I cry. Big deal. Chicks dig it. <snicker> No, honestly, I just do. I don’t know why. I’ve known it for all my life, proudly. Music, Oprah, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, Forrest Gump, MJ highlights, you name it. It doesn’t even take a lot for me to get teary-eyed. Marti knows it and so do my friends. But tonight, my FIVE-year-old caught me. Funny thing is, I wasn’t *that* close, but I guess I just had that look on my face and BAM! She nails me. First off, it’s ‘Titanic’. Don’t I get a pass? Who *didn’t* cry in that movie? Every time I hear that Irish flute doing that theme song, I’m noodles. Soooo, I’m channel surfing and that scene is on after the ship goes down (Oops. I hope I didn’t give it away.) where Rose is clinging to Jack’s hand and promising that she’ll live on and, “never let go…”. Yeah, then Olivia looks my way and says, “Daddy are you crying?” To make it even worse, she looks to Marti and says, “Mommy, Daddy’s gonna cry!” As if to poke fun… Isn’t this the girl that cries when batteries go dead? Anyway. She’s on to me.
Archive for June, 2007
Grassless in Georgia
…at least in the backyard. I miss St. Augustine grass. In Florida, it just grew. Rain watered it. I mowed it. Deal. Here in Georgia, there’s this “clay” stuff. Rock-freakin’-hard and custom-made for weeds. We have the tall fescue variety of grass, which requires overseeding in the fall. *Every* fall. Missed this past fall. My bad.
We have this lawn care crew that bills visits us every 6 weeks. After the guy visited the other day, Cameron looks out into our backyard and says, “Man, that guy was able to kill all our grass in one day! That was strong stuff he was using!” Thanks, Cam. Problem is, the guy was there putting *fertilizer* on it, or what was left of “it”, at least. I knew the backyard was bad. I knew it the moment I had to start watering the yard before I mowed it to keep the dust storms at bay.
I’m checking to see if there’s a subdivision award for “Best Post-Apocalyptic Lawn”. Call it what you want. I call it the thing that makes my front yard look good.
Can I Tackle You?
Cameron is on this kick lately… He loves to tackle me. I stand next to the bed/sofa, he backs up about 10 feet and runs toward me to tackle me, square and gut-level, knocking me backward and horizontal. No problem. I can take it. It’s just when his twin brother and younger sister see it that I’m in trouble. Thirty tackles later, we get up giggling and that’s it… Until I come home from work tomorrow.
“ Oh, okay, Dad…”
Please tell me… Just how long do you wait to call him back after that?
Correct answer? 21 minutes.
All is well now. Not that dear old Dad ever did get hauled off to the pokey, mind you. Something about an insurance lapse and Geico reporting it to the state days before my Dad decides to roll through a 4-way stop in the middle of the night. He was saved by some other goon whose act of bad judgement made this officer all but forget who my Dad even was. He got the call and had to cut Dad short, but not before removing his license plate for good measure.
Maybe I should get him a phone card for Father’s Day.
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