Filed under: Exercise, Parenting, Sports | Tags: cheering, family, humor, kids, love, mom, parenting, soccer, sports
It’s the end of soccer season, at least the outdoor variety. Thanksgiving is over, and with it our three-day respite from two-hour practices, smelly cleats and hairbands strewn about the house. So, to honor the occasion, I wrote this poem to let Daughters #1 & 2 know that I GET IT. I just can’t help being their biggest (and loudest) cheerleader. If they’ve learned nothing from living with me all these years, it’s that I do everything with enthusiasm (just look at the circle of food around my plate when we go to a nice restaurant—waiters LOVE me).
A Soccer Player’s Prayer
I huddle in the corner, away from other players.
Please, don’t cheer for me, I think, please answer a soccer prayer.
I’m not afraid of getting hurt when the ball is kicked my way.
I’d love to score the winning goal and brag I saved the day.
But there’s one thing I can’t stand—it has me quaking in my cleats.
I shake inside my shin guards, the laces tremble on my feet.
What was that? Did someone call my name?
I’d know that voice on any field. Oh no! My mom is here—she came!
I break into a clammy sweat whenever she looks my way.
Please don’t pass it to me, she’ll just yell while I’m trying to play.
The ball whizzes past me as she plunks down her chair.
Someone trips on my frozen toes while I can only stop and stare.
How will I live it down? Oh, the Horror, oh the shame!
How can I prevent her from screaming out my name?
I hate it when she does that–it’s obnoxious, rude and loud.
It’s humiliating and debilitating, and it bugs the soccer crowd.
But how do I tell her? It will only make her sad.
After all, she loves to watch me, though her screaming makes me mad.
So I slouch here on the sideline, desperate to disappear.
Maybe someday she’ll stop her shouting, and like a normal mom, just cheer.
Someday, girls, your mom might just make it through “Silent Saturday….”
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: cars, driving, humor, Marriage, southern, tailgates, traffic martyrs
You’ve all seen them as you’re stuck in a hideous line of traffic going from four lanes to two, or as 20,000 people are trying to leave a stadium at the same time. Either way, somebody farther up is LETTING PEOPLE IN. That person is a Traffic Martyr.
Sacrificing your spot in line for a Slider (a.k.a. the I’m-going-to-try-and-get-over-even-though-I-saw-the-line-backing-up-a-mile-ago-guy) not only rewards rude driving, it has historically caused an immeasurable and unrecorded rise in health care costs. The lemmings behind the Traffic Martyr have to up their Lipitor dosage, or risk having their hearts explode as their blood pressure escalates faster than the General Patraeus sex scandal.
If you are, or ever have been, a Traffic Martyr, maybe you’re one of those genuinely nice people who believe in letting Sliders in once a day. I’ll bet you even do it with a smile and a wave. And you probably believe in unicorns.
But I doubt you’re really that nice, down deep inside. Letting Sliders in your lane probably made you feel good, maybe a little self-righteous, and definitely a little superior. After all, you were the nice one. I’ve been there myself. And in the right situation, Traffic Martyrs can be useful, like when they slow the pace down enough to let you safely whack your teenager with a “punch-buggy-no-punch-back” hit while driving with your knees.
But if there’s one thing people hate more than Traffic Martyrs, it ‘s Sliders.
When Hubby encounters a Slider attempting to invade his driving space, he usually creeps up until he’s one inch behind the car in front, blocking the Slider. It’s as effective as a girl saying “let’s be friends.” Hubby’s move usually results in lots of honking and bird-flipping. But recently, in a rare act of being a Slider, Hubby ran into the ultimate Slider Hater.
Literally.
At the horse races last week (the same ones where the Irish news interviewed me), Hubby was trying to leave the infield with 10,000 other wind-burned, inebriated tailgaters. Having thoughtfully parked on the end of the aisle, facing out, he was quickly ready to merge into the line of stop-and-go traffic. One driver, however, was very upset that Hubby was going to be allowed to join the vehicular Conga line so soon. But instead of quietly cursing the Traffic Martyrs and like most people, Slider Hater called out to Hubby:
“You can’t just get in line! I’ve been waiting here for a half-hour.”
Hubby, having already gotten permission from the Traffic Martyrs around him, answered in typical Slider fashion, “Seriously, you’re not going to let me in? We’re all just trying to get out of here.”
Slider Hater: “Hey Buddy, I’ve got my kids in the car back here. Now you can do the right thing and let me go first, or you can do the wrong thing.”
Now, to be fair, Hubby had gotten permission from all the other cars around him,and Slider Hater had probably been sitting there for a while. Tempers were flaring. “It’s a rental,” Hubby yelled back. Daughter #1 cringed.
Hubby then attempted to merge. Misjudging the width of the rental car, Hubby took out the front of Slider Hater.
Yep, that was fender-bender #3 for our family in nine days.
Karma….freakin’ chipmunk.
Filed under: Middle Age, Sports | Tags: bourbon, election, family, Food, horse racing, humor, Ireland, Montpelier, south, southern, subourbonmom, swing state, tailgate, Virginia
Last weekend I was doing what God has ordained all good Virginians do in the fall: Tailgate.
But not at a football game—watching horses race around a mile-long course at James Madison’s home, Montpelier plantation. They were jumping bushes and fences no horse in its right mind would ever do if there wasn’t an annoying tiny-man on its back hitting it with a stick.
For any southern tailgate, the men don their uniforms of khaki pants, button down shirt with bowtie, and navy blue jacket. The women dress up in silly hats, colorful scarves and ridiculous boots no self-respecting horseman would ever wear anywhere near a barn. They spread their southern delicacies (i.e. ham biscuits, devilled eggs and pecan pie—not everybody can bring chips and salsa!) on fold-up tables covered with their best tablecloths and silver chafing dishes. The centerpiece is an opus of fall foliage around silver candelabra or a horse statue. And lets not forget the most important feature: the drink table. Bourbon, wine, rum, vodka, champagne, and Bloody Mary mix are all ready to be tumbled into Jefferson cups or, in our case, red solo cups (nothing but the best for my friends!).
It was a beautiful day, free of cell phones, election flyers, and pimple-faced doorbell ringers. Not a tramp stamp in sight.
Until, THE INTERVIEW, that is.
That’s right, folks, an Irish reporter from a television station had a camera man in tow, circulating among the drunks, asking what it is like to live in a swing state. And guess what? He interviewed me. Yep, the least political person who’d already had about three bourbon and gingers.
That went well.
It’s a little vague, but I’m pretty sure I offered him a drink about every other sentence. In my golden-hazed mind, I managed to string together this thought: Irish-guy-must-want-to-drink-so-be-a-good-hostess-and-offer. He politely declined each time.
He asked me what it is like to live in a swing state. Thankfully I choked back a comment about all the rumors of swinging couples in the area where I live. Or at least I hope I did. In my head, I planned to give an intelligent rant about how we all are huddled in our living rooms, cowering from the ringing phones and massive recycle pile of election mail, and that the electoral college is unnecessary in this electronic age.
I’m pretty sure what came out was something like “It sucks.”
Yep, I’m a voter. Mr. Kluge, my Government high school teacher would have been so proud.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never see that interview on the news in the U.S., except maybe on YouTube as one of those Dumb American posts, but I have done my part to ensure that the international world’s view of Americans is still intact.
The news guy never did take a drink. Maybe if I’d had some Guinness…
Filed under: Parenting
I love this site! What a great sense of humor!
Subourbon Mom 