And the rest of August…

Well, with the weather so nice, I should probably polish off the months of August and September, lest I manage to fall another season behind!  (As it is, I’ll still be a fall and winter behind, and I want to be caught up by the time of the Fringe tour!  Luckily, preparations for the tour will probably deprive me of an interesting life between now and then, so that at least bodes well…)

So in addition to New York, August saw a return to the cottage for the Hershfield family.  Mostly good loafing, though I did rediscover tennis and somehow got better at it in my years of not playing it (though perhaps I’m just in better shape?)  And it got us the most adorable picture of Claire ever, and I swear it wasn’t staged:

I have always been a fan of that bottle toy, and now I know why!

And the other fun event of August was the Rogers Cup, which the lovely Marsha Mason was nice enough to take me to.  Marsha watching tennis looks like this:

And tennis watching Marsha looks like this:

Highlights beyond Marsha time include Maria Sharapova in 3-D (by which I mean “there and playing”), an older man in the stands wearing a fisherman’s hat and bicycle gloves casually clipping his nails (I’ll have to review my notes, but the important thing is I actually made a point of taking out a piece of paper and describing this man), and a couple of Grade A douches picking a fight with the entire section.  As I remember it, they were talking during play about ‘some bitch’ who confiscated the beers they were trying to sneak in, some elderly lady in a sunhat shushed them, and the one guy snapped, called her an ‘old bitch’ and made an argument along the lines of “Don’t shush me!  I play tennis, I know the etiquette!”  And then, as people stepped in to defend the old lady, they started lashing out at everyone.  Quite the spectacle.  I don’t remember it verbatim, but I do remember Marsha being quite certain of and amazed by his use of the word ‘etiquette.’  Perhaps more interesting to live through than read about (especially since these guys seemed to take us for allies, what with our comedians’ inclination to register horror and disgust as amusement and all), but let’s not lose track of what’s important: there are Canadian tennis hooligans.


And that, as memory serves, was August.

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