life with WE

It used to be flashback Friday, but today it's just flashback Wednesday. Deal, okay?

For some reason, the bookmobile popped into my head recently.  Remember those?  The one that came to our grade school kind of looked like this:

 
only the one that came to my school was more dull.  Like I think it was tan and brown.  But whatevever, you get my drift.

The bookmobile was a HUGE day at school - at least for a book nerd like myself.  I have always loved reading and it has been my escape from reality for as long as I can remember.  We had a school library, but it had nothing on that bookmobile.  That was the county library coming to you.  Book delivery! 

In case you have forgotten, let me remind you that I was an anxious, nervous, worried child.  (Which is so far off from my adult self.  Hee hee.  Hooray for Zoloft once again!)  Anywho, as much as I loved the arrival of the bookmobile, guess what?  It also made me panic! 

"How many books can I check out?"  "I'll never be able to decide!"  "How long do we get to keep them?"  "When is it my turn?"  "What if someone takes the Little House on the Prarie book I'm wanting?"  "Oooh, will they have those Choose your own Adventure books?  You know, turn to page 30 if you follow the trail, or turn to page 20 if you go for a swim.  I love those.  Little House on the Prairie, can't forget it."

Pulling it together, when it was finally my turn to go into the bookmobile, I always took a moment to soak it all in.  Smelling the paper and viewing the shelves of books, crammed into such a tight space, I felt welcomed.  The air conditioning would be running on the hot days, which was a huge treat as our school lacked AC.  I would run my hand along the shelves, as I searched for my books.  And then I'd find them and start gathering.  I probably asked the librarian ten times how many books I'd be allowed to check out.  You know, in case she changed her mind.  Because nothing would be more embarassing or heartbreaking than to try to check out more than you could.  Oh Jenny of youth - you were such a mess!

I'd check out and then it was over.  For two weeks.  You know I finished my stack of books in like three days and then just waited.  For the return of that wonderful creature, the bookmobile.

Note: I found that photo of a bookmobile through a google image search.  The website is here.  M'kay?  Not trying to claim that photo as mine.

 

He put a bucket on his head, for real.

I spent part of Sunday looking for a particular file on our home computer.  You know how that goes, right?  Um yeah, I never found it.  However, I did stumble on some old pictures.  Pictures of my kiddos when they were wittle and cute and ohmyword did it ever make my uterus ache.  I mean, let's be honest folks, I had cute babies!  But then I remembered the crazy times too, took my Zoloft and went on about my bidness.  But becuase of my discoveries, from time to time I'm going to share some old memories.  Sort of like flashback Friday from forever ago.  But more sporadic; because I don't like to be tied to real deadlines.

I begin with Warren, at approximately 2ish years of age.  I think he was younger, but let's go with almost two, therefore 2ish.  At this age, one of his obsessions was buckets.  Or Tupperware shaped like buckets.  And he would put these buckets on his head.  And walk around with them on FOR HOURS.  It was freaking hilarious.  He wasn't pretending to be a spaceman.  He didn't use it as a helmet.  He just wore the bucket.

Sometimes he had to raise the bucket to eat a snack.  The bucket wasn't fully removed, just lifted high enough so that he could eat.  He loved cups with built in straws, because that allowed him to quench his thirst without even raising the bucket.  We didn't have any clear buckets - the closest was the tupperware one, but it was still difficult to see through.  That was no problem, because again, you can just raise the bucket to run, walk, or climb up and down steps!

When I saw these pictures I immediately flashed back to that time.  I was pregnant with Elaine and deliriously tired.  To give myself some down time, I'd find him a bucket and he'd be entertained for at least an hour.  Oh those were simpler times.  Funny funny simpler times.  He was such a cute little buckethead!

 

 

The public pool - my former refuge

Today, a neighbor and I are going to take our kids to a public pool.  They are begging for this.  Begging.

Thinking of public pools takes me back to my youth where I spent many MANY a summer day at the Bridgeton Community Pool (btw, the pool did NOT look like that back in my day).  $3.25, a towel, my suit and my bike were all I needed.  I'd be there for hours.  From the time it opened until dinner time.  The 25 cents was to keep in the zipper pocket of my kangaroo tennis shoes - it was the "in case you need to call home from the payphone" money.  The three bucks would pay my admission and leave me with plenty of money for a soft pretzel and a soda at the concession stand.

My fabulous Schwinn ten-speed got me to the pool.  (It kind of looked like that one - only maroon and with a small bag attached to the front. Oh and a chain lock instead of that fancy one.)  I had to bike on the shoulder of a major road for about a quarter of a mile before I reached a neighborhood I could cut through to get to the pool.  No helmet.  No worries about darting into traffic.  I had bike and street smarts and never got in the way of oncoming traffic.

The teenage lifeguards watched over me as I swam with hundreds in the pool.  There were diving boards - high and low.  We laid out without sunscreen.  We flirted with boys, played Marco Polo and read Teen Beat or Sweet Valley High or Little House on the Prairie books.

2 pm was the time they made everyone clear the pool for a pool check.  Is that really how they were going to find the floaters?  And then the next 15 minutes was an adult only swim.  Torture.  Sitting in the blazing sun just waiting to get back into that pool.  If you hung on the rope, the lifeguards blew their whistle.  If you ran on the pool deck, the lifeguards blew their whistle.  If you tried to attempt a chicken fight... you guessed it - whistle.

Around 3 pm, it was soft pretzel time.  Fifty-three cents.  That's what it cost back then.  Fifty-three freaking cents and boy were they delicious!  Add in a small Pepsi and viola - best snack ever.

I'd bike home with wet clothes on over my suit and my towel wrapped around my neck like a scarf.  My hair - an authentic blond back then - would turn green for the massive amounts of chlorine and lack of showers.  It felt like straw when it was dry and like slime when it was wet.

I loved each and every minute of it.

Days at the days inn.

In college I worked at the Days Inn.  The Days Inn was one of about 5 hotels in town.  The hotel had previously been a holidome - and if you remember what those are/were, well then you are at LEAST as old as me.

While working there I worked with a cast of characters.  My most favorite was a manager brought in from God knows where who chose to LIVE in the hotel rather than find a place to live in town.  He spoke with a southern twang and I don't think he did a darn thing the entire time he was there.  Other than drawl on occasion and tell me he would not be available for support.

Awesome.

So there I'd be, trying to explain to someone that they did indeed have a reservation however we were indeed out of rooms and no I could not do anything about it and yes I did know it was graduation and no I am so sorry there are no other rooms anywhere and no my manager was not available, just me, all of 20 years old making minimum wage trying to sneak in a little studying for Intermediate Accounting Two.  And that guest would rip my head off and leave in a rage.

And I'd be there until 11:30 at night and then back in the morning for the 7 a.m. shift, eating the free breakfast buffet, and begging the kitchen to make me something fresh PLEASE.

I had to wear this ridiculous gray paisley vest.  

I had to tell people they could NOT have a room with a pool view even though they had requested it.  I had to charge five bucks more per guest.  I had to explain how we did not have enough towels for the hotel if it was full, never mind pool towels.  Once a manager went to Wal-mart and bought like 20 more towels and that still wasn't enough.  I think the hotel only had 300 rooms people.

I had to explain that housekeeping was running behind and then turn around and kiss housekeeping's butts so that they would move it move it and get the rooms cleaned.  Yes, check in time is 3 pm.  Yes, I see that it's five and your room still isn't ready.  No I cannot offer you any discount on your room or at the bar or anything.  Why?  Because I have no powers.  None.

The manager once told me that if the fire alarms went off, I was supposed to CALL ALL OF THE GUEST ROOMS, and then grab the guest files before evacuating.  Are you kidding me?  I made minimum wage people.  I was going to be the first one outside.

There was a fishbowl of jelly bellies on our check in counter.  I used to eat those for dinner - I mean I was a college kid and I needed some food people.  Then the health inspector came, and told us that we needed to remove the jelly bellies as they had tested for high levels of URINE and FECES.

Awesome.

And that's the most important thing I learned at that job.  Never never stick your hand in a fishbowl of unwrapped candy.  If you do, you'll just be eating jelly beans, pee and poop.  And that my friends is not so awesome.

The post where I get real long winded trying to remember a memory...

First order of business, a disclaimer.
You can expect this summer that my blogs will not be posted promptly in the AM like they are during the school year.  I'm just too lazy and too tired.  I let my kids stay up late, I stay up later, and then BAM, next thing you know it's morning and I have to pour like 5 cups of coffee before I can utter complete sentences.  Well, sentences other than, "no you cannot play wii yet" and "no you cannot have candy for breakfast" and "seriously if you two don't quit whining"...

Now.  Second order of business, post for today.
For some reason, I've become worried lately that I'm going to forget things.  Little things that perhaps I have not documented.  One of these things came to me yesterday - while in the shower of course - where all good thinking is done.  And that my friends is the story of my engagement.  Have you ever heard it?  If not, you should.  If you have, well here's a refresher.  And if I forget something, please leave it in the comments, would you?

Mike and I began dating my freshman year of college; fall 1992.  I'll save you the long story of how it all started, but the important details are these:
1 - I dated one of his friends in high school.  At that time, I despised Mike, and for that matter his BFF Jason.  And clearly, I now adore them both.
2 - The summer before college, my high school friends and I went to the Lake of the Ozarks where Mike and former boyfriend were working.  We met up with them and suddenly, Mike didn't seem that bad.  (Translation, he was gooooooood lookin' and not a punk teenager anymore.)
3 - Mike gave me two important details - he would be sophomore at Northeast Missouri State University and he was in a fraternity, Sigma Tau Gamma.
4 - Freshman week at Northeast Missouri State University, I looked up Sigma Tau Gamma, called their house phone and asked for Mike.  When he came to the phone, I asked him to take me and my roommate to a party.  He bought us Michelob Light.  And the rest, as they say is history.
5 - Mike will say that he agreed to this bringing to the party business solely because I had a large chest and blond hair.  Lovely.

The dating continued and progressed through our college years.  We had a bump or two, but it was just a good fit.  The summer before my senior year (1995) of college and Mike's last semester (yeah it took him 4 1/2 years, what of it?), we went to Dallas, Texas for a vacation and to meet his first niece, Megan.  We stayed with Wendy and Jeff and as a side note, it was during our stay that Jeff decided to move Megan from their room to her own room while Wendy sat on the steps crying.  Jeff and Wendy worked that week, so Mike and I explored Dallas during the day using their car.  We toured the book depository, the grassy knoll, a conspiracy museum and whatnot.  One day I was a total crab (aka BEOTCH from HELL) so Mike said, "why don't you just read and chill out and I'll be back."  So I did.  And he told me he had made dinner reservations for us.

We went to dinner at Il Sorrento.  It was fooking fantastic.  We ordered appetizers, dinner, dessert and wine.  I was impressed that Mike would agree to spend that much money because already we were functioning like a married couple on a budget.  We walked around afterward (I think) and then he blindfolded me in the car.  I wasn't sure where we were going and he wouldn't give me a clue.  I still did not suspect a thing.  We parked the car and went in somewhere. 

At this point, I'm still clueless but wondering what in the world he is up to.  He kneels beside me, still holding my hand.  He tells me how much he loves me and that when he gave me his lavaliere, he asked that I take it as a promise to one day marry him.  He said, "so now I'm asking you" and he took off my blindfold.

As my eyes adjusted, I realized we were in a hotel room.  And on the bed spelled out in rose petals were the words "will you marry me?"  At the bottom of the question mark was the ring.

People, I flipped out!  I said yes, of course, and we hugged and kissed and them Mike slammed some more wine, grateful the hard part was over.  I immediately asked if I could call my mom.  (And remember this was before cell phones were mainstream, so we had to use a calling card on the hotel phone - I mean so old school!)  We told my mom and dad, my sisters, Mike called his sister (who already knew what was happening), and we told his mom when she arrived in Dallas the next day.  When we got back in town, I told all of my friends who were ecstatic.  I mean I was 20 years old, had one more year of college and I was engaged.  What could be cooler?

Mike graduated in December of 1995.  I graduated in May of 1996.  We were married in November of 1996 at the ripe ages of 22 and 23.  This fall we will be married for 13 years.

And now you know the engagement story.  Whether you wanted to, or not!

Big Mac, McBLT, a Quarter Pounder with some cheese, Filet o Fish, a hamburger...

For years, I have had the McDonald's menu song running through my head.  It proves to be great entertainment at parties, particularly when I have had just a bit to drink.  Some people don't remember it, but back in the day (1989-1990 I think), McDonald's had this ad.  A guy walks in, the girl asks what he'd like to order, and he sings and orders THE ENTIRE MENU.  So then Ronald, in all his infinite wisdom, sent out this square record in the newspaper (remember records people?).  It was a contest, and we were all in it.  Well, all people who got the paper.  Anywho, you played the cardboardish record on your record player and listened.  Ronald sang the song once, and then the people would try to repeat it.  If they sang it all the way through, well then YOU COULD WIN A MILLION DOLLARS.  (I specifically remember listening to this song at my friend JoAnna's house, and her family had a kickin' stereo system!)

I'm pretty sure no one won the contest.  I don't know.

Anywho - the song, the menu from that time frame, is still stuck in my head.  I brought it up last night at dinner, and my cousin Dana remembered the song and the record!  So, I decided to google it.  Dude, so found it on YouTube.  How I love the YouTube.

Check it out and see if it brings back any memories.  Click here.

And next time you see me, ask me to sing it, and I'll do it.  I might have to hide my face while singing it, because it makes me laugh, but I can do it.  It's one of my many talents.  Ha!

Hope you have a wonderful turkey day!  For your Thanksgiving enjoyment, I've included a link to Adam Sandler's Thanksgiving song on YouTube as well.  Because gobble gobble gee and gobble gobble giggle, I too wish turkey only cost a nickel.  (By the way, NBC pulled the official video off of YouTube, so this is his song, but a guy put his own pictures to it.  Enjoy!)

The three Ms dad. The three Ms!

And we now return to our regularly scheduled program already in progress...

One of the "perks" of going to an all-girl's Catholic high school is the annual father-daughter dance, that was held each fall.  There was a mother-daughter luncheon in the spring,  but obviously, that wasn't as fun.  Tickets would go on sale during our lunch hour, and when you purchased the tickets you were also selecting the table you would sit at.  So it was of the utmost importance to buy tickets on the same day as your friends, thus ensuring you could sit together and endure an evening with your dads.  I mean really, what teen wants to spend the night with their dad?

I think it was my sophomore year father-daughter when I was in the prime of my bitchiness and desperate need to conform.  I was fifteen years old, and the thought of my father embarrassing me at this event made me shudder to say the least.  Of course, I took it upon myself to express this concern because again, selfish pig and bitchy.  First, I made my dad learn some new dance moves so he could be "cool".  I instructed him in the running man, the cabbage patch and taught him how to churn the butter.  Then, I began my series of drills on who was sitting at our table and what acceptable conversation topics were.

• Now dad, when you talk to Ed, remember the three Ms.  He's going to work for 3M, in Minnesota, and they are moving in March.
• Don't talk to Mr. Smith about his wife - she passed away.
• Bob works for McDonnell Douglas.  They are doing layoffs.  Don't talk about work!

and so on and so on.  My dad was VERY good natured about all of this.  Laughing and joking his way through the drama that is a teenage daughter.  That evening, he followed all of my rules.  Poor guy.  I did have a great time, and he kept touting himself as 'the best lookin dad in the place!'  We made it in the yearbook, only confirming his belief.  "Well of course we're in there.  I'm handsome!"

So in my long list of apologies to my parents, I'm sorry dad for torturing you about the father-daughter dance!  You've been good about only embarrassing me at home, in front of family!  You know, with the hairspray sounds, and the "sweetie" after boyfriend names, and the imitation of me talking on the phone, etc...  If you ask my dad today about Ed and the 3M's - he's able to recite the answers! 

I'm sure Mike has this to look forward to with Elaine.  It might not be a father-daughter dance, but she's bossy already.  It can only get worse.  I mean different.  It'll be different.  And it'll be wonderful.

I'm sure my dad will have Mike over for a sympathy drink!

Speech! Speech!

Sorry for flaking last Friday.  No general reason, just being a slacker!  But now, this Friday, I bring you a college edition of

You know how everyone has to take that COM101 class?  The dreaded speech class that you generally have during your freshman year?  Yeah, that was one of my worst.  (Other than Calculus, which was first semester, I was the only freshman in it, and I got a C.  Five credits worth of a C.  Dude.)

I had speech class with one of my sorority sisters.  And it was also full of various other freshman that I would see on the weekends at parties and such.  Each time we had to give a speech, I was a nervous wreck.  First, I had to battle the splotchiness that occurs randomly on my neck, arms and ears while I am speaking.  Once I'd notice it, it would get worse before it got better.  Second, I was speaking to my peers, which should have been easier - but it only made me more nervous.

We had to give the usual speeches.  One of which was a demonstration 'how-to' type speech.  I demonstrated how to make jello shots in your dorm room microwave and freezer.  I know, I know.  Not that studious, but it was right in line with the girl who taught us how to pack efficiently and the guy who showed us the proper way to throw a football.  At the end of each speech, our teacher would ask for constructive criticism from the class.  After the jello shot speech, it was pointed out that I had gum in my mouth the entire time.

I tried to redeem myself with my last speech of the semester.  The speech had to have a visual aide and be about an unresolved topic.  So I decided to tackle the shooting of JFK.  I did my research, and drew up a visual aide of the grassy knoll, book depository and parade route.  (And at this moment I'm cracking up.  I wasn't in college that long ago but at the time, we only used computers to type up papers and for accounting spreadsheets.  I drew this visual aide on poster board with sharpie markers.  I probably rode my dinosaur to the store to by the markers!)

Anywho, the day of the speech.  No gum in my mouth.  Fully prepared.  I'm so going to kick this speech's ass.  And go.  I give my speech with confidence.  I don't even have to reference my notecards that much, I'm so well-rehearsed.  I finish, the class applauds.  Time for feedback from my peers.

"Um, the speech was great.  But isn't it Lee Harvey Oswald?"
"Yes.  What did I say?"
"Harvey Lee Oswald.  The WHOLE TIME."

Sure enough.  I checked, and in my notes, I had written Harvey Lee Oswald each and every time.  WHAT A FREAKING MORON! 

And thus my public speaking career was over before it had even truly begun.

What's in a name?

We interrupt today's regularly scheduled flashback to bring you this very important update.

ELAINE POOPED ON THE POTTY.  SHE POOPED ON THE POTTY.  SHE POOPED AT POP'S HOUSE.  Well Pop and Bonnie's house, but pooping and pops has that alliteration-type ring to it.  There will be princess cake and balloons at our house tonight boyeeeee.

Now, back to bidness.

Warren is approaching his fifth birthday.  Five.  He'll be five in less than a week.  Of course, this has made me think about the past five years.  My boy who is no longer my baby.  My giant boy.  My five year old trapped in a seven or eight year old's body.  My boy who is so sweet and sensitive, yet also so stubborn and bossy. 

I started to think about my pregnancy with Warren.  And of course, how before he was born, people would do the usual and ask what our name choices were.  Part of my answer would be, "well if it's a boy, he'll be named Warren after his great-grandfather."  The reactions I got were split fifty-fifty.  Some people hated the name.  Particularly, a dentist named Warren who we met in Columbia.  He practically yelled at us.  "Don't do that to him!  It's a horrid name!  Come up with something else!"  Oh my.  Then there were people who loved it.  They either knew the namesake, or loved the name.  (I could go into a tirade right now as to why people should not express their opinions of names to pregnant women, but I'll digress and get on with my point.)

To be completely honest, I didn't have a choice in the matter.  Mike wanted it, and was quite firm about it.  And having met Russell Warren Gribben, I was sold on the name.  And now having my Warren, I think the name suits him wonderfully.

Grandpa Warren, or Pa as he was called, was Mike's maternal grandfather.  Without a doubt, he was one of the most welcoming people I have ever met.  He was that person that made you feel comfortable the moment you walked in the room.  Everyone was family to him.  He knew how to make you feel special, without overdoing it.  What you had to say, big or small, was important enough for him to listen and to pay attention.  He was such a great listener as well as a wonderful storyteller.  He wore his heart on his sleeve, and you never had to question where you stood with him.

In my family, I always felt love.  But we were not big expressers of our love.  We got the "love you sweet dreams" before bed.  We were never big huggers, kissers or touchers.  Now when you talked with Pa, he would hold your hand.  And you didn't even realize he was doing it, the gesture was so natural and gentle.  Normally, that kind of thing would have done me in; like 'dude, why are you touching me'.  But when you talked to him, it seemed just right.  Almost unnoticeable.  Like breathing.  He had that fine line just right.  Never laid it on too thick, yet was never distant.  Never.  He would tell you he was proud of you, and you believed it.  And him saying this made you believe in yourself - he had reason to be proud.

My Warren's got some of that in him.  And I love it.  He kisses and hugs everyone.  Even poor Doug, one of our former neighbors, got kisses from W no matter how hard he tried to avoid them.  He'd turn his mouth away from Warren's kiss.  Beg him to high-five.  Warren isn't having it!  A good bye just isn't a good bye without a kiss from my Warrie.  He makes everyone who comes to our house feel welcome.  Whether they want to be welcomed or not!  He offers to share all his toys and food.  He takes them on tours.  He asks if they want to play.  And when they leave, he says things like, "you come back anytime you want.  You can spend the night!"   As the door closes behind them, he'll say how much fun he had and how he really hopes they will come back soon.

My boy wears his heart on his sleeve. 

I think he gets it from his namesake. 

And to me, that's perfect.

You know what day it is.

Welcome to it! 

As I mentioned recently, I attended twelve years of Catholic school.  My grade school was quite small.  In fact, most of the kids I started school with in first grade, were still with me when eighth grade ended.  Now you may not know this, but one of the 'perks' to being in a Catholic grade school (back then at least), is that when it comes to sports, anyone who can register for a sport can play.  Even if they technically cannot play.  They are allowed to play.  And in fact will have more turns to play per game than they deserve.  All while being coached by a teammate's parent.

Anywho, I am one of those people would could not play, yet kept playing.  When the sports talents were handed out, I must have been laughing my ass off in the comedy line and just plain old missed out on sports talent.  Even though I sucked at sports - and that's being generous - I was registered for both softball and soccer each and every year of my grade school life.  It's hard to figure out which one of those sports I was worse at.   Jessie had serious soccer skills, and played indoor soccer on a competitive league.  Jackie was fabulous at basketball, and was one of the point leaders on her team.  But me, um yeah - not so much.

I think at the time, I disliked soccer the most.  You play outdoor soccer during the winter, and I'm a wimp.  When your legs are freezing, and that hard soccer ball slaps into your exposed red thigh you seriously might die.  I think it's possible.  There aren't any good chants for soccer.  (Not like the 'we need a pitcher not a belly itcher' chant.)  Plus that running down the field, looking for an opening, all while dribbling a soccer ball was darn near impossible for a non-coordinated individual like myself.  Most of the time, I played around in the dirt, talked to our goalie (who was so annoyed with me for distracting her), and got the f out of the way whenever someone from the opposing team came tearing down the field with the ball.  Oh but I did master offsides, and tried to make people be offsides every chance I got.  Cuz you all know that's how you win a game.  Although I was an absolutely horrid soccer player, my parents took turns freezing their butts off to watch my games.  I can only hope they had a little something-something in their coffee or hot chocolate to make the time more enjoyable.

Softball was at least at a slower pace than soccer.  And there was no man-to-man contact so to speak.  Oddly enough, I had a decent arm by 7th grade, and got to play third base or short stop frequently.  Sure, I was petrified of grounders.  "Get down on it," my dad would yell from the stands.  Um yeah, no thanks.  I'd rather not get a softball to the mouth today, thanks anyway.  Since out of the two sports I seemed slightly better (translation, less sucky) at softball, my dad gave it his best effort.  He played catch with me in the yard.  He took me to batting cages where I feared for my life, sure that the ball was traveling at least 100 miles per hour and would knock me right off my bird legs.  He'd yell words of encouragement, "choke up on the bat!  Keep your eyes on the ball.  Great throw.  Nice catch.  Be sure to cover the ball with your hand while it's in the glove.  For God's sake, don't drop it!"  After all of this work, I really wasn't that great of a player.  9 out of 10 times, I'd strike out while at bat.  I'd miss the grounder because of my fear.  I never turned a double.

But once, just once, I had a shining superstar softball moment.  A moment that is forever etched in my mind, but I'm sure my dad has long forgotten.  I was in eighth grade.  It was our second to last game of the season.  We had not won even a single game that entire season, which was not odd for our team.  I believe it was the fifth inning, but I could be wrong.  I didn't strike out; I got walked.  Walked!  Even better in my book than swinging and grounding out.  The next girl got a double, and I advanced to third.  Then it happened.  A wild pitch.  The catcher threw off her mask and went diving in the dirt.  My third base coach and my dad were yelling, "go home go home!"  I ran; as fast as I could.  I saw the catcher come up with the ball.  I heard my father yell "sliiiiiiiiide".  And I did.  I freaking slid.  Feet first into the bag.  "Safe!"  I kid you not.

We lost that game, but it didn't matter.  My dad was beaming because I had stolen home.  And I was filthy dirty from my slide.  And I had a raspberry on my knee where I hit the bag.  Dude, I looked the part of the athlete daughter.  Oh my dad couldn't have been prouder.  "Look at you!  You got dirty!  And you stole home.  That was so great!  Let's go get some Dairy Queen!"

My one moment as a superstar.  My dad's athlete.  And then quickly, the reign was handed back over to Jessie and Jackie - where it rightly belonged.  The eight years of softball and soccer did come in handy though back in my IT days.  I played on the company softball team, and was a hell of a catcher; at least for a bunch of computer geeks.  I even managed a hit or two.  And we did one round of indoor soccer as well.  While I practically passed out from running so much, at least I could dribble the ball and look down the field simultaneously.

Maybe it was a good thing that everyone got to play.  Maybe.