They must have been all worn out from coming up with clever nicknames!
My Dad is a master of the nickname. He has one for everyone. Well, everyone he likes. You know you have made it to his good side once you have received a new name from him. It’s like a right of passage. I think it took my husband a few years of marriage before he was dubbed “John-boy”. The guy I dated prior to that never got a nickname even though he was around for ten years. My Dad called him “Dick” a lot, but so did everyone who knew him so I don’t think that counts. I have not heard my given name from my Dad’s mouth since I was seven. Not even when I was in trouble. (more…)
Last year my daughter took her first dance class. It was a tap and ballet class after school for an hour one day a week. Most of the girls in her grade were in the class so it was an easy sell at first. Then she realized it involved work. My daughter is a little like me, she does not like to overexert herself or sweat. She took a soccer conditioning class a few years ago that had her ready to file a child endangerment claim against me. She literally sat down in the middle of the field several times because she was too hot from running around for two minutes. She raised her hand every time the coach asked if someone wanted to sit out for a stretch. She even raised her hand a few times while she was already sitting out! I suspect her time in dance class was similar. (more…)
We started filming today. This has only been a few weeks in the making but it feels like the equipment has been sitting in the living room for years. I don’t know if it’s because this idea has been percolating in my head for awhile or if it’s because my husband has been walking in and checking the lighting every ten minutes since it was set up. Who knew it took two cameras, two microphones and three lights to properly capture my essence. I would have had a few minions following me around with the proper lighting years ago if I had known this. (more…)
You know how when you have a new car it is a magnet for every bad driver on the road and in parking lots? My car is three years old and still attracts every bad driver within five miles. There can be thirty open parking places in the Target parking lot and some boob will park so close to my door that I have to crawl in through the passenger door. This inevitably happens when I am wearing my tightest pencil skirt and 5″ heels. Sometimes there is even a gaggle of construction workers nearby to witness my graceful decent into the driver’s seat. Seeing me perform this move, one would never believe that I was, in fact, a gymnast. (more…)
I am bad with names. When I am telling a story to my husband I usually have to go into great detail to explain the characters involved instead of just saying “Bob.” This makes my stories exceptionally long. Well, that and the fact that I have a hard time getting from point A to point B without hitting Z, Y and X while veering off track through the other “points” to the story. Yesterday I was attempting to tell my husband that I found out a talent that a Mom of one of my daughter’s classmates has. As per usual, I started at point A and started working my way to point B. Somewhere about mid-alphabet I said “You know, the Dad that looks like he could be an underwear model…” (more…)
Last year my daughter took her first dance class. It was a tap and ballet class after school for an hour one day a week. Most of the girls in her grade were in the class so it was an easy sell at first. Then she realized it involved work. My daughter is a little like me, she does not like to overexert herself or sweat. She took a soccer conditioning class a few years ago that had her ready to file a child endangerment claim against me. She literally sat down in the middle of the field several times because she was too hot from running around for two minutes. She raised her hand every time the coach asked if someone wanted to sit out for a stretch. She even raised her hand a few times while she was already sitting out! I suspect her time in dance class was similar. 
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