A few random thoughts about my weekend spent IMMERSED in soccer...
1) I would rather be called "The Viscous Substance Stuck to Britney Spear's Thigh" than "Soccer Mom."
2) If the person who makes up tournament schedules happens to read this one day in a mistaken attempt to find ball-girl porn online or something, I'm totally offering up cash payouts and blowjobs and homemade cookies to avoid two 8am games in a row on any future weekends. You have it in writing, Mr. Scheduler. Except that because the team fund-raiser was cookie dough, the cookies won't exactly be homemade. I feel no compulsion to make any cookies from scratch after I had to transport 132 POUNDS of cookie dough. So you might just have to live with the blowjob and a fistful of cash.
3) There are no magnet thingies on my car. Nor will there be. Even if Work Husband manages to draw my name at Christmas and buy me one like he has threatened. If he would like to be jumped from behind an office door when he least expects it and forced to eat magnetic particles covered in ranch dressing (only for lubrication because I fear my time will be limited on the force-feeding, as he is 6'2" and has 60 lbs. on me), he can go RIGHT ON AHEAD WITH HIS SICK AND TWISTED HOLIDAY PLANS.
4) I don't think true soccer mommies get busted for smoking too close to the kids at halftime by tournament officials. And then reply with, "I'm trying to get them to start early" to the mean no-smoking park-ranger-looking lady. Not that this actually HAPPENED or anything. I mean, I WALKED TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE, BITCH. THAT'S ENOUGH TO QUALIFY AS NON-SMOKING IN RESTAURANTS AROUND HERE. Shit, don't visual barriers count for ANYTHING?
If this happened HYPOTHETICALLY, and HYPOTHETICALLY I noticed the park-ranger lady had a gun AFTER I made a smart-ass comment, I promise I would put it out and return to my seat without a further word said.
IF something like this actually happened, you know. Not that it did or anything.
I know you all know I'm a soccer fan, so I would be a TOTAL AND COMPLETE LAZY-ASS if I didn't write something about the mess that has become the US Women's National Team. (A lot of talk is going around the web, and I'm sure this will even come up in searches about the whole thing, so I'm giving myself a lot of credit for making input, because after all, the opinion of an old, tired useless 35 year old rec league player FUCKING MATTERS, PEOPLE. SCREW ESPN.)
Well, not really, but I've never been short on opinions. And if you're reading this and have no idea what I'm talking about, consult Google. There's TONS out there.
So here goes. NEWSFLASH. Mia Hamm RETIRED YEARS AGO. Which I don't think anyone has noticed yet. For this World Cup, even though she's been poppin' out the munchkins at home for years now, every single stinking place that sells WNT (Women's National Team) stuff has the Mia jersey right there, front and center. She can't even say "I'm a soccer player" in the new Nike commercial- she has to say "I'm an athlete." Why? Because she doesn't play soccer anymore. And why is she even IN the damn commercial when we have 21 other female athletes playing on the biggest stage in the world? Anyway...
Most everyone that follows the WNT still thinks it's 1999 and Brandi Chastain is somewhere out there ripping her shirt off in a blaze of penalty-kicking glory (Which, by the way, I hate to watch because she looks INCREDIBLE and
I'm usually sitting on the couch eating cookies when I see it.) while Mia competes with Michael for a bottle of Gatorade and tosses her shiny hair for Pert Plus or some equally shitty shampoo. Most of the players from that team have managed to get some kind of media careers out of it, and they're still out there. Living off the old glory.
And THAT'S where Hope Solo fucked up. (Hope if you're reading this, stay with me.)
Don't get me wrong- the old US WNT was great and I loved them. They did more for women's sports in this country than anyone short of Billie Jean King ever has, and TONS of girls now have athletic opportunity because of what they did. My high school had no women's soccer when I was there (1986-1990), and now they have JV and Varsity. That team did their job, and they did it beautifully.
They were America's golden girls- all teamwork and athleticism with a sparkly hint of girl-next-door- and parents everywhere LOVED such positive role models for their little Mias. There was never any controversy, and you could always conjure a mental image of the team having turkey together every single fucking Thanksgiving because they were so in love with each other. You know- the turkey cooked while they were outside with their husbands and kids and boyfriends and mothers having a spirited pick-up game. In spotless Nike casualwear. With perfect ponytailed highlights.
Which couldn't POSSIBLY have been true. But that whole team was a marketing GENIUS. And it worked. And even when only two are still playing, they're still the face of Women's Soccer.
So, even though people started to see women as athletes, they only saw the bottled version. Which is all US Soccer ever WANTED anyone to see. And still wants them to see. It gave the US the first success in soccer it ever had. It gave them a ton of media coverage. It gave them the chance to let the men's team ride on their coattails. And above all, it made them a fuckload of money.
Which is great, because Women's Soccer became a big deal with real stars. But 8 years later, it's kind of time to take the next step. We know they can play now.
So, Hope opened her mouth on TV. GOD BLESS HER. Not because she said anything great- I mean honestly, had she worded it differently that fucktard coach would probably already be fired- but BECAUSE SHE SAID ANYTHING AT ALL. What a lot of people don't know is that a US Soccer PR guy was standing right there, first telling the reporter not to talk to Hope because she didn't play and then not letting Brianna Scurry, the player Hope "threw under the bus," say anything at all. And Brianna, a member of the old guard, said, "He's the boss" and walked away. Hope said, "Don't you tell me who can interview me ever again."
And THAT'S why she's great.
She's EXACTLY what US Soccer wants in it's women players- gorgeous, talented, etc. They had already started marketing her and her young teammates just like they did with the Mia crowd.
And she said fuck that, I'M REAL.
They chalked up her being left out of the last game to the other players feeling she had "broken an unwritten team code." Yeah, SURE. She basically said that it's time to move on past the old years and that the new girls might actually be BETTER. And the old girls on the team didn't like that. Neither did the old girls commentating during the games. Someone didn't fall at the Mia team's feet and beg them to return because no one else could ever live up to them.
gasp.
And UH-OH, people might actually figure out that they're not all shiny perfect! They might wonder if they've had sex! And might drink! And might be OH NO DON'T SAY IN THE WORLD OF WOMEN'S SPORTS BECAUSE BE NEVER EVER EVER TALK ABOUT THIS PART be lesbians. And don't go home every break to their loving parents and boyfriends and bake cupcakes for the PTA in between their training sessions!
You think I'm exaggerating? US Soccer actually posted a rather large picture of one of the player's hands with her engagement ring on their website a while back. Their Player's Yearbook I bought for Soccer Chick at the game in June makes A POINT to mention husbands for every player that has one, but all the single girls get about their non-soccer lives is "I really like cheese. It's my favorite, since I'm from Wisconsin."
No shit.
So Hope, if you ever read this, THANK YOU.
You're going to pay dearly for being the first to be your own woman and a competitor to the bone in public. You're going to take a lot of heat for being brash and honest and not towing the party line. You will never in your life manage to get rid of those 28 seconds on TV, and no one can say that it will ever go away enough for you to get back to normal.
The first always takes it the worst.
But, because of your 28 seconds, the next generation won't have to be so perfect. And bottled.
Maybe one day my daughter can call out a total example of the Fucktards of America Coach's Club without being crucified if she makes it to that level.
Maybe she can just be REAL. As a female athlete. Without having to put on all the other bullshit image things with it.
And get to do a better commercial than Pert Plus, because DAMN, that stuff sucks.
I LOVE coming to work and finding a package that I ordered. LOVE IT.
I immediately have to rip into it, as if I have no idea what it is (even though I ordered it 2 days ago) and it's Christmas morning and I'm 7 years old again. It's FUN TIMES, people.
That's how my day started off today. I actually (almost) got enough sleep, managed to get out of the house in time to get the oil changed in the car before work, had a good cup of coffee, and came to work to find YIPPEE! MY STUFF'S HERE!
Actually, not all MY stuff. I ordered a US Women's Soccer Team jersey for Soccer Chick to celebrate the United States having at least one soccer team that doesn't suck, along with a shirt (on sale) and a pair of shinguards for myself (again, on sale).
About shinguards for soccer... SOMEBODY SOMEWHERE needs to come up with a kind that doesn't smell like hippo ass after about 6 games so that you have to keep buying new ones so that the smell of unzipping your soccer bag after a game doesn't induce coma. I'm just saying.
So back to the YIPPEE! part... I pick up the package and start looking for the scissors to open it, and notice something. Italics indicate my thought process during these distressing moments. There's dried blood all over the top of the outside of the package.
Yuck, but okay. Some UPS guy probably cut himself moving boxes, etc., right? Not great, but what can you do? Just don't... ick... touch... it. THERE. I opened it without touching blood. Am VERY talented.
YAY! there's the jersey and YAY! there's my shirt and YAY! there's my shinguards and damn those things look too big but whatever and OH LOOK- they're giving away samples of something! Men's disposable razors! Let's see what we have here... free razors would be good... I think that's his brand too...
Shit. This package of razors is OPEN. And looks USED.
And there's blood on the outside of the package.
Ummm, did I say something rude when I ordered this stuff? Ummm, nope. Ordered via Internet. Could not have brought package retaliation on myself with shitty comment. Was totally well-behaved during shopping cart phase of ordering process.
Blood. Razors. In package. DO. NOT. LIKE. Am probably overreacting. Will consult someone who usually has distinctly different ideas of what is acceptable in the world than I do for second opinion.
My boss agrees. So does Work Husband. So does real husband. Razors + blood + package = FUCKING GROSS.
Yes, I went for three consultations.
So I called the company and finally got a person on the phone who handles returns (I thought that was probably the closest thing to what I would like to do in this situation)...
Nice Phone Lady: So, what was the problem with your order?
Me: Well, there was something in it and on it that I think wasn't supposed to be there.
Nice Phone Lady: We sent you extra merchandise by mistake?
Me: I guess you could say that.
Nice Phone Lady: What exactly was the problem?
Me: When I got the order, there was dried blood all over the outside of the package and an open pack of disposable razors that look used inside the package. All of my stuff is OK because it was in plastic packages, and there wasn't any blood inside the package, and had it just been one or the other, I would have probably been fine, but blood and razors when all I wanted was a soccer jersey is a bit upsetting. Did I pick the right extension or should I have picked someone else? Would this qualify as a return? I certainly don't want it, but I don't have to send it back either. I just thought you guys might want to know someone had lost their shaving kit. And had an accident with it. In my package.
Silence.
Me: Ummm, HELLO? Did I just say all that too fast?
Nice Phone Lady: No... hold on, please.
It all ended with a supervisor giving me a $50 gift certificate and promising that when I sent the package back to them, someone was most likely getting fired.
I think I scared the hell out of the first lady, though.
OK, the computer still sucks. And the new one hasn't arrived yet. So here I sit, laboring away, hoping that it will keep running long enough for me to finish what I have to finish. Also? Hoping I can get through an entry FINALLY, because Computer. Does. NOT. Like. Firefox. Big baby.
ANYWAY... On to Our Much-Belated Fun and Literary Dismemberment...
•••••
Work Friend: So where are you going this weekend?
Me: We're taking Soccer Chick to Cleveland for her birthday.
Work Friend: Why IN THE HELL would you take a kid to CLEVELAND for her birthday?
Me: We're going to toss matches into the river and see if it catches on fire.
Me: We might toss some matches, though. At halftime, maybe.
The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame. I wonder if they have a groupie wing... if they don't, THEY SHOULD. Groupie-related-activity is HARD WORK, people. That's why retirement is mandatory at age 25. It has nothing to do with boob saggage. Promise. Also? Do not let the serene picture fool you. We just hadn't gotten close enough yet to see exactly what was happening at the ol' folks rocker home yet. The bus we passed full of men and women in lifeguard outfits should have told us something, but we're small town folk. We from SOUTH CAROLINA. We have no idea what the fancy big city folk get up to on the weekends.
We pulled into the stadium and parked, thinking we would walk around for the afternoon and see the sights before the game. Like, "walk over to the RnR Hall because the stadium is closed and I have to PEE RIGHT THIS SECOND walk around." The 8 year olds didn't have to go, but the 35 year old did. Let's see how the little shits do in 25 years after they pass some ungrateful little parasites through their plumbing.
The first sign something was amiss?
Dutch Oven: Why is there a big gay pride flag on that very large boat?
Me: No idea... Hey! Look! BATHROOMS! Food! Oh, I get the bus now- it's gay pride weekend here. OH, YEAH- the lifeguards were from "GAYWATCH"- cool!
Dutch Oven: You're kidding.
Me: You're not going all republican on me, are you?
Dutch Oven: NO, but I really don't want to take someone else's kid over to the Pride event. We have no idea what she knows or doesn't know.
Me: She did mention Vacation Bible School on the way up here... NEVERMIND. I have to go. NOW. The Port-a-Potties are on the edge. We can skirt the whole thing and go pee without altering the kid's world view, can't we?
Dutch Oven: Ummmm, NO.
Me: You're just afraid someone will hit on you. Big chicken.
FINALLY, we found a non-morally-threatening-for-children bathroom and found a little café and were all happy. We began wandering aimlessly about the Lake Erie shore. Cleveland Browns Stadium, the Science Center, and the RnR Hall were all right there.
How many tourists does it take to operate a camera? I don't know. How many? None. We put the fucking thing back in the bag and promised to email photos later.
I love rock and roll, so put another dime in the jukebox, baby.
Do you REALLY THINK you have to obey EVERY "Don't Feed the Birds" sign you see? And you think I'm going to pose after I got NO COOKIE? I fart in your general direction, human.
Dutch Oven: I guess we've reached the age where it's not cool to walk with your parents anymore.
Me: No, I think we've just reached the age where we walk slower than everyone else.
Me: Hey! We're in Cleveland now, and I had to call you because you're the one person who could appreciate the humor of what's here.
Me: We just brought two eight year olds to Cleveland Gay Pride without even knowing it. Note to self: check pride schedules before leaving so that husband doesn't have a fit when you get there because we might undo 8 years of parent-supported churchgoing. They got to see the "Gaywatch" float. You know, like Baywatch? With lifeguards and everything.
PChef: That is TOO. COOL. What's wrong with him, anyway? I thought he didn't care about things like that.
Me: Oh, I don't know. He usually doesn't. He's probably just afraid he'll get some attention. He's a magnet for it, usually. He WAS singing along with Tori Amos on the way up here, so...
PChef: That doesn't make him GAY. That makes him an angry lesbian. What's going on there, anyway? It sounds kind of... LOUD.
Me: I have no idea. I'm not looking. They're playing or something. Dutch Oven's keeping them company. He should have had enough any second now...
Utterly defeated by the physical-world-defying level of 8 year old energy. Which, by the way, is apparently endlessly renewable. And endlessly ADORABLE.
OK, not so cute now. I just looked a did a mental ballpark calculation on the cost of the orthodontics ALONE in this picture. Never mind the education, food, shelter, etc. They've been reverted to parasites again. Who destroy plumbing.
The hero, Kristine Lilly. Who is THIRTY-FIVE. OLDER THAN ME. I got winded climbing the stadium stairs. Fuck.
Hey, you ladies might have just played a 90 minute game, but I WALKED AROUND CLEVELAND ALL DAY WITH A HUSBAND AND TWO EIGHT YEAR OLDS. I WIN, BITCHES-WHO-THINK-YOU'RE-SO-FIT-AND-SKINNY-AND-CUTE.
Isn't it OBVIOUSLY apparent that I have developed some kind of complex about my fitness level now?
Okay, not bitches. Not bitches at all. Pretty fucking FABULOUS, honestly.
This is my effort at providing my daughter with role models in a hope that she won't end up a 17 year old crackwhore because of my lack of natural maternal instinct. Thank you, Christine Rampone and Brianna Scurry and all the others I didn't get good pictures of for not being crackwhores and giving them someone to look up to besides fucking Paris Hilton and for ENDLESSLY signing autographs for little girls.
Just like Soccer Chick said she'll do one day when little girls ask her. No matter how tired she is.
And thank you again, US Women's National Team. From all of us out there who have little girls who want to grow up to be more.
I get tears in my eyes every time I watch that. So I definitely let her play.
OK, get our your pencils again... And you might want to try a little harder, because I was not at all pleased with the grades last time. There's no way you guys are going to pass if you keep putting in this amount of effort.
Could I POSSIBLY sound any grumpier?? I bet I could. Let this stomach bug I seem to have acquired make me throw up again, and this level of grumpiness will look like unicorns shitting rainbows. Promise.
OK, here we go... 1) The new impossibly cute puppy a) has discovered that toes in flip-flops are QUITE tasty b) thinks all big dogs think its cute when their toes are bitten c) is about to become the world's best-traveled 5 week old puppy as she goes everywhere Soccer Chick goes d) all of the above
2) When referred to as "pumpkin" in the checkout line at the sporting goods store yesterday by the HUGE 22 year old man in front of her after he reached out to pat her on the arm in apology for taking so long with his purchase, Bonanza a) immediately began a mental crisis over the nature of the application of self-tanner b) wondered if the crappy food she has been ingesting lately has indeed resulted in a segmented, spherical midsection c) told him to "shut your creepy, fat-ass mouth and mind your own fucking business" d) began mentally deliberating as to when it became acceptable for any man under the age of 70 to call a woman "pumpkin" for any reason e) all of the above
3) Bonanza will politely decline the invitation she received last night to play on an additional soccer team because a) dragging her ass out of the house on a Sunday, when she usually spends all day in her pajamas, is a task akin to rehabbing Lindsay Lohan b) she has finally realized that she is 35. And so are her muscles, joints and lung capacity. c) the team wears lime green, and lime green is not a good color for Bonanzas who wish to not appear jaundiced in public d) she wishes to spend more quality time with her husband and child e) a, b and c only
4) When Work husband received his new printer today and had to move everything in the office so that he and the boss could get it set up properly, Bonanza a) asked loudly 12 times "Isn't it time for you two to go to lunch or something?" b) asked loudly 37 times "Are you planning AT ANY POINT to move this table you have leaning on my trash can because I can't get to it and it's bugging me? And no, I don't need to throw anything away right now, but in the case that I do..." c) after the commission of a and b, sweetly asked Work Husband to bring her a drink from the refrigerator because she didn't feel like getting up d) complained that all they dust they were stirring up was upsetting her stomach again e) all of the above
5) After Work Husband informed Bonanza not to let the new receptionist cough near her because the new receptionist just happened to be on the flight from Europe that the guy with TB was on, Bonanza a) informed her boss that the "stomach bug" was probably the first stages of TB and ran around the office shouting "Workman's Comp! Lawsuit! Disability!" b) asked her boss why in the living hell he couldn't manage to hire JUST ONE person without some affliction that wasn't curable, though it's usually just stupidity, though that has proven to be contagious c) asked if the receptionist had been tested and when informed that she had not, threatened to call the CDC herself if an immediate raise was not offered d) told Work Husband to go kiss her after he refused to immediately move the table blocking Bonanza's trash can e) all of the above
Subtitled "In Which Dink Gets All Pissed and Writes What Is Probably a Hugely Offensive, Long, Racist Post Over the Loss of an Item Which Can Be Replaced for $25."
I had my weekly league soccer game last night. Since I have been battling shin splints now for about 3 weeks (Which, AREN'T YOU PROUD OF ME INTERNET FOR NOT GOING ON FOR ENDLESS PARAGRAPHS about inflammation and ice packs? AREN'T YOU? Well, honestly, had I had a second to write something, I probably would have gone on about them for a while. So, thank my schedule for the lack of mind-numbing whinyness.), all I was concerned about through the whole game, after weeks of treatment and wearing nothing but running shoes, was that I could actually run this time.
I couldn't run AT ALL last week. The best I could do would be referred to as "the geriatric jog." Imagine someone ambling down the field while trying to not put any weight on their shins. Without using their feet. Then trying to run only on the balls of their feet. Without using their legs. It kind of sucked.
So this week, facing our toughest opponent in the league (the team I refer to as "the Mexican Army," due to their country of origin and seemingly ENDLESS number of players they have for substitutions), I was all worked up to try and play. And not let my team down, because even though I have about zero skills compared to real players like my husband and child, I am one of the better ones on the team and can usually be counted on for a goal or two. Or three. I get by on sheer determination. And never admit that I didn't actually MEAN to do the great thing I just did. I keep that to myself.
Please remember that I play in the old, slow, ladies league. We're nice to each other. We cheer when the other team gets a goal. There's no ugliness or anything like that. Except for the Mexican Army. They push. They shove. They curse at you (which I'll get to). They go for your ankles. They run up the score if given the chance. Their husbands bang on the walls (it's indoor) and yell at you and wave Mexican flags. For rec league games. For beginners. NONE of the other teams like them.
We get on the field to play, and the ref, whom I know pretty well, asked if I had my ball because the one they had out there for us resembled a burlap sack full of sand. I always have my ball. I LOVE my soccer ball. Here it is. Or WAS.
Everything about this ball was right- perfect weight, perfect feel, inexpensive, traditional looks- PERFECT.
I got it because the lovely man at the local soccer store ordered one for me because I mentioned how much I liked Soccer Chick's smaller one. He kept it in the back and waited for me to come in. (We won't even discuss the ridiculous amount of money I spend in that place with three of us in the family involved in the sport... Call the treatment I get there the "High Volume Shopper Who Would Rather Shell Out the Cash Than Be Bothered With Yet Another Person in the Family Complaining About Needing Something or Having to See a Family Member Take the Field Looking Stupid" treatment. You can figure out which one's which.)
That ball was MINE. It was meant for me and me only. We had a RELATIONSHIP, dammit.
After the game, I packed up quickly to head home. I have been known to forget things, but NEVER my ball. Honestly, because it's always right there after the game, either in the ref's hand or on the field, and I see it and pick it up. In my defense, I had been running for approximately 45 minutes and was in a big tizzy because my shins didn't hurt AT ALL and I had an OK game finally. Excitement and oxygen deprivation can make one forgetful.
I was halfway home when I realized I didn't have my ball. I had left my buddy behind.
So OF COURSE as soon as I pulled into the driveway, I made Dunk call them and tell them to put it aside. No answer.
So I call back this morning to get my ball. Because I've been upset about it all day so far. Guess what words I didn't want to hear? "Oh, that was YOURS? I saw one of the ladies on the Mexican team pick it up and take it with her, I think. Before you even left. But I'll go look for it and call you if it turns up."
They haven't called.
Those bitches KNEW it was mine, because of the conversation before the game. They were all standing there. This was PREMEDITATED. And if she had already nicked it, that would be why I didn't see it to get it.
Thieving fucking WHORES.
Now, whether they really liked the ball or they just wanted to get at me for shutting their little bitch scorer down TOTALLY because I'm not afraid to throw an elbow back, I will never know.
But... I miss my ball. Enough that the following statements have actually come out of my mouth this morning:
"They need to start asking for green cards before they let people play out there."
"My name was on that ball. Not ONE of those bitches look RUSSIAN. They're not fooling anyone."
"If my ball is on a plane to some poor relative in Mexico right now, I'm calling INS."
I know, I know. But again, IN MY DEFENSE, they don't make it easy. They curse you the ENTIRE DAMN GAME in Spanish. When they get a call they don't like, they act like they can't understand and do it the way they want, which some of the refs let go out of sheer exhaustion. And they are under the mistaken impression that no one understands them.
I know when I'm being called a whore in Spanish, I assure you. And the ONLY reason I didn't whip an ass for it last night was because I heard either "punta roja" or "puta roja," which is either "red dot" or "red whore." There is a red dot on the field where you place the ball at a kickoff, and I was wearing a red jersey. I wasn't going to get thrown out over an "n." My Spanish isn't THAT good.
My entire posture on the immigration issue is going to now be shaped by a soccer ball. "They steal American jobs and use up tax money and stole my soccer ball- send 'em packing!" Which I am not really proud of, but I'm only human. And am a crime victim who was called a whore (or a dot). And a bit obsessive about things I really like.
And shallow enough to think sending someone back to a poverty-stricken desert over a soccer ball is perfectly acceptable.
Apparently, I am only a good liberal until someone pisses me off.
You know, I have come to the conclusion that women get a bad rap when it comes to shopping. The stereotype is that we're all into the color, the cut, does it make me look fat, and all the other things guys consider minutiae. And there is some truth to that, BUT...
We've got NOTHING on the guys.
OH SURE, they ACT like they don't care. But they do. Excessively.
Today, I went to the wonderful little soccer store around the corner to meet Dunk and ensure that he bought a new pair of indoor soccer shoes. See, he doesn't WANT new stuff, or so he says, but this time? NO DISCUSSION.
And why the "no discussion" stance? Dunk had knee surgery in December. For a soccer injury. On the right knee. Last Thursday night, he popped the LEFT knee. The theory is that regular cleats get dug into the turf and don't give, which means that if enough pressure is applied and the foot won't move, the knee or ankle will. And I've had enough. Hence, NEW SHOES.
Now, normally, I just buy him stuff when he isn't with me and take it back if it doesn't fit. And like most wives out there, I do pretty well because I know his sizes and brands better than he does. I do this because it is WAY easier than taking him with me.
Today went well, considering... Considering that when he needed a western hat for our horse shows he had to try on about 213 hats in 8 different stores in 4 different states (SC, NC, TN and GA) over the course of a year to find ONE. I'm not kidding. What could be so hard about a HAT? Well, LET'S SEE... "Too wide, too narrow, pinches his ears, pinches his forehead, wobbles back and forth, too light, too dark, too brown, too slouchy, too stiff, too scratchy, the band was kind of "dorky", the brim was too wide, the brim was too narrow, someone he didn't like had the same one, too tall, too short, too rolled, too thick, too thin, and just plain ugly." Every single attempt ended with both of us totally annoyed with each other, with me uttering the words "Just PICK ONE ALREADY" and him saying "But none of them are RIGHT" at least 12 times.
The RIGHT hat? Was in Tennessee. We live in South Carolina. They don't touch.
So you can see how I might be nervous about the shoes.
He got there before me today and did manage to pick a pair, unassisted, before I got there. I was so proud. And more than a little relieved.
We only had one little issue. Because I had to be stupid and say something.
Me: Hey, how about these? These are cool.
Dunk: I don't like them.
Me: Why not?
Dunk: The leather's too... shiny.
They were more expensive than what he picked, so I let it go. And took a deep breath, because it was over and I didn't have to cross state lines.
And then... On the way to checkout...
Me: Hey! They have the exact same shoe here on clearance. It's $25 cheaper!
Dunk: I don't like those.
Me: But they're the SAME.
Dunk: But the stripes are RED.
Me: OK, so the stripes are red. The soccer club's colors are red and blue. You'll MATCH.
Dunk: But I don't like red stripes. I like WHITE stripes. I wear WHITE stripes.
Me: It's the SAME SHOE for $25 less. You'll pay $25 for a STRIPE COLOR?
Last weekend, Soccer Chick started her soccer season. Her first games were in Augusta, GA, home of PaintingChef and the Savannah River Site, all about 40 minutes from our house.
SRS is what we here grew up lovingly referring to as "the bomb plant." Aside
from being a nuclear reactor, etc., it's where they make the tritium
used in the US Nuclear Bomb Arsenal. Which means, in the event of
nuclear war, we're high on the list to be taken out first. Which also
means our horses are completely used to the site of fighter jets
screaming overhead as they turn around on their patrol path. I
would appreciate it if they wouldn't fly so low I can read the damn
numbers on the plane, though. I'm just sayin'. They're KIND OF FUCKING
LOUD- just a LITTLE BIT, MR. PRESIDENT AND YOUR HOMELAND SECURITY CREW.
If they break my windows, I'm going to have someone's ass for it, and I
don't give a rat's ass about the War on Terror. Those windows were
EXPENSIVE. You tell me about patriotism, and I'll tell you about
expenses. DEAL??
Now, for most of us, we've lived near this thing forever and don't
give it much of a thought. We all understand that the people and
animals and fish and plants and whole area are completed irradiated and
most likely bound to sprout a second head any minute no matter what the
damn government and its safety inspectors say- it's part of the charm
of the city. That and the Masters. And seriously, people who
hunt and fish out there are THRILLED because everything's SO BIG out
there. No kidding. I've heard as much as TWICE the size as normal from
somewhat reputable hunters who limit themselves to one six-pack per
trip, so in my mind, it's hard evidence.
So back to the soccer game... The girls were getting
KILLED. Mostly because every kid on the opposing team was a full head
taller and had legs a foot longer than them. NOT AT ALL because
they would be playing older girls down an age bracket to win. NO ONE
would do that in YOUTH soccer, would they? Surely not. I mean, I'M SURE
those big girls they played on the older team that looked SO MUCH like
the girls on the younger team, just with a different jersey on, JUST
HAPPENED to be older sisters (even the one that looked like Alfred E.
Newman, and all I have to say about that, even though it's mean to pick
on a kid, is that it's a DAMN GOOD THING she's good at a sport), RIGHT?
And I'm sure that reporting the score to the league higher than it
actually was (because the game is on tape and I CHECKED, you sorry
lying bastards) was TOTALLY AN ACCIDENT.
All the parents from BOTH teams were sitting on one set of bleachers. Which is where the following happened.
Parent 1: The girls are getting killed out there!
Parent 2: They are- those girls are HUGE compared to ours.
Parent 3: How are these girls so much BIGGER? Me:
Well, they live right here next to the bomb plant, don't they? It's
probably in the water. If it was nighttime, I bet they would glow, even.
And MAN, you would have thought I said their girls would grow up to be pole dancers who shoot quarters out for change (without having to carry the quarters with them if you get my drift)
on the interstate or something. HOLY SHIT, did I get some nasty looks.
It's not like I said the Alfred E. Newman thing OUT LOUD or anything.
They have to be transplants. No one originally from Augusta would have been that offended.
But if you ever get change for a dollar after a lap dance from a
dancer who looks a bit like Alfred E. Newman all grown up and the
quarters glow, you know where they came from.
