Daddy Daughter Fun Time has been dormant for over a year.   Here’s one:


You know how penguin parents can always recognize their offspring from hundreds of yards away even though the babies are identical…?

I am at a the regional gymnastics competition with my lovely, talented daughter Isabella, they call her Ozzy.

It’s a huge arena, parents are kept in the viewing stands, 50 yards away.

One of the most remarkable things about living in Southern California is the complete mixing of ethnicities and heritages and backgrounds. I’m not getting political here, if you have never met someone from Zimbabwe, here’s your chance.

My daughter, with her dark brown hair, skinny physique, and olive-ish skin tone, looks like. Well… Honestly, they kind of all look alike. (I know that is politically incorrect, but it true.) From 50 yards away.

Yes, yes. I know that is a terrible thing to say. But…

Here’s my story.

I am in the bleachers, next to a sister of Ozzy’s teammate. Her name is Jen.

I point and ask, “Is that Ozzy?”

Jen: No, that girl is Armenian.

Me (pointing): Oh. Ok, how about her? That’s Ozzy, right?

Jen: She’s Mexican.

Me: And her?

Jen: She’s Thai. And she’s Korean. And she’s Chinese.

Me: What about…

Jen: She’s a blond.

Me: Oh, so she is. How about her..

Jen: Mr. Ozzy’s Dad. That’s not even her team!

Me: What?!

Jen: She’s over there (pointing), and she just stuck her landing!

Me: WhooHoo! I knew you (or anyone at your skill level, physique, and general physical appearance) could do it!

Please do not send me to Antarctica. I would make a terrible penguin.

But, my penguin has a gold medal.

The Last Word

It looks like Daddy/Daughter Fun Time has reached its Final Episode.  After nearly 600 posts, the public has had its fill of my familial commentary. And, frankly, I am getting tired of my children, too.  (I kid, of course.  I suppose.)

It just doesn’t seem right for me to talk about my daughters when they understand the medium better than I.  (One is a teen and is blah blah blah on Instagram or whatever.)  They actually deserve a life that is free from being scrutinized for their every foible.  And, those foibles are what this blog has specialized in. Life is hard enough without everything being publicized in a Daddy Blog.

For me, fortunately, diaper duty (Ha! He said Doody) is over.  I hope I’ve encouraged my beautiful daughters’ wide-eyed innocence to ask questions (Isabella, obviously) and artistry (Juianna and her drawings.)

But, it is time to go.

The name of this Blog originated from the many times I strapped my first daughter (Julianna) then the second one (Isabella) in a stroller and proudly walked the sidewalks of West Hollywood, CA.  Just to give Mommy (my beautiful, wonderful wife, Lynn) a brief break after hours and hours of mommy-ing.  Daddy/Daughter Time?  No!  Daddy/Daughter FUN Time.  Because, Dammit!  This is going to be FUN!

So, after all of my stories, complaints, and observances, I, your humble Daddy, wish you a very good night.  And, pleasant dreams.  You are my sunshine when skies are grey.

Iz:  But, Daddy, how can it be sunny at bedtime.  It’s night, so by definition there’s no sun…..

(Occasional updates are very possible…)

For Old Time’s Sake, a last Christmas gift to you:


Isabella (the 10-year old) has a bit of a cold.  Mommy has been fighting it for days.  It is starting to spread throughout the family domicile.

But, it is time for gymnastics pick-up.

Iz (again, she’s 10):  Daddy, I have a sore throat, so I won’t talk too much.

Me: Ok, sorry.  Don’t talk.  It will help.

Iz: I just said that I won’t talk.

Me: And, I said “Good, rest your throat.”

Iz: You didn’t say that.  You said, “Don’t talk.”

Me: Thank you for the correction. I wasn’t being literal.

Iz:  Because that’s not what you said.  I’m not going to talk anymore. Because my throat hurts.

Me: Ok, fine.  Be quiet.

Iz: I hate when you tell me what to do.

Me: Ok.  Well, it’s your throat.

Iz: I won’t talk anymore.  My throat hurts.

Me: I understand that. Stop talking.

Iz (getting feisty): I am stopping talking.

Me: And yet…  You are still talking.  Stop talking.

Iz:  Dad!  Stop it!  My throat hurts.

Me (a little annoyed):  Then.  Stop Talking.

Iz:  Why are you yelling at me.  My throat hurts.

Me: Honey, I am not yelling.  Please stop talking.

Iz (starting to cry): Why are you yelling at me to stop talking when you know my throat hurts.  Now it hurts even worse.  Waaah.

Me:  No one is yelling.  Just stop talking.

Iz:  But my throat hurts.

Me: And, it is probably because you have to have the last word.

Iz: No I don’t.

Me: Then, stop talking.

Iz: Ok, I will.

Me: And, you still have to have the last word.  Always.

Julianna (she’s 13, from the back seat):  Dad, I liked when you said that she had to have the last word.  Because it is true.

Iz: I heard that.  And…  No I don’t.

So it goes.


Good night, Fun Time.  I will miss you.

The Dent-ist

On the way in to gymnastics practice, Isabella (she’s 10) and I are behind an older model Ford pickup truck.

Iz:  Daddy, that’s an old truck.

Me: Yeah, it looks like it’s from the ’60s or so.  So, it’s about as old as me.

Iz:  Wow, that is old.  But it’s in Great shape.

Me:  Just like me!

Iz (fact-checking):  Dad.  You are definitely NOT in great shape.  You have a LOT of dents.

I soak in her words, and say,

Me (mostly to myself):  Yeah, Honey…  So many dents.

Halloween Cupcakes

Isabella (she’s 10); There were 6 cupcakes, now there’s only one.
Me: I had two.
Julianna (she’s 13): I only had one. I don’t want any more.
Iz: And, I had two. There’s still one left.
(hint, hint)
Me: Isabella, you should have the last one.
Passive Aggressiveness defined:
Iz (playing coy): But, I don’t like Halloween Orange frosting. But I guess I can.
Me: Honey, please.
Iz: Ok. I think I’ll eat it.
Me: Yeah, Big surprise there.

When You’re a Shark

So, I haven’t mentioned the catastrophe of Hurricane Maria that flattened my father’s family island of Puerto Rico.  (My other family home of Alabama has also been hit pretty badly by Harvey and Irma.)

Puerto Rico is really, really bad. I don’t want to get into the politics of it all (because, it looks really bad for Washington D.C.)  The island of 3.5 million American citizens (!) cannot get basic necessities like food and water.  Electricity, which powers the water, communication, and distribution system is largely shut down.  The roads are chocked with debris.

After a month.

If, the President of the United States won’t dedicate our nation to supporting the full recovery of this far-flung island of Americans in the middle of the “very big ocean,” how can you count on him for anything?

Please, Mr. President.  Help.


Sitting in my Draft posts from years ago (April 2013).


Mere minutes ago, at bedtime (while it is still fresh in my mind…). I’m snuggled with Julianna (she’s 8).

J: Daddy, ghosts aren’t real, are they?

Me: No, Honey. Not real.

J: And, Heaven is a place in the sky that is dead.

Me: Um…

J: And, ghosts come out of your body when you die.

Me: Uh… Huh? Well…

J: My friend Adam said so. He’s a vegetarian.

Me: A vegetarian?

J: Yeah. He says you should pour flour over them so you can see them better. He’s a vegetarian.

Me: Flour?

J: Yeah. But, ghosts aren’t real. Right?

Me: Um. No.


I’m not sure who’s going to need psychotherapy more: Me or Julianna. Or, Adam.

[Editor’s note… To my vegetarian friends: Personally, I am making absolutely no judgement here. Huzzah to you for your commitment. But, these are the (almost) verbatim quotes from an 8-year-old. Julianna may very well end up being a vegetarian herself. I really don’t care, as long as she gets enough protein (and not too much roughage). But, seriously… How do you pour flour over a ghost?]


I don’t want to leave you with the impression that the ONLY reason I bought these cupcakes was that they were on the clearance rack at the supermarket (originally $8, I got them for $2! What a deal.)

Pink and Purple!

Pink and Purple!

But, you know, sometimes, a fella just needs the comforting sweetness that only a purple frosted chocolate Princess cupcake can provide. And, if I should happen to get a cheap plastic Princess crown ring in the process, well, that’s a bonus in my book. To hell with society’s gender norms.

Have you seen The Crown?  Well, yes you have.

Have you seen The Crown? Well, yes you have.


That’s how I always labelled them.

Politics aside (right wing),  their chicken is awesome.  Though their wings are, mostly, from the right side.

My 10-year-old is desperate for a Chick-Fil-A sandwich.  So she encourages me.  Beckons me.  Nags me the F…. to drive to Pasadena.  To get her a chicken sandwich.

I order 8 of them.  And, I will tell you:  That is some fine eating.  Man, those are good.

Gray hair

So, I’m taking my daughter to gymnastics practice yesterday.  And we hit a red light.  My right arm is on the arm rest,  That is what they are designed for.  And, suddenly, I feel plucking.  On my arm.

Isabella (she’s 10):  You have white hairs on your arms.

Me: Yes. probably.  But I am driving.  I am old.

We’re rolling.

Iz:  You also have them in your nose. White ones.

Me: You know I am driving an actual car.,  Yes?

Iz:  Also, your ears.  Long ones.  Daddy,   Can’t I pluck them?

Me:  Good God, No.  We are driving.  And, when did you become an English waif?

[Re-read that wif an English girl’s voice.]

I Don’t Bless the Sneeze

Achoo… and God.
I was at a concert when I had a sneezing fit. In the middle of Schubert, I ka-chooed. Not once but thrice. The lady behind me knee-jerked: God Bless You after each sneeze. I did not thank her (as most people would do.)
I heard a huff…
Now, I’m not a natural born attention-getter, what with my smarts, natural good looks, charming personality, and artistic flair. So be it, America. I don’t seek attention.
Attention seeks me.
But, when I sneeze, I don’t need more attention being drawn to my possibly contagious affliction. (It was just pollen, by the way.)
Please, don’t God Bless Me when I sneeze. It’s one of the pet peeves that really gets under my skin. I assure you, Zeus doesn’t care. (That’s the right God, right?)
Corollary, please, please, don’t get offended when I don’t God Bless You when You sneeze.
I was in the checkout line at the Ralphs supermarket (no apostrophe needed) the other day. The lady in front of me loading her yogurt and celery and cat food and whatnot on the conveyor belt. She sneezed.
She looked at me like, are you going to say something?
And, I was like: Nope. That’s between you and Jehovah or Archimedes. I just need these bagels rung up ASAP. Are you contagious? ’cause, that would be nice to know.