Most times, we blog on an island.
At night. Under the cover of lunch hour. When we ought to be doing something else.
(I think bloggers are often loners. Or is it just me?)
So it’s cool to team up at times. Karen from Baking in a Tornado blog invites 12 bloggers to submit secret writing prompts that are dispersed to one of the other 11. Kristi from Black Sheep Mom blog submitted the one I got:
“Sometimes people call me ________ because I _____________.”
The challenge? Narrowing it down. A dude doesn’t get to 41 without being called a few things.Not all of them are bad, mind you. Some can’t be divulged on this page.
But I own them. I … deserve them.
1. They call me @#$%! Because I drive the speed limit
Even when I pass on the left on Interstate 485. Drivers flick flocks of birds at me as they finally pass, while they mutter under their breath (or sometimes spit out with vitriol) many words that rhyme with “brother” and begin with F. Do they get home and rail at their spouses, “you’ll never guess what this IDIOT on 485 was doing today!”
Driving safely? What a jerk.
2. They call me Daddy because my daughters love me dearly – or they want something
Yes, these three kids learned early the power of big, brown eyes. They’re not unlike Medusa’s hair, however. If I can avoid looking directly at them, I won’t turn to stone (or give in to their requests). I know I can do this. Marie, when she was about 9, wanted chocolate SO bad on a grocery trip I could ill afford for staples such as toilet paper, milk and zero-calorie soda.
She shone those eyes at me – chocolate brown – and I refused to look into them. We got out without anything by Hershey that day. But I’m not sure I could do it again.
3. They call me coach because I’m the dude with the bag of balls
No whistle, no polyester coaching shorts, but I am the man with the plan, and a sack of mismatched soccer balls to match. It’s been a while since a player has called me “mommy” or “daddy,” but that’s happened, too.
A girl took to calling me “coachie,” a mash-up of Coach E (is a derivative of Coach Eli). It was cute for a day or two, but I wouldn’t recommend it for your team.
4. They call me Daaaaaaaaaaaaad! Because I’ve annoyed them
So quickly [hearts]DaD[rainbows] becomes [demons]DAAAAD![tornadoes and destruction]. If you hear this bellowed, it means I’ve done one of the following:
- Stood in front of a TV showing a Disney show
- Made fun of a Disney show
- Sung insulting lyrics in place of annoying ones on their favorite tunes
- Asked, at any moment in a Disney show, whether the kids featured are tricking someone in some way, shape or form (the answer is always yes)
There are other ways I elicit this moniker that won’t be discussed on this day.
5. They call me Juan Pablo Montoya because … well, just one kid did
I’ve had kids tell me I look like George Lopez. One near-sighted waitress at a Waffle House in Morganton,N.C., even declared that I “look like that guy what plays Superman on TV – that Dean Cain fella!” (That was in college, yes.)
A boy at Grace’s second-grade picnic stared at me in awe as I walked off the playground. Could he be a blog reader, or the son of a blog reader? Maybe someone who’d heard of the legendary soccer dynasties I’d captained, or maybe even heard I make a mean grilled-cheese sandwich?
“Juan Pablo Montoya?” he muttered, slightly exasperated.
“Yeah,” he’s a good driver, isn’t he?” I said. Montoya is a NASCAR driver of Columbian decent, a dude I once interviewed for a story and the default favorite of mine as dictated by the “minority support clause” in the “how to live in America as a minority” initiative (in short, if someone’s your color, you ought to support him. This includes Tony Romo and Tony Gonzalez but not Tony Hawk, in my case).
“Are you … Juan Pablo Montoya?” he asked.
“Nah, kid,” I said. “I’m just a dad.”
Or make that a DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD. And a @#$%!, even.
Check out the other awesome bloggers involved in this swap
Baking In A Tornado
Black Sheep Mom
Indian American Mom
Home on Deranged
Just A Little Nutty (Guest Post)
Dates 2 Diapers
Rocks, No Salt Mommy
Crazy As Normal
IBD, Daddy and Me!
That Suburban Momma