I heard about Pippa. Another one bites the dust. It’s why I keep extras in the Crush Bin. You never know when one’ll haul off and get engaged on you. Everyone from Summer Sanders to Paula Creamer to Cher Lloyd to Lizzy O’Leary to Elizabeth Davis to … well, you see what I’m dealing with.
I mentioned Pippa – she of royalty and extraordinary physical gifts – in my email to y’all about this month’s six words prompt.
Every month, I compile a post called 6 words. Ernest Hemingway inspired it. He claimed any story can be told in six words. No more, no less. I turn to bloggers, friends, strangers, and a few strange blogger friends with a prompt, to respond to in six words.
Never trust a recipe that starts out with heating up oil in a skillet.
Or warming an oven.
Or anything other than take inventory of all the shit you’ll need for this recipe, and what you’ll have to do with it. Find your garlic press. Ensure each integral stupid part is with it. Chop shit up. Know the difference between chop and dice. Account for pasta prep time.
Also for the pace water takes to achieve a rolling boil.
Seven-hundred-fifty employees here – mostly young, wholly beautiful – and they invited the Gen Xer in dire need of a haircut. They’re for a campaign for our wonderful company. I took my place at the end of the couch, blending in with the Beautiful Six.
Blending in like an armadillo in a fox parade.
I folded my arms, fussed with my hair. I worried about my graying mop. Did I trim my nose hair? This can’t end well. Under bright lights, I told a joke when photographers asked us to “look natural.”
By Bo, I mean Bo Jackson, the super athlete who got dudes started on two sports back in the 1990s. For my girls, the year’s split into two seasons: Soccer season, and count-your-wounds-and-fight-with-each-other-until-soccer-season-starts-again season.
That’s fine with me.
Other families transition into basketball after fall soccer. Can you imagine? After tournament drama, come sit in a gym and listen to sneaker squeak hell. Marie played an intramural basketball game once. I’d pay anything to be able to go back and see it.
The Photo a Day Challenge helped. I could write about happy faces in frying pans and display sweet pics my kid took of clouds and not tread near to the hell breaking loose around the world. Unintentionally, I dealt with fear of speaking up by looking down.
It involved sticking my head in the sand when it comes to the Denver Broncos’ offseason woes or the perennial quandary my Colorado Rockies put their fans in by sucking but not sucking enough to justify giving in on a season and trading off all your tradable players.
I bottled up thoughts and reactions to pertinent things in the universe, such as shootings and coups and attacks on the innocent and a contentious election season brewing.
Losses and losing streaks and losing seasons dot my sporting timeline. I have the green and yellow field-day ribbons to prove it. Want to know where the fringe begins? I made a home there.
You can claim that, when you’re the last player to make it on the worst teams in their leagues. I lost and lost – until I didn’t. Appropriately, I didn’t step a foot on the field for my first championship.
I stood in disbelief as the seconds counted down for Elise’s first championship, too.
It involves a finger prick and a reading. How’d I do with that late-night snack? My glucose monitor doesn’t lie. I know what to expect mornings after three bowls of Frosted Flakes the night before. I know what to expect when it’s been an English muffin and sun butter.
I try to start my mornings with a tall glass of water and stretching.
They replace a swig of Coke Zero and bleary-eyed checks of the mobile phone and blog comments. I crack eggs to eat over medium with a warm tortilla, or scrambled, wrapped in tortillas or mixed in with strips of corn tortilla, fried in olive oil.
Grace has fired the questions at me fast and furious this week.
That’s what happens when you spend more than an hour a day in the car together. That, plus the hour or two she’s been at my side at work after I pick her up from theater camp. The final performance of Robin Hood happens today at 3. I can’t wait.
We’ve covered everything from politics to an OCD diagnosis (for me). As if.
Go Ask Daddy questions nearly reached 450 as a result. Not that I mind. I’m working on a new feature called Dadding in the Kitchen, to document my considerable struggles over the stove – and delicious consequences despite them. Also, look for more How To posts from me, an unlikely source.
The moment they notice me bumbling around to find the camera app, they gently (but firmly) push down my forearm, like a dirty trick against a goalkeeper on a corner kick. “No, dad,” the kid will say. “I’ll take the picture on my phone and send it to you.
“Your phone sucks.”
It’s especially challenging to snap a quality shot of a silhouette. We played Rat-a-tat Cat on a well-place gazebo bench and waited for fireworks. I waited for the sun to set to the west and frame my perfect silhouette of one of my girls or possibly all of them.
I captured the photo above.
Marie, though, asked about the theme. “I have some silhouette shots.” She scrolled through her better-than-my-android iPhone at three beautiful shots – all of her little sister on the lake. Marie’s shot appears to the right.
I hate putting it that way. I feel like a kid – especially a girl – isn’t bound to compete at every turn. I don’t want any of my girls to feel obligated to take up the fight, for themselves, their families, their race, their gender … their anything.
I learned a ton when Grace took the high road before.
So she didn’t sign up for the LEGO Ninjango Obstacle Course a few weeks ago. I wrote about it here on the CD. She’d even picked out a friend to sign up with. She’d planned it all out, which parts she’s excel and which were better suited for her friend. We’ll call her Jaylen.