Friday, March 30, 2012

Purple heart for the Purple house.

A true tragedy has occurred.

A horrific event of epic proportions.

brace yourself.

O.K, so let me start this out by saying that the chances that you will find the following news even the remotest bit tragic is one in ten-hundred-billion, So i am going to begin with the true story that reveals the significance of the rest of this post.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.......(o.k. some of this may be exaggerated) There lived a little girl named Hoppeh (hey this is in a galaxy far, far away, remember?)
Anyways. From the ages of 9 to 12, Hoopeh would ride in a long yellow hovercraft (which resembled a school bus) to a learning institution for the young. The other boarders of the long yellow hovercraft were unnecessarily loud and obnoxious, the driver had a habit of going 8 miles under the speed limit, and the smell alone could have knocked out half of Cheena. (a large continent in this other Galaxy.)
The only bright spots of this tedious ride were passing by an extreeeeamly and completely pointlessly yellow house, and a fantastically random purple house, next to a McDoonals.

These beautiful rays of joy kept the young Hoopeh from losing her mind every day, because they reminded her that amidst the senseless racquet and frivolousness of the world, there were still people who built pointlessly yellow houses, and fantastically purple houses anyways.

As Hoopeh grew up, and got her own red, dented, non-air-conditioned hover van, she still passed by those houses occasionally, and they reminded her fondly of the days on the long yellow hover craft, and it brought a smile to her face.

Back to reality.

that Happily purple house has, of late, been knocked down, to make way for an apartment thing of some sort, and I am devastated. That little purple house next to a huge Chain-drive-through gave me hope in it's valiant whimsicality. It was like my own personal house from the movie "UP." The colorful cottage in the midst of industry.


As the last part of this tribute to a well deserving house, I have painstakingly downloaded, navigated, searched, and combed through Google earth to find yo an actual picture of the actual house i am actually talking about, and here it is! The "Lone reed."
(keep in mind that in real life, it was a LOT more purple-ie.)

thank you, little purple house, for all the sanity you gave me from the third to sixth grades, and ever afterward as i drove by your majestic humility. And thank you Google images, for not updating your photos since 2008.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012


As spring is springing, I would like to give a shout out to all of the little-league, junior jazz, and little-kid golf (whatever that's called) parents.

It is this time of year, amidst the pollen poisoning and dandelion invasions that I truly have to thank the primo parents who drive their little tots to the more-mud-than-grass parks or the local basketball court that has pretty much been reduced to cement pebbles.

I am, of course, thrilled about the fact that they are volunteering their time to transport their little bundles of boy to an activity that "builds character" or "promotes teamwork" or whatnot, but above all, I am grateful for the entertainment.

It's refreshing to see the fathers who so kindly help Mrs. Blaskenhower cross the street, purple faced and cussing at the ref.

May I just insert here, that I can honestly say I have no idea WHY people yell at refs? I mean, have you ever seen a ref change his mind because of a disgruntled parent? or any ref anywhere change his mind because of anything anyone said?

Ref: "Safe!"
Generic upset sports fan: "What the heck ref?? He was tagged WAY before he hit the base! Are you blind!?!?!?"
Ref: "Oh, pardon me. It seems as though I have made an error. He was clearly out. Uh, change the scoreboard Jimmy."

No, the fuming fans are always left raising the noise pollution until the EPA adds it to the list of Superfund sites.

O.K, O.K. I have to be fair. There are some really GOOD little league parents out there. the kind that buy their sniffling kids chocolate ice cream when they lose, and sit patiently in sheets of rain, waiting for one of the four year olds to finally kick the soccer ball. My heart goes out to you and commend you in your excellent kid- raising techniques.

I had such a father, and he even volunteered to be my soccer team's assistant manager. (which was more than generous, because I was the girl afraid of the ball.) I would love passing the Granite Bakery on our way home from a game. Often when our team lost, he would make that quick stop on the way home to get me a consolation doughnut, and when we won he would make the same stop and get me a doughnut in congratulations.

we would have many car rides where I talked animatedly about how I assisted a team player in making a goal (I figured that every time I kicked the ball, I was helping the next person on my team who scored.) Or we just chatted about school and my day, and everything else an eight year old thinks about.

I miss putting on my generic reversible soccer shirt, and having some quality daddy daughter time with my pops, who had already spent the day working hard at the office.

And while I might not agree that making or not making a shot, or basket, or goal, or home run constitutes the end of the world, I think that playing sports as a little kid gave me time with my daddy that I wouldn't trade for anything.

so here's to all the gold medal winners of parent-of-a-kid-who-plays-sports Olympics! you're always there, you lug the lawn chairs, and you have just enough orange slices at halftime.