In a Pickle

It's like being shrunk and standing on a ping-pong table...

This is how I describe the game of Pickle Ball to my friends. Right before I left Montana for the summer, Grandma and Grandpa put in a proper Pickle Ball court. I returned to find it fenced in, a regular crowd in attendance with portable folding chairs and an oversized umbrella for viewing comfort, and a light stand for intrepid night games. It's quite the deal. It's the most fun a girl can have on a cement pad with a whiffle ball!

The whole family was gathered...well, the aunts and uncles...to see the long-lost cousin from Seattle. We Pickled, ate, laughed, Pickled again, ate, and looked at pictures of the family throughout the centuries...well, actually just over a few decades.

Since my brother wasn't there to entertain with his usual wit and sparkling charm, we resorted to talking about the hairless dog, Casper. He's only three years old and looks kind of like a cross between a small goat and an oversized rat. Don't tell him I said so - he is really quite sweet. The fact that Casper, in reality, is covered with lots of white hair is funny enough by its ironic self, but it gets better. He trots around, is very friendly, and occassionally runs into walls.

After a trip to a doggie eye specialist, it was discovered that he is blind in one eye and only has tunnel vision in the other. And in some absurd way that I'm not sure I could explain to anyone outside of the family, this makes him even funnier.

Is that a word? funnier? I am suddenly struck by over-educated anguished english anxiety. And then what will I do? Where will I get a job? Will anyone hire me? What if I don't 'make something of myself'? Has it all been in vain?

I should have gone for the Math degree.