“Seven days. Seven black and white photos of your life. No people. No explanation. Challenge someone new each day.”
Thanks, Sandra, for the challenge 🙂.
Today, I’d like to nominate Court, from Baking in My Bathing Suit.
I had to wait a day to get my favorite birthday present. That was 20 years ago.
Camdyn’s two goals Saturday come in a close second. What kid can score on her dad’s birthday? It’s just Camdyn doing Camdyn things. Hayden’s done it, too. It’s kind of Babe Ruthian to go out and deliver on a day and on a dime.
Sunday, Madison turned 20.
She nearly shared my birthday, did you know that? If her mama’s contractions hadn’t stopped around the time M*A*S*H* comes on TV, this would be a different post. That was 20 years ago now. The girls are rolling through all the milestones, 12, 13, 16, 17, 20 …
This month, we’re editing months.
Which makes no sense, if you could see my life right now. It entails zero time to do things I love – namely, converse with my blogging friends and eat enchiladas. I even had to alter my procedure for Six Words to get enough entries this month.
Normally, I invite people by email after I’ve visited their blog – or answer email sent to me asking for the prompt.
This month, I read fewer blogs than I could eat enchiladas. So I sent out word by social media. The response was strong! Once a month, as you know, I ask strangers, friends, bloggers, and strange blogger friends to respond to a prompt in six words.
It’s 12:17 a.m. and this day has gone so long it’s wrapping around into the next.
I have cobwebs on my blog or at least on my comments and if your blogs were my goldfish, you’d all be belly up in algae-riddled muck. I’m the blogging equivalent of the boyfriend who texts you at 2 a.m.
It’s 12:19 now and I should be doing a million other things.
Looking for a job, for instance. Not eating this quarter pounder on a plate, stage right. Boiling water for the sleepytime tea I’ve had every night. Answering comments or brushing my teeth or, maybe even sleeping before my 2.5-hour trip to Raleigh at 7 a.m.
It’s time this girl got a name.
Here, finally, is a photo of my new Hyundai. It’s strange, but Gabi still inhabits our street, an empty vessel full of fond memories and great escapes. The item put Pontiac on Craigslist has burned a hole in my to-do list.
My preliminary pick for the new car’s name: Yuliana.
(I know no Yulianas. Gabi got her name from my friend, Stacey. Gabi’s touch-and-go status in the auto shop necessitated a few prayers and vexes. Stacey felt if a car had a name, maybe she’d be more apt to capture the well wishes.)
I couldn’t wait to get my permit.
I was just a dumb kid in Colorado with the delusion that acquiring my permit would automatically result in:
1) Getting a brand-new Pontiac Fiero;
2) Driving my butt from Greeley, Colo., to Seattle
3) Actually making it back home.
How could I forget? I was also going to pick up my cousin, Raquel, in San Francisco. All this, before I’d even learned to parallel park. But I was ready. Kids these days? They’re not so ready. Why be ready to drive, when you parental Uber toting you around?
I’m okay with this.
Hayden and I talked fantasy football while I fixed her scrambled eggs Sunday morning.
I know, you’re not supposed to talk fantasy football. Maybe it’s okay with the people you play with? Anyway, Marcus Mariota, you see. He’s projected for mad points this week, but is questionable for the game Monday. Should I stick with him?
I prayed about it last night I told Hayden.
I actually hadn’t. On two other occasions, I’ve prayed for trivial things (that didn’t feel trivial in the moment) only to see them granted. I tried to remember the last time I did actually pray. It might have been in acid-washed jeans.
All my dad needed was a glimpse of a tail light.
He could tell you the make, model and year, just from that. Just from a red glow, a glance of it. That’s when cars had cool names, like De Soto and Falcon and GTO. Not Prius and Altima and Cruze. Those aren’t even words, let alone cars.
Dad and I picked out a 1962 Buick Skylark for my first real car.
Maddie was white with red interior. Full-bodied, four-door, hardtop sedan. Sleek lines. We installed glass-pack mufflers with dual exhaust and low-profile tires with sweet chrome rims. She shined brighter than Grace Kelly, Debbie Boone and Brooke Shields.
I’m all out of little kids.
Officially. Today Camdyn turns 13. It’s only one milestone in nature’s reminders that I ain’t as good as I once was (but I’m as good once as I ever was.) This means that yes – just as the moon moved into position a coupla weeks ago) there’s a cosmic convergence.
I’m dad of three teenage girls.
Let that sink in a minute. No, not for effect. Just so I can rest my eyes for a minute. I feel like I’m having a time reaching the caffeine quotient to make up for the sleep deprivation. My calculations had been spot on before *removes glasses and wipes them*
My soccer boys must face a team next week that we angered greatly last week.
We did nothing wrong. Outside of beating them. After the match, they sat on the turf in various stages of disbelief. An older, more experienced team tested and topped by a band of upstarts. It’s a sweet feeling to pull out a win like this.
And now, we must go to their place.
Moments that shape us aren’t limited to wins. Moments of discomfort and fatigue and dismay contribute to that ever-changing DNA of self. No matter what happens next week, the team we will convene as the next day will in part become a result of this match.