Coupling

Every father's dream nightmare:

The ice rink is packed with kids. A "Couples Only" dance is announced. The 11-year-old Daddy's Girl spots her Daddy across the rink. Her smile broadens as they make eye contact, and she skates to reach him.

He's thrilled, as always, that he and his little girl get to skate together. He watches as she nears. He sees her look behind her. He sees her turn her body toward a dumbass boy. The dumbass boy is speaking to her. The dumbass boy takes her hand and the two skate by.

"Hi, Daddy!" she shouts as she skates by, hand-in-hand with the dumbass boy.

Oh, yeah, it happened. Yesterday afternoon. A 13-year-old boy, a stranger, approached Daughter and asked her to skate and then made googly-eyes at her and asked her a boatload of questions and complimented her skating skills through two entire songs.

Pete had to be satisfied with getting to drive her (and the rest of us) home.

[Image swiped from Zazzle.com.]

Wordy Wednesday #84: Boo-Yah!

Memo to future self: Do not ask household members Sunday morning at 8 o'clock, "Who wants to come to church with me?" Instead, say, "I'm leaving for church at 8:50. Be ready by then."

I'm happy, though, that my errand buddy, as expected, happily accompanies me. A recovering Catholic by trade, I have managed to convert only Youngest to the joys of the rituals. He enjoys the same hymns and such as I do. He is as resistant to some of the trappings -- like the seeming-to-never-end giving of peace -- as I am.

We pass the time reading and singing along, and I have him bring a book to read and a notebook to draw in for those times when he'd rather tune out. [Hello, Fr. Phil? That would be at sermon time. Could we pick up the pace? Please?]

I do believe I have a religious man in the making. How many other kids draw God and Jesus and outfit them in T-shirts praising the Lord and, quite frankly, the Marines? Here is Youngest's original depiction of Them shouting Hallelujah Boo-Yah or "Halle-Boo-Yah" for short:

May God look after all his soldiers. We remember those who have served and continue to serve so that we might be safe, particularly Pete's many uncles who served in World War II and my own Dad, an Air Force career man.

Departed: Haiku

V for victory

appears in black sky writing.

Autumnal take-off.

Thank you, fine poets inhabiting One Single Impression, for such brilliant and green-with-envy works each and every week.

[Photo courtesy HowStuffWorks.com.]

More Reasons to Feel Inferior

WTF, Twitter? Do you have to be going all Blogger "follower" on me and now give people the ability to make lists which don't include me?



Dude, I've been Nablopomo since before many of you been born, yo. And now I'm actually worried about WTF I'll post?



Hey, I got a great idea. Let's go all Nanowrimo for the sheer fun of it. 'Cause I'm not already feeling like a big loser with a capital L. [Shit, at least I know the correct use of "capital" v. "capitol," not to mention the correct use of "v." v. "vs."]



My goal for Nanowrimo for the weekend was to not fall farther behind. I didn't. I beat my 3,500 hoped-for word count for Saturday and Sunday by a few words. But only by a few. I'm still behind about 5,000. And I have all of, crap, only 21 days to catch up.



I'd better find out if we're talking Eastern or Pacific. And screw the time change. I pissed away that hour long ago.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

At dinner last night, Pete begins to tell about something he'd read.

"This Australian fisherman...," he begins.

"An Australian Fishman?" Daughter incredulously asks, imagining, I'm sure a 6' tall half man/half trout.

I'm laughing too hard to be considered a good mother. An Australian Fishman!

I know, I suck.

The existence of the shark Pete talked about is nearly as spectacular as a real, live Fishman.

[Photo courtesy of Jawzdesignz.com.]

The Weekly Wonderings #130

1. My doctor will be so proud of my new exercise regimen: 10 minutes playing basketball every weekday on the lower yard of the school.

2. I tell you, I am goooooooood. Particularly when I'm playing against a bunch of second and third graders.

3. By fourth grade, I'm no longer taller than the kids.

4. One of the drawbacks of playing, though? I got a bloody nose the other day. How many 50-year-old women can say they got a bloody nose shooting hoops?

5. Talk about causing nosebleeds, we're looking for a new car, ready to turn our behemoth back to the dealer at the end of the three-year lease. Can I just say that I'm not a huge fan of auto dealers?

6. There's the guy at the Toyota dealership who's nice enough, but he has no eyebrows. They're just penciled in.

7. I swear he does Botox, too.

8. Car sales must be for the young, as evidenced by that guy's attempts to look young and the very young tall, long-legged, gorgeous blonde who helped us at the Ford dealership.

9. If the prices weren't enough to send us away from Ford, the sales associate/finance guy did the trick when he called our salesperson "Sweetheart," and I said, "Don't you call her that. That just frosts my butt."

10. He tried to defend himself by saying he calls everybody that. Only he called the other sales guy leaving "Stan." Must be code for "Sweetheart."

Well, That's Hard to Top

There's a local blog I read by a single woman with the monker Kat Wilder. She had a column in the local daily newspaper, and now her column runs in its weekly entertainment tab and, of course, online.

She wrote a piece the other day about measures of success, relating an encounter where an old friend spoke disparagingly about another woman's lack of success as she's merely staying at home raising her kids.

I was about to leave a comment, but then I read the last comment that was there. Here's what the first part said:

I think that having a child would make me unhappier than any other thing I can imagine doing with my life. In fact, I think that given overpopulation, having your own children is possibly the most unethical decision you can make in your life. But then, that's me.

Ouch! I don't know what surprised me most: that she made such a comment on a blog by a woman with a child of her own, that she made such a comment after others had weighed in on being happy staying home with their own kids, or that she identified herself by linking to her own blog.

I thought about slinking away. But I could hardly call slinking a success, yeah? Or maybe that's just me.