The USMNT did well to reach the quarterfinals in Copa America. When I see kids on the pitch, though, they’re not in Clint Dempsey or Jozy Altidore shirts. They’re in Barca and Man U shirts, paying homage to Messi and Ronaldo and Neymar.
What about the girls?
They’re in shirts with Morgan and Wambach on the back. They’re imitating Carli Lloyd and Julie Johnston and Kelly O’Hara. Their teams are built like Jill Ellis’. The boys’ teams, the men’s program, they lack the identity of girls’ soccer and the women’s national team.
On a Taco Bell/Dollar Tree run for two bean burritos (no onions), triple-layer nachos, earbuds, deodorant, and peanut butter wafers, I noticed the damage to Gabi’s hood. Dings, that grew. Dings, that, with miles and sun and more miles, started to peel.
Gabi’s Stormtrooper-white finish, pocked with primer and rust spots.
She’s not the only one. I once could claim months, years, even, of sick-free existence. Lately, germs and conditions seem to be parading on my doctor’s file. It happens without notice. One day, you’re motoring down the highway. Next, you’re on cinder blocks.
Even in a docile moment, with all three in various states of lounging, girl scowls relaxed, eyes fixed on devices, it takes just one swipe of frivolity. This one takes a swipe at that. Another pelts one with a pillow. And it’s on.
Serenity lasts as long as a pack of string cheese around these.
So when a moment happens like the one in today’s picture, you don’t wait. You whip out your $20 Android on a Father’s Day Spiderman binge, and you capture the moment. It didn’t last long, as you might imagine.
It’s a time-wasting website Grace featured on her guest post here. It hit me as I struggled to find sand in my mind, let alone my world, for the next word in the photo challenge. A great excuse to get to the coast, germs and all, right?
I began trying to replicate a beach scene, with a sunset, or a sunrise, whichever it happened to look most like.
As “Let it Be” strained over my Pandora, I began to just that. I’d changed mindsets, seeing my native Colorado western sky for a moment, then the old-school Milwaukee Bucks uniforms in the next.
It’s partially because the entire toy section seems to be divided along pink vs. camo lines. My girls bring ferocity, in a pretty way. That’s the best way to describe it. Not hair-bow pretty, but just enough eye makeup, usually painted fingernails pretty.
Yet, they come to kick some ass.
My sport Saturday: To watch a handful of 3v3 games Grace played in, while keeping my germs at a distance, as the only guy at the field with a chill and long sleeves. I downed a couple of Gatorades on the day, one of them pink, to wash down Ibuprofen.
Take one look in my work bag or backseat of my car, and you’ll learn fast: Organizatin isn’t my strong suit.
I am, however, a problem solver. Today’s organizatin photo features froyo from the RV food court. I’d encountered a problem on my previous cup: Toppings that stayed at the top. As first-world as this sounds, it needed a solution. A dose of organizatin.
I found one, with careful planning.
I led with a swirled base of strawberry-vanilla froyo, but just a layer. I followed with scoops of Snickers and Butterfinger crumble, and topped that with a couple more swirls of froyo. I stopped to add M&Ms and Reeses’, then buried that below more strawberry/vanilla.
I’ve had the worst luck with law enforcement lately.
I’m a police advocate. If I behave, I’ll have nothing to worry about. Police are there to serve and protect. It’s a tough job. These men and women put their lives on the line for people they don’t even know – and for people who don’t respect them, in some cases.
I drive the speed limit, and limit my road rage manifestation to squirting windshield wiper fluid on people who tailgate me.
On the way to the park a few weeks ago, a state trooper pulled me over for failing to change lanes when he was on the side of the road. I passed a slower car on the right on a two-lane road, and this officer’s car (and another) was parked well off the road. I wasn’t even sure anyone was in them.
I’m not talking given names, such as Geneva, Angelica or Noel. I’m talking a species identifier. He’s repping today’s word, dinosaur, nonetheless. He’s got a nasty disposition and major dentition going on. Who wants to mess with that?
Until science catches up with him, he’ll be known simply as The Writing Beast.
See, Elise won him at a beach-side arcade, and gifted him to me. I kept him close, and a funny thing happened: I wrote fiercely. I left him in my bag – and wrote non-fiercely. It’s a simple correlation, really: The Writing Beast begets monster writing.
When I see something beautiful to photograph, before I can even find the stupid camera icon on my $20 Android, one of my girls will inevitably whip out an iPhone or iPod and say, “dad, I got this. Your phone camera sucks.”
I wish they were this way about laundry and dishes.
Today’s word, birth, wasn’t easy. I’m glad for that. Flowers, puppies and bacon? Too easy. Evoke thought, struggle. I wanted a shot of Marie’s first real training session with this crazy good team she made for the fall. A birth into something new, right?
On Sept. 22, 1989, Hurricane Hugo made landfall in Charleston, S.C., in Category 4 glory. When the storm reached Charlotte, 85 miles away, he still packed hurricane-strength winds. I woke up after 3 a.m. to find my cat, Cybill and turned on the radio.
(Side note: We had TVs back then.)
I stepped outside. The wind seemed to push and pull at once, the heavy smell of salt water all around. The sky glowed a menacing sea-green then yellow. Trees snapped and transformers blew to punctuate Hugo’s howling winds.