A couple weekends ago it was unseasonably warm (i.e. hot) even by Los Angeles mid-March standards. The temperature was in the mid 90s.

So, we did what any reasonable family in such a situation would do: Daddy/Daughter Fun Time frolicked in the snow.

An hour and a half from our swelter is Mt. Baldy, altitude about a mile-and-a-half. Temperature upper 50s. Man-made snow.

Getting there is half the fun: A fifteen minute, white-knuckled, please don’t break, please don’t break, please don’t break ski lift ride 200 feet above the steep sloping side of a mountain. Then the lift inexplicably stops. We sway. Rock… Rock… Rock…

Isabella (she’s 8 and riding with me) stating the obvious as she yells to Mommy: Mommy! We stopped!

Mommy (from above the abyss): Yes, Sweetie… I know.

Julianna (10, yelling from beyond): Isabella! Now we can look for woodchucks!

Me: You do that, Honey.

Then it starts again. I’m good.

I didn't take this shot.  Certain I'd just drop the camera.  Or fall to my death.

I didn’t take this shot. Certain I’d just drop the camera. Or fall to my death.

Once you get to the top, there are additional lifts to take you up another 1000 feet to the ski slopes. I’m good here, thank you very much.

Mile-and-a-half high.  Need some oxygen.

Mile-and-a-half high. Need some oxygen.

Now, the girls have never really experienced snow before. (Northern friends, I know this is hard to believe.) They think it is the greatest thing on earth! (Northern friends, I know this is hard to believe.)

So, we throw some snowballs and make snow angels.

We even built a snowman:

Camera trickery.  It is actually 8 feet tall

Camera trickery. It is actually 8 feet tall

And then we head to the Tubing run.

Totally tubular!

Totally tubular!

Isabella:  Snow is AWESOME!

Isabella:Snow is AWESOME!

And, the day was awesome. Tiring, but awesome.

But, it wouldn’t be complete unless our resident Daddy ended up humiliated. So, at the risk of becoming some kind of Internet meme, I offer this:

Perhaps a better mascot than the Washington NFL team.

Perhaps a better mascot than the Washington NFL team.

At least I know my sunglasses block UVA rays. Yes, I’m a freak. Now, please stop staring at me at the grocery store.

Out of Stock

Vegan friends, please turn away…

Heading in to Gymnastics with Isabella (she’s 8)…

Then, out of nowhere:

Iz: Daddy, how many types of stalkers are there?

Me: Um… Wait, what? You mean, like celery stalks.

Iz: No. Like people who follow you and know everything about you.

Me: I… Uh… (Damn Hollywood!) Don’t know what to sa…..

Iz: Then, there are the people who stack food and stuff at the grocery store.

Me (breathing a sigh of relief): Oh… STOCKERS! Not Stalkers! Stockers. 2nd Grade English. Too funny!

Iz: Shouldn’t the grocery store people really be called Stackers? Because, that’s what they do.

Me: Well, Darling. Stuff that is ready to go on a shelf is called “stock.” So, people who put things on the shelf are called stockers. They keep everything neat and clean on the aisles.

Me: And, the cows that become beef for our hamburgers are called LiveStock.

Iz: So, shouldn’t they be called DeadStock? Because, they are dead. And, we eat them and all. How does that happen?

Me: Um… You were talking about Stalkers.


Isabella (she’s 8): Daddy, I want to hug you again.

Me: But, you haven’t hugged me yet.

Iz: I know. Before I hug you Again, I have to hug you first. So, can I?

Me: Of course, Sweetie.

She hugs.

Me: Honey, you can hug me anytime.

Iz: Ok, can I hug you again?

Me: Absolutely!

She hugs. Again.

Me: Do you want to hug me again. Again?

Iz: Um… No, I’m good.


This is my 450th post here at the Fun Time, spanning more than 5 years of Daddy/Daughter hijinks. I’m in a retrospective mood.

I don’t know why I keep this blog, because the traffic here is infinitesimal. I know I have a few subscribers, but still. I get so anxious when I haven’t updated the blog every few days. I don’t want to disappoint the two search engines that are scouring for “Hot Tub Daughters.”

What is wrong with me?

In the end, I guess this is the closest thing I have to a journal that I can leave to my kids. I mean, I would love to have known what my father thought as he was raising my brother and me. Now, my daughters can hear in my own words:

Kids are a pain in the ass. (I chide of course.)

I have never bought into that whole Children Are Miracles movement that doesn’t find any fault in kids. They are still wonderful, but just not in a storybook kind of way.

I see in my own daughters the beauty on the outside and the evil under the surface. And, I also see the same in myself. (Though, less beauty. More frustration. Higher blood pressure. More wrinkles.)

And, I guess that’s what this blog is about.

Because, the difficulty in raising my daughters is more than made-up for when an 8-year-old snuggles closer at bedtime because she wants her Daddy. “I love you Daddy.” “I love you, too.” “You’re a great Daddy.” “Thank you.”

“But, in the morning, please, put away your shoes.”

Mall Cut

Picking up the girls from school today, I thought I’d surprise them with my new haircut. They ran to the car in the pick-up line:

Isabella (she’s 8): Daddy! Daddy! You got a haircut!

Me: No, Honey. I got ‘em ALL cut!

Julianna (10): Daddy… So, you went to the mall?

Me: What? No. I got ‘em all cut.

J (matter of factly): At the mall…?

Iz: No. He means he got them ALL cut.

J: Oh! I get it! A joke! Where did they do it?

Me (sheepishly): At the mall.

J: I KNEW it!

Yoga Pants

Last week in the War on Women: Yoga Pants

And, this is not a joke.

It seems there’s a Montana state Representative who wants to expand the definition of “indecent exposure” to include any “device, costume, or covering” that is too form-fitting. This includes yoga pants.

Actual quote: “Yoga pants should be illegal in public anyway,” said the idiot. Sorry, said Rep. David Moore.

Rep. David Moore:  Yoga Pants!  But it is 1958!  Harlots!

Rep. David Moore: Yoga Pants! But it is 1958! Harlots!

A friend of mine asked: Then, what are Moms supposed to wear?

Good question, indeed.

Under the proposed bill, a third-time offense could cost a violator $5,000 and five years in jail. For wearing yoga pants. Again, this is absolutely real.

Fortunately, the Montana House of Representatives scuttled this plan. Because it is sexist. But mostly, because it is just plain stupid.

Ladies, if I should ever run for the office of State Representative in Montana (or any other state), I assure you that I am most definitely Pro-Yoga Pants. I’m a huge fan.

[Note: As we went to press, Rep. Moore declared it was all just a joke! His pandering to a select constituency was met with more ridicule than it was worth.

So... Hahaha! He was only kidding. And, all those wasted taxpayer dollars. Plus, the government overreach stuff.... Ha.


[Another Note. This blog runs on WordPress through GoDaddy.com (yes, I'm cheap and possibly immoral). But, I can't for the life of me get my links to work when I post them. Little help.]

Hand on Hip

I need some help here…

Lynn and the girls (and I) attended a screening of “Paddington.” By the way, it’s a wonderful movie. Give it a chance. It is much better than you would normally think of a cloying “kids” movie. You (grown-ups) will actually enjoy it.

But, here’s my dilemma…

Gwen Stefani.

The Singer, the Voice judge, the Celebrity, and the Songwriter (with Pharell!) was on hand for a meet and greet.

Before the screening, she did her PR person proud by taking pictures with people like me. Also, my more-deserving wonderful wife and kids.

Here’s the thing: Gwen was sporting 4-inch heels. My wife is four inches taller than me. For the picture, Lynn put her arm around Gwen’s back. I was “forced” to put my hand on Gwen’s hip.

Now, I don’t know rock-star etiquette. But, I put my hand on Gwen Stefani’s hip. Not in an ass-grabby kind of way. Just, hippy.

After the picture was taken, she kinda looked at me like “you know your wife is right there.”

Tell me, was I wrong. Also, I put my hand on Gwen Stefani’s hip!

Cracking Jokes

Long-time readers know that many of Daddy/Daughter Fun Time posts center around bedtime. This is mostly because I can better remember things when the girls aren’t around. Then the martini sets in… So, before that happens:

Julianna (she’s 10): Watch me crack my fingers.

(crack crack crack)

Isabella (she’s 8): Here are my toes.

(crack crack crack)

Me: And here’s my butt!


J: I don’t get it.

Iz (her eyes light up!): Because his butt has a crack.

J: Oh! Hahahahahahaha!

Iz: Hahahahahaha!

And, yet, Child Protective Services is nowhere to be seen.

Other Butt

Minutes ago…

While snuggling up at bedtime.

Isabella (she’s 8): Daddy you have another butt.

Me: I’ll play… How many do I have?

Iz: Well, you have your Butt butt.

Me: Yeah.

Iz: Then, you have your face butt.

Me: Yeah, Honey. Two cheeks, So funny.

Iz: And, you also have a neck butt! Hahaha! It’s so fat! Hahaha!

Me (after the laughter): So, now… my neck is a butt? Because I wasn’t already feeling bad enough about myself.

Iz: Hahahaha!