This A to Z Challenge has proven quite challenging up around here.
It’s what happens when you toss in a load of high school soccer matches and club practice and, oh, an assignment at work that could make or break us. No pressure. I can handle it. It’s just words. In fact, I armed myself with a two-liter of Diet Mountain Dew and commenced writing.
Then fell asleep sitting up at the couch minutes later.
I have a great guest post to share and other stuff to write and letters to catch up with. The universe, though, saw fit to make this the day I caught up, a Friday, for the letter Q. For “questions from my girls.”
I had to look that up on urban dictionary, of course. It’s pretty bad-ass, actually. Totally not me, though. I just wanted to cap a rough day with a Red Baron pizza and a 40. Yeah, a 40. Only, apparently, I don’t know what a 40 is.
I bought a tall-ass can of Bud Light at Food Lion right after practice.
Not that tall, though. This can is my under-tall counterpart of the beer-can world. I bought, apparently, a 25. Twenty-five fluid ounces of wimp-ass Bud Light. Oh! The can says, though, there’s an extra ounce. And I’ll probably finish the whole thing in two, three sittings, max.
Like, the time I called Jeremy Mayfield’s race team shop on a Friday afternoon to talk to his publicist. All I wanted was a snippet of news I could use as padding in my racing notebook in the Hickory Daily Record. That publicist said, “I’ve been so busy with this driver change for anything else!”
“Oh!” I said. No idea what the hell she meant. “How’s that going?”
She went on to tell me all about the complete team switch happening between Mayfield’s team and another. I played along, and asked more questions as I learned more about the team transaction. It just fell into my lap.
Go Ask Daddy has been a fixture around here for decades, it seems. Only, now, my girls, all post-millennial, they of the vines and musical groups without all the letters in their names (like Weeknd), well, they suddenly want a payday for their “intellectual property.”
Much to my shock and chagrin, this might be the last installment of Go Ask Daddy.
My girls demand $1 per question asked here. Any post that 50% subject matter for any individual, combination of two or all three daughters, real or imagined, will require compensation, commiserate to word count. It’d dumb and it’s complicated. I’m appalled.
I wouldn’t know which Game went to which Throne. I might get to Legends of Tomorrow – tomorrow. I did watch Arrow for a while. When Felicity Smoak *sigh* started to act less nerdy-funny and more vixeny-funny. (I like the glasses and awkwardness, thank you. Hi, Felicity.)
I’m not exactly the trendy TV watcher.
My show of choice: M*A*S*H*. As a friend asked last night, “you mean, that show from when we were kids?” Yes, that show. It came on at 11 p.m. when we were kids. We’d hear the first strains of that theme song, and knew we were on borrowed awake time.
It runs all over the place with kid soccer players. Some play for glory. Some play to get to the halftime and post-game snacks. Sadly, some play because their parents make them. Or they use soccer training sessions as elevated child care.
Each kid, though, can find motivation.
A girl I coached once – we’ll call her Aspen – was the cutest kid on the Sting Rays. The Sting Rays were composed of a handful of hotshots from earlier unbeaten teams, kids with a drive and acumen and love for the game. Aspen came in after much of that glory, and just wanted to play.
To my girls, they’re right up there with homework, canned beets and soccer losses. It’s just the way of the world. It’s like dogs and mail carriers, cats and mice, my March Madness bracket and the truth – some things are just not meant to ever get along.
I’ve had my history of hardships with those in stripes.
However, as coach to impressionable kids and a functioning member of society, I cannot simply fire a navel orange at every official who makes the wrong call in a soccer match. Nor should I want to. They’re doing their jobs, just as I am.
Plus, there are at least 42 things worse than a soccer ref …
I’ve documented much of the less-than-stellar moments that pocked my college days.
Know what, though? It wasn’t all bad. Sure, I spent lots of time waiting for closing time at the campus Pizza Hut for free personal pan pizzas while I whiled away deadlines at the student newspaper. I slept more hours on Cone Center couches than attended labs.
And I missed out on the homecoming court because I was academically ineligible.
Academically ineligible! Not to run up and down the basketball court, but to stand on it, during halftime. There were also good moments in my nearly six years of collegiate life, not counting the time I got two Twixes out of a vending machine for 50 cents.
My friend Rob, so anti-Chevy, anti-Yankees, and anti-smoking that he would describe his own personal kryptonites (we fellows have many) would be a cute girl driving a Chevy, smoking, in a Yankees cap. So goes the ironies of life.
Cars have faces, both in front and back – and Grace will show us where else faces reside in a future (and possible recurring) guest post.
I’ll notice and acknowledge any other drivers of white Pontiac Grand-Ams, especially any dirtier than mine. I’ll still see on the road makes and models of loves had and lost. There’s so many of them. Why is that? Are there more, or are we conditioned to see them?
Hello, from sunny Cancun. Not actually Cancun as I start this post.
I’m in the air above the ocean on the way to Cancun. It is 885 miles as the crow flies, although a crow would have dropped dead in the Gulf of Mexico by now. With 30 minutes until we land, and the scenery unchanged since I attempted to eat a veggie wrap for lunch, I snapped open the laptop to work ahead.
It’s a two-plus-hour flight, which is nuts. It’ll be a two-hour drive to see Elise next year at college.
She picked Florida schools from the start. I made her a deal; visit a school within one hour of Charlotte first. Then, pick one two hours away, then three. She bypassed my alma mater, UNC Charlotte, and chose Winthrop, in Rock Hill, S.C.