice. She let out a little giggle and pointed to her window: "bah." The birds. I heard them too--and decided I'd had enough with the weekend cabin fever. Time to hit the streets.

Our Public Market was the perfect spot this morning to initiate our meeting spring, however the cold/warm fronts blow. With Dev bundled from head to toe and our Boulder Coffees to go, Heath and I wove our way around hundreds--hundreds--of people caressing and sniffing the produce and goods (full props to the Italian bakers peddling kosher, Irish soda bread). A cinnamony, roasted hazelnut scent wafted, swirled, and flirted alongside the sweet smell of fresh fruit abounding, the local wines being sampled, fresh fish, basil. We resisted the Empanada Stop (but got Devster a spinach bagel to munch), and with our fresh pizza dough and veg in tow, were off.

We enjoyed a grill-out/eat-in lunch with our neighbors. They have three boys, and I honestly don't know how they keep their heads on straight (though they're some of the most organized people I've ever met). Their eldest showed us his piano prowess (unprompted--and impressed Devi so much I think we're going to have to get a piano); Devi was fascinated by Tinkerbell, their cat (we will not get a cat).
The kids played outside on the swingset for a while, and then we disbanded for naptime.

And that was a glorious hour: I raked the yard, cleaned up the flower beds and found some hidden daffodil shoots under the leaves, swept the front steps and driveway, got my heart racing a little. It's just late afternoon now, and while this is more of a day-in-the-life post, it's a post, and it's good to have that done too.

Tonight: off for a date with my hubby to the movies. And of course, some homemade pizza, courtesy of the market.