It’s Brett Favre with the Vikings. Or the Jets. It’s Elvis, sweating on a Vegas stage.\ It’s E.T., all white and powdery away from home. Not in his extraterrestrial glory. Unlike Brett Favre and Elvis, E.T. can find a way back his alien homeboys and to the heart light.
This blog can, too.
Even with my faithful core of commenters, you can hear me crunch my graham crackers up in here. It’s gotten quiet. Cue the crickets, easy on the wow.
Sometimes, I have to call off the dogs with these girls.
Remind Elise that her strikes on goal are a threat to girls’ dentition at times. Stress to Marie that it’s OK to show a little mercy. In practice. Peel Grace off a boy she’s face-planted into the carpet who can’t move his lips to say uncle.
I once had to go to work after a wrestle session with a littler Elise and Marie that got a bit spirited, and left me with a swollen face and minor bleeding of the mouth. It wasn’t always this way, though.
You might remember that daddy/daughter dates are my specialty (when I have a few bucks to spend).
Dollar movies and baseball games, wings with coupons and museum visits. It’s just me, the girl, and undivided attention. I miss these. The Father/Daughter Dance is the Daytona 500 of daddy/daughter dates.
(Or, maybe the Daytona 500 is the Father/Daughter Dance of NASCAR. Depends on who you ask.)
This had been my showcase, people. I was that dad, the one with the dance card full from three beautiful girls. The guy who leads the Electric Slide. The dude who twirls around his girls and dips them and twirls them again.