I might act curmudgeonly at times, but really, I can roll with the punches. I finally got a smartphone, remember? I fully embraced Star Wars: The Force Awakens, and gave Fuller House a puncher’s chance (Hi Kimmy.) Agile, that’s what I am.
Still, there’s stuff I miss. Stuff I wish I could bring back.
Like, Summer Sanders. Toys in the bottom of cereal boxes. Ice cream in baseball caps at the ballpark that don’t set you back $8. Cookie Monster, in his full glory. The original Electric Company. The Gameboy. Trading football cards with Tandy Dillen at lunch.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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?