Who Says Soccer is Boring?

Kyra's been bugging us for about a year to sign her up for a soccer league. Here's the rub, she hates running. Despite our numerous reminders that soccer is NOTHING BUT running (with a little kicking on the side), and against our better judgment, we finally caved in. If anything, it'll be good exercise for her, and who knows, she might end up enjoying running her tail off.

Her first practice was this week, and her coaches started them off with a number of drills: 2 lines, kick the ball this way, kick the ball that way, kick the ball this other way. Watching little kids with barely any control over their motor skills trying to maneuver a soccer ball in and out of a line of orange cones was less than enthralling. I nodded off in my camping chair when, out of nowhere, one of the fathers sitting near me bursts out, "HEY!". I started, then looked around and figured he was yelling at his kid who was screwing around in his drill line. ALL the kids were screwing around in the drill lines. I nodded off again when barely a minute later the dude exploded.

"HEY YOU! RIGHT THERE!"

In a flash he was out of his chair, racing toward the nearest line of kids. I looked up and noticed a little blonde-haired kid doubled over on the ground, clutching his stomach and bawling. Another boy stood next to him, wide-eyed. Crazy Dad towered over him, then got right in his face, "WHO'S YOUR PARENT?"

One of the coaches looked up, startled at the stream of events unfolding before her, and sighed, "He's mine. What did he do?"

"HE PUNCHED MY KID IN THE STOMACH!"

Coach sat her kid down under a tree and Crazy Dad returned to his seat while all of us other parents pretended not to notice his insane outburst. He seemed to go a little over the top, but who knows, maybe I would have reacted the same way if it was my kid getting punched. Regardless, it was a tense first practice and an interesting introduction to the sport of soccer. After practice, I gave Kyra two directives: stay away from the coach's kid, and don't piss off the blonde-haired kid, thus pissing off the blonde-haired kid's dad. Actually, #2 was for more for me. I'd rather not have to tangle with that guy.

Here's a First

Diane just walked through the door, thoroughly pissed, thankfully for nothing I had done (for a change). Some woman just cut her off...while walking!

Diane was out for her daily walk through the neighborhood, minding her own business, rocking out to a little U2, and owning her side of the sidewalk when she noticed a woman on the opposite sidewalk pushing a double stroller, walking a dog on a leash, and feeding her kids from a Carl's Jr. bag perched on top of the stroller. All parties involved were heading the same direction, and no other walkers populated the street. At some point the woman decided to cross the road, pretending to be completely oblivious to Diane. She hurried to get in front of Diane, then struggled to get her double stroller over the curb. Diane had to come to a complete stop, right next to her, and wait for her to get all of her crap together. The woman didn't even acknowledge her presence. No apology for cutting in front of her or impeding her progress. Nothing. Diane was livid. It wasn't about being cut off, but the stupidity, insensitivity, and selfishness of this woman.

I just laughed, which is why I get in trouble so much. "If you were in the car, you would've totally honked at this woman," she retorted. She's right, which is why as soon as I finish this post I'm heading over to Ace Hardware and buying my wife an air horn for her walks.

I Called Him "Chico" And Lived to Tell About It

Diane reminds me on a regular basis that I have a not-so-healthy affinity with my car horn, and I, in turn, remind her that she should mind her own freakin' beeswax. I should probably listen to my wife more.

I had to work a longer shift Tuesday night to cover a coworker's vacation, so I was driving home a little later than normal...like the roads-are-totally-deserted later-than-normal. As I was driving home, I came upon a slow-moving vehicle that, though it remained in it's lane, seemed to be drifting excessively within the lines. I kept my distance. We came to a stop light and both of us maneuvered into the left turn lane. The road onto which we were turning started out with several hundred yards of two lanes before merging into a single lane. Since I didn't want to be stuck behind this potentially impaired individual, I decided that I would pass him if I had the opportunity. The light changed, he meandered into the right lane, and I made my move. That's when all the bad things began to happen.

As I turned into the left lane and attempted to pass, I was abruptly cut off by my liquor-imbibed amigo as he cranked the wheel hard to the left and shot out right in front of me. I jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting him, and yes, you guessed it, I instinctively reached for the horn and gave it a nice long blast, you know, just to let him know I was there. It must of worked because he over-corrected and shot back across the right lane and off the road, plunging my car in a cloud of dust before returning to the road. This pretty much confirmed my suspicion that this individual was indeed drunk, so I backed way off and let him go on his merry way.

I followed him all the way to my subdivision (oh great) where I eventually pulled up beside him at a stoplight. Why I pulled up next to a dude I knew was drunk is a question I continue to ask myself, a question to which I have no good answer. Probably the best one is that "I'm stupid", but the ones I've been going with are closer to "I was tired" or "I wasn't thinking", which is just a variation of "I'm stupid". Anyway, I pull up next to him, and he immediately confronted me. And since it was a pleasant Arizona evening, I had my windows down so I had no problem deciphering his message:

"HEY! YOU F***IN' HONK YOUR HORN AT ME?"

I probably just should have kept my eyes straight ahead and done nothing, but "I'm stupid", remember? I turned and looked and found myself staring into the glassy eyes of a behemoth of a man. He was stone-faced drunk and looking for a fight. At this point I figured I could do two things: I could ignore him and piss him off, or I could respond and piss him off. Guess which one I chose.

"Yeah, when you practically run me off the road, I honk my horn."

Well, that was enough for him. He started fumbling around at his gearshift on the steering wheel, then at his seat belt. Then he found the door handle and opened the door. "Alright, you! Get out of the car!" And he started climbing out of his car.

Now I'm a supposedly responsible, law-abiding, happily married father of two. I have a mortgage and own a minivan. I'm not supposed to get involved in street fights with chiseled, inebriated chuckleheads in the wee hours of the morning. I knew I needed to get out of there, pronto. But just when I thought my stupidity had reached its limits, I got stupider. I left him with a departing inquiry:

"Had a little too much to drink tonight, there, chico?"

And then I fled against the red light.

Before you label me as a racist, please allow me to try to explain myself. My high school Spanish teacher used to call us "chicos" and "chicas" (that's "boys" and "girls" to those of you not proficient in the Spanish language), and it stuck with me, especially under circumstances in which someone has pissed me off. On those occasions, these particular individuals, regardless of race, have become "chicos". It's not the best habit in our politically correct society, especially here in Southern AZ, but it's so fully ingrained in my vocabulary that it's going to be tough to break. Incidentally, "chico" also means "little" or "small", which is funny to me because this dude was huge. He was also white. I should have called him "Bubba".

So now I'm racing for home and trying to lose this guy. I had a good lead on him, but was reluctant to go too fast through a heavily populated area. I also didn't want this jerk driving his SUV into someone's bedroom, so I set a brisk, but responsible pace, the only level-headed decision of the evening. I monitored my rear-view mirror and finally spotted him FLYING up the road behind me. He blew right through a stop sign and came bearing down on me, eventually pulling in right behind me and tailgating me. That's it, I thought, I can't go home, so I slowed down and just kept driving.

He followed me for a couple of minutes with no sign of backing off, so I grabbed my cell phone, dialed 911, and headed for the closest police station. How the hell do I get myself into these situations? Well he either got tired or wised up to my plan because a few minutes later he turned around and went home. I sighed a sigh of relief, and when I thought it was safe to do so, I did the same.

So what has this experience taught me? 1. Don't honk. 2. Keep my mouth shut. and 3. Take an alternative route home, especially if I fail to follow #1 and #2. Oh yeah, and never, NEVER, call them "chico".

Grounded

I crossed into a new frontier of parenthood earlier this week when I dug deep into the archives of disciplinary action and plucked up this gem: "KAILEY, YOU'RE GROUNDED!" Up until now, grounding had no effect seeing as how Kailey had nowhere to go or no one to play with on the block. But now that the girls have discovered a friend down the street, grounding is back in play!

We've had a rough time getting through to Kailey that hitting is not an acceptable form of venting her frustration. The girls get into an argument, Kyra doesn't do what Kailey wants her to do, Kailey whacks her a good one, and I lose my frickin' mind...for the millionth time. I've tried just about everything to curb this behavior, including letting Kyra hit her back (moronic, I know).

This happened, again, on Sunday afternoon...in the van. I should have known better. I usually don't let them sit together in the same row for this very reason, but they had been getting along really well, prompting my momentary lapse of sanity. As we were driving they started arguing because Kyra wouldn't play Kailey's game. I pulled up to a stop light and told Kailey to get in the back row, and as she did, whap, she slapped Kyra in the head. I watched her do it in the rear view mirror. I summoned the strength within to postpone my breakdown until I was at least able to pull the van off to the side of the road. Then I lost my mind. Right there. In the van.

"WHAT DO WE SAY ABOUT HITTING!"

"No hitting."

"THEN WHY DID YOU HIT HER!"

"Because she wouldn't play with me."

"WRONG! TRY AGAIN!"

"I wanted her to play a game and she was mean."

"WRONG! TRY AGAIN!"

I could see people slowing down and reaching for their cell phones while trying to decipher my license plate number.

"WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN KYRA DOES SOMETHING YOU DON'T LIKE?"

"Use my words?"

"WHICH MEANS?"

"Tell you or Mommy?"

Yes, we've been through all of this before. Then I said it:

"KAILEY, YOU'RE GROUNDED. THERE WILL BE NO PLAYING OUTSIDE WITH YOUR FRIENDS, NO TV, AND NO TREATS FOR ONE WEEK!"

It's official. I've become my parents. I threw the car in gear and got the heck out of Dodge before the police could arrive. We completed our errands and returned home where Kailey's punishment commenced.

I've since come to wonder who grounding punishes more, the kid or the adult. TV and playing outside gets the kids out of your hair for a period of time. Taking it away means you have to entertain your kids (like that's a bad thing). Kailey fought her punishment at first, acting all mad and pouty at me, but she eventually embraced her fate and the two of us were actually able to enjoy some one on one time while Kyra played outside with friends. Whether it will end her hitting habit remains to be seen. And I'm still waiting to see if the police are going to show up at my door.

The Ones I DIDN'T Use

A couple of months ago, I was invited by one of Diane's extended family members to open an account on a new family tree website called Geni.com. It's a pretty neat little site where families can upload pictures, share time lines of significant events in their lives, and just generally keep in touch...which can have its ups and downs. It's family, you know. Shortly after I joined the site, I sent out invitations to several other family members to join as well. One of those invitations went out to my brother, and while most of my family members replied by joining the site, my brother's invitation went unanswered.

Now, my side of the family likes to joke around, and that includes practical jokes. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to "entice" my brother to join the website. So I found a picture on the internet (that doubled me over with laughter) and posted it as his profile picture on the website. It might have looked something like this:



Well that apparently wasn't enough to bring him out of hiding. Not "outlandish" enough. So I added another:



Now, my brother is typically someone you shouldn't screw with. He gets even...times ten. I think at about this time I received an e-mail from my mom reminding me that I was playing with fire, but I didn't listen. This was too damn funny. And he still wasn't joining. I decided to up the ante:







Finally, last weekend, he joined the site...and got his revenge. But instead of adding pictures, he added events to my timeline. So right along with significant life-events like my wedding day and the birthdays of my children, I now had new events:

1. Alternative Experimentation
2. I Came Out of the Closet
3. I Strangled My First Prostitute

Oh, and one of the nice little features about using Geni.com that I didn't realize, or at least overlooked, is that whenever you make a change to your profile or to someone else's profile, anything at all, they NOTIFY THE WHOLE FAMILY. And by the WHOLE FAMILY, I mean anyone even remotely linked to you. Diane's 16th cousin 400 times removed? Yeah, she knows my brother is a freak and that I strangle prostitutes. Greeeaaaat.

Shortly after I stop laughing at my brother's additions to my profile, I notice that my profile has not one, but TWO messages from that family member who invited me to join the site in the first place. She also sent me a personal e-mail. She was not a happy camper, and the whole frickin' extended family now knows it. And while I was thoroughly pissed off with the way she chose to handle the situation, I decided, with a little prodding from Diane (who was just as pissed), to let it go (until now) for the sake of "family harmony". Yes, I'm a "high-road" kind of guy.

But here's the real problem. I still have all of these pictures assembled for my beloved brother, and I now can't display them for my family to enjoy without other "family members", most of whom I don't even know, getting all bent out of shape. So I guess I'll just have to post them here. So without further ado, here are the one's I didn't use:









So, there you have it, the rest of my pics of my little bro. And if anyone doesn't like it, they can...