Gymnasts…. Salute!

If it is February, then the next Gymnastics season must be upon us.

(Does it have to be? Because it can be expensive. Though, the Glendale YMCA is about a quarter what other gyms cost. Plus, my daughter (she’s 9) is not naturally talented. Wait… What?)

First meet. It’s a Practice meet, only one other team. It doesn’t count.

Crap, look. (I mean, Yay!) She’s Best all-around, Best in All Categories. ALL of them: Beam, Bars, Floor, Vault. Wiped the floor with her competitors. Gold.

Great job, Honey!

That was unofficial. Right? Of course, she’s the Best, I mean. But, it’s unofficial.

Let’s see how she does under real competitive pressure.

For the first sanctioned meet (last weekend, 50 or 60 girls):

Isabella scores a meet high Really Big Deal 9.750 on the Uneven Bars (would have been a 10.0, but there was an East German judge), on her way to securing the First Place Gold for her team.



Now, her coaches are saying: Yeah, we need to skip her up to the next level.

(Please don’t say it costs more. Please, please, please…)

“It costs more.”

Dammit. Why can’t she suck at this?

Next stop, Vegas. Jesus.

Grandfather Clause

So, it’s my 500th posting, and it goes about as well as I’ve grown to expect…

Overheard at the third grader’s school pickup gate, one little girl yells to some kid in the back of the pack, “Your grandfather is here.”

I look around, confused, because I am the only male-type person waiting. Then Isabella emerges.

Iz: No, Sam. That’s just my Dad.

Krewella de Vil

So, my attempts at teaching my daughters about actual, good music on the drive in to school have ended up as an abysmal failure. Bowie, Stones, Beatles. Simon and/or Garfunkel. They yield nothing but yawns. Kids these days.

Usually, trips to school end up like mini-raves (do they still do raves?) with the minor 7th chords and the dance-y rhythm. At stop lights, the car bops likes like a 3.2 earthquake. Other drivers nod, knowing my pain.

Apparently. there’s someone called Krewella. A singing sister duo. But, they turn the word “Time” into a multi-syllabic monstrosity. Tiii-eeem.

I point this out every time (tii-eem) it appears on the playlist. And, I am yelled at for correcting her (them… whatever).

When my daughters complain about my bitching, I mention that Adele doesn’t call from the Outsi-eed. Because she actually understands the English language, And, she’s actually English.

Girls: Tii-eem. That’s how Krewella sings it.

Me: Well, it’s wrong. I don’t care. It’s a one syllable word. Time.

Girls: I hate you! You are ruining our life!

Me: “Lives.” Because, there are two of you. So, plural…

Sometimes, when you’re a dad, you do what you can…