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.
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.”
If you read Seventeen magazine, you might have seen her byline (I won’t judge.)
She’s here today taking on the Wednesday Word Challenge from Deb Runs. This is crazy. It’s like one of those three-team trades they used to do in Major League Baseball. So yes, Jenn’s here on Coach Daddy to take part in Deb’s Challenge.
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.
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.
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.
This is Brownie. A close-up of Brownie. She’s a cat in her teens, which would be like a human in her 80s. She’s had a couple of close calls. She’s cashed in a handful of those nine lives. The closest call: A grudge match between her intestines and ribbon.
She’s losing muscle mass and there’s other signs. There’s also signs she’s got plenty of life to live. She is a constant companion to the girls I love most in this world. So on the day I snapped this, I thanked her. Not that she’s going anywhere.
Honestly, I wasn’t in any condition. I’d worked all day in the garage. I’d flung on a hoodie, a Broncos cap, soccer shorts and my Star Wars loafers. I’d intended to schlep free Wi-Fi at Harris-Teeter for a few hours while my two youngest kids babysat.
I took the invite to check out music at a Charlotte legend instead.
The theme at The Milestone that night: Reunions. All bands who took the stage at this historic and endangered music venue did so with at least two years since their previous performance together. “We got to dust this off,” one musician said after his set.
No, it wasn’t a broken heart, or even a noogie on the playground taken too far. Being the devout patriot she was, she took exception to my project on advertising in our gifted and talented class. See, I made a series of newspaper ads for a car dealership …
My spokesmen: Dead U.S. presidents.
I had Honest Abe, George Washington and others pushing off used cars to the public. I had them jive-talking and contemporary-acting (“No money down?? Say WHAT, GW??” that sort of thing.) and that’s just not dignified for any of our forefathers, not even Lyndon B. Johnson, Chester Arthur or James Polk.
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.