On Sportsmanship

A friend of mine was kind enough to throw some last-minute tickets to the Harlem Globetrotters my way. I'm a big fan of cheap and cheesy entertainment, so The Spouse and The Spawn and I braved the most dangerous stretch of Connecticut highway to get ourselves to graffiti-laden Bridgeport, Connecticut (motto: yes, some people actually LIVE there) to catch the show.

I first saw the Harlem Globetrotters back in the 70s when they were quite simply, THE SHIT. Times, they have a-changed, and with videogames and the NBA and the rise of the Jonas Brothers, they're not quite as much of the excrement nowadays. So the whole event had a rather quaint feel, thanks to the iconic whistle-y theme song and an unexpected smattering of vintage Three's Company-style gay jokes.

But the show was surprisingly entertaining, and I was so transported back to my childhood that when I spilled my Diet Pepsi on my lap I almost expected to see it soaking through a pair of styling kelly green polyester pants (hand-sewn from McCall's #4337 pattern).

Amidst the throwaway homophobia, there was some basketball-playing and also some sort of plot about a bet between the coaches, the outcome of which was that if the Globetrotters lost, the Head Trotter (Special K, a nickname that I hope was derived from his love of the cereal and because of any sort of lingering ketamine habit) was going to have to go and play for the hated Generals.

At one point the coach of the Generals got caught cheating, so everybody in the audience was encouraged to razz the Generals coach. In the midst of all the booing, The Boy turns to me, eyes ablaze with delight, and says, "I know what you're supposed to yell, Mommy," and jumps to his feet and screams, "YOOOUUUU SUUUUUCCCCK!" which had the immediate effect of producing a) a spit take followed by b) uncontrollable laughter, even as I knew that I should be delivering a Teaching Moment about politeness and good language and sportsmanship.

The Spouse and The Girl didn't hear a thing because of the crowd noise; they thought I'd completely lost my mind. And of course my laughter encouraged The Boy to shout it a second, third, and fourth time, with each repitition making me laugh until fat tears were washing away all of my mascara.

It was a proud, proud moment.

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Further Proof That The Girl is My Biological Daughter

I twittered (tweeted? twattered? twut?) yesterday about how when I got home last night, The Girl came running up to me, all kinds of proud because her front tooth was loose.

"How'd THAT happen?" I asked her.

"My friend Katie kicked me in the face today!" she said happily.

Katie must have some sort of karate belt, because she did a solid job on on that sucker. Not even 24 hours later, the tooth fell out. I don't know if it's residual paranoia from being kicked in the head, or if the kids at camp are questioning the existence of the Tooth Fairy, but The Girl clearly senses that something's not right with our story. After she fell alseep I found this note under her pillow, in a Ziploc bag along with her tooth:

Yep, she takes right after her suspicious, cynical, type A old momma.

P.S. We gave her three bucks. What's the going rate for teeth nowadays?

P.P.S. Our answers are under the "click here to read more."

P.P.S.S. Haven't slept more than 4 hours straight for the past week. May pass out any minute. Please inject caffeine or stronger substance directly into my veins.



We answered "it's a secret", "sky blue, like yours," and "golden."

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Triage

Things are going to be crazy these next ten days.

A very insightful woman that I once knew (who nonetheless had the unfortunate habit of speaking almost exclusively in the language of "cliche") once told me, "When you are juggling a lot of different balls in the air, you need to figure out which ones are glass and which ones are rubber."

Since I have already eliminated sleeping, my only rubber balls seem to be in either the "shaving my legs" and "blogging and the internets" areas.

So I am going to dust off a few vintage postings until I get back on track. I won't be able to read too many blogs either. But not because I don't love you...I'd give each and every one of you a big sloppy kiss if I could. With tongue, even. And I'll be back.

This post originally appeared here, and was created using child labor.



I'm sure THIS little project raised a few teacher eyebrows in The Girl's art class...

(More of The Girl's art below the fold...)

Someday, she'll realize that you don't ALWAYS need two people, thanks to the magic of electronic aids.

I'm not sure exactly what these love box items are, but I'm afraid to ask, because if she's been going through my drawers again I might have to answer some, er, 'probing questions'.

It helps to have a little something something to loosen things up and put you in the mood. Or to get you tipsy enough so that you can just lie back and think of the mother country.

When I was in high school, boys used "Drakkar Noir" cologne to serve this function.

Note to self: explain to The Girl (and especially someday, The Boy) that Love Pills are not a recommended method, unless you are looking to wind up in jail.

And that, my friends, is how the magic happens in the Manager Household.

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Politics With The MomFather

Back when I first started this blog my dad said to me, "You realize that nobody's interested in reading your crap, right? Except for family members who want to see what kind of smack you're talking behind their backs?"

At the time, I told him that he was dead wrong. That's because I didn't think that my family would be interested in reading my crap either.

Well, now I actually have a few readers, and the same guy who once took an interest in my schoolwork by asking "Hey, kid, what grade are you in again?" has turned into a fame-starved hanger-on. How do I know? Lately, he's been sending emails that are suspiciously well-formatted into blog-friendly information chunklets. I suspect that he's seen how I've been exploiting The Girl, and now he's looking for his own virtual 15 minutes.

Fine. I was going to post about the horrifying dental appointments The Spawn had this morning, but (my) emotional wounds are still too fresh. It's 74 degrees and sunny outside, our office is on summer hours, and my iPod has been giving really good shuffle lately. I'm going to take his free content and go for a nice, long, 10-mile run with it. As an added bonus, I'm also hitting on eight of the traffic-driving tips from Seth Godin, who is apparently some sort of blogging genius that we're all supposed to suck up to. OH YES I JUST DID RULE 14 YOU, SETH GODIN! How do you like them frigging apples?

So without further ado, please enjoy the political rantings of a retired accountant who can't face the fact that he's really a Democrat. (I manned up and admitted what I really am, Pops...now it's your turn). You may not agree with his opinions, but anyone can enjoy his use of 60's era pot-smoking terminology.

"Global Warming – I’m sick of hearing about this subject. If the Liberal Democrats have to ease their feelings of guilt tell them to write letters to the governments of China, India, Pakistan, Mexico, and many smaller countries that pump out a lot more pollutants in a month than we do in a year.

Oil Shortage – Prices are going up and it’s about time. In your lifetime you will see shortages that will make $4 a gallon look like the good old days. Raise fuel taxes, build more nuclear plants and only allow Smart Cars to be on the road between 7AM - 10AM and 4PM – 7PM. Don’t allow mothers to shuttle their precious little tykes to and from school every day. They can walk or take a school bus. (This will also decrease the number of tubby tykes.)

Political Correctness – Recently, Hillary Clinton referred to Robert Kennedy’s run for the Democratic nomination extending into June. She had to apologize for this remark because he was shot in June. Why? Is it incorrect to refer to actual events? Today a person cannot talk about anyone or anything without being called insensitive, sexist, or racist. Let’s be able to call a jerk a jerk.

Legalize Marijuana - I’m tired of hearing that someone running for political office once puffed on a doobie. Anyone that grew up in the sixties or seventies probably tried it. Think of the additional tax revenue that would be raised if it were legalized. I’d rather be on the road with someone who smoked four joints than drank four beers with Jack Daniels chasers."

So that's it. Enjoy your weekend. And if you made it this far, please be promiscuous with your comment-leaving...it'll make the old coot happy.

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