Oh, yeah. Saturday!

Up early (of course) then get the kiddies dressed and ready to go to the soccer park for the first of three different games that day.

This one was one of Catherine’s games, against one of the more notorious teams in her little Under-8 intramural league. Lest anyone happen by accident upon this description of events, and take offense at my characterization of the opposing coach as a loud-mouthed, hateful, obnoxious, weak-chinned, sarcastic, condescending, insufferable, bullying blowhard smart ass bastard, and find it libelous, allow me to provide some camouflage to the parties and not give his name or that of his team.

On second thought, I should wish modify my description of him, for it seems to me for a person to truly be a smart ass, one would figure by definition he should be, you know, smart. Therefore, I withdraw my earlier characterization of him and more suitably label him as what he is, namely, a dumb ass.

I don’t know what happened in his life--maybe he has mental problems, or maybe he was the secret love child of Bobby Knight and a ferret--but any grown man who can stand there and scream and rant at little six and seven year old girls and feel good about himself is in serious need of a visit from the guys in white coats. Or needs a 2 x 4 attitude adjustment. AND PARENTS!? How can you in good conscience allow this ape to be around your kids?! Is he nice compared to you? Do you just like having your little girl cry at being so inadequate that sometimes she forgets which way she’s supposed to kick the ball?

Sad and pitiful. Although I might not complain about a dirty Target store, THIS will get some attention.

Anyway, Cat’s team lost, but only by a score of 3-2, and she played very well. It’s surprising to see the difference in her speed and ability since three months ago, but she actually moves pretty well. She still gets tired, though, and has trouble figuring out which side of the field she’s supposed to be on. She thinks the left side is the side with the parents on it, and half the game, she’s absolutely right. It’s that other half that gives her trouble. I explained it to her after we got back to the house (by way of a side trip to Wal-Mart--you didn’t actually think I would get away without a trip to Wally World, did you?) using the dry-erase board, and she almost got it, then with much mock exasperation said, “Daddy, you’re just refusing me!”

Time for yardwork after that, so I went outside and made the final assessment of what all needed to be done. It’s the wrong time of year to prune trees, which is fine because it’s easier to prune than to cut the grass. So as the kids yalped and screeched in the yard, I got the pole lopper and did some judicious trimming on Rebecca’s sycamore, and Jonathan’s pear, and on the sweet gum at the back of the yard. It gave me a very manly feeling, yet was sufficiently untaxing to my physical capabilities that I wasn’t all icky and sweaty like a real man.

After that, time to start the slow disassembly of the swing set. I ran my idea of just taking off the broken parts by Miss Reba, who rolled her eyes and said okay. Out with the socket set and in quick order I sheared the bolts of the glider portion clean off. CriiikPOP! Dern! CreeeeeekSNAP! Ow! Repeat. Probably could have fed my packrat habit and saved the nuts and bolts if I had thought to spray a little Liquid Wrench on them beforehand, but it’s probably for the best. No need for more clutter. And it was quicker, too.

Next, off with the slide, the attachments of which were likewise rustbound, and required the gentle persuasion of the Vise Grips. I stacked up the bits of broken plastic and metal tubing and sighed wistfully. Boy, who came back outside after having gone inside to visit the bathroom, interrupted my reverie--“Dad, why is the toilet paper holder torn off the wall in the little bathroom?”

“WHAT!?”

“The toilet paper thing that you stuck up is laying in the floor and the wall’s all torn up.”

Not laying, lying--wait!--more important that grammar was a search for the guilty!

“DID YOU…”

“NO sir, it was like that when I went in!”

“REBECCA! DID…”

“NO SIR! I haven’t been in the house!”

Cat.

Grr.

“Did YOU tear it off the wall?”

“Well, I went in there, and my hiney was against it and it comed off and I didn’t know what to do!”

Grr.

I went in to survey the damage. Yep, there was the holder in the floor, a fine powder of gypsum dust around it (appropriate, being that it was in the powder room, after all), and a nice wounded spot on the wall where it had previously resided.

Actually, this is the SECOND holder to be in that spot. The first was just your regular old flimsy toilet paper holder, lightly installed when the house was first built in ’96, which managed to survive the previous owners and their kids, only to be unceremoniously ripped from its moorings by none other than Tiny Terror a couple of years ago when she decided to use it as a grab bar. At the time, I tried to fix it back, but the drywall was crumbling from the anchors being pulled through, and after much frustration, I found a giant oak slab with a paper holder on it that would cover the hole and be stout enough to resist most anything short of an earthquake. Or my youngest child.

I just sat there on the pot, holding the newest addition of Stuff Broken in my hand and asking, loudly, why--WHY?!--such things had to happen to ME! Because, you know, it’s all about me.

I just put it back down on the floor. I got the Dustbuster and got up the gypsum flinders, and closed the door. It’ll eventually get put back up, but the powder room might look more like this.

Oh well. It was time for Jonathan to get ready to go to his game anyway, so as he did that I finished up cleaning the outside stuff and told Catherine to PLEASE not tear up any more of the house. She said “okay,” but sometimes things just happen.

As it was, she felt more inclined to tell Mommy what happened later in the evening while I was out of the house. Seems Catherine had an itchy butt-cheek, and decided she would place said butt-cheek on the paper dispenser and see if she could somehow manage to satisfy her butt-cheek itch by moving her butt-cheek up and down and sideways on the dispenser. Something for which it was obviously not designed, nor installed, to handle. Go figure.

Anyway, on to Boy’s soccer game in a bit.
posted by Terry at 1:43:00 PM