I'd call it "Cricket".

Why just say you're a dumbass?


My dad likes to crush my dreams. And by crush my dreams I mean tell me what to do. And by tell me what to do I mean make me wish I lived with a camera crew.

He's also "afraid" to read this blog. Which is tacit permission for me share intimate family secrets. Like the fact that he's a fatalist and believes you have to be born with certain abilities. por ejemplo.

YESTERDAY- WHEN YOU WERE AT CHURCH

Daughter2
Dad, you don't even like golf.

Dad 1
It's too late for me to learn. Its just nice to be out in the open.
Daughter2
That's why people take lessons. Not even Tiger Woods was born knowing how to play golf.

Dad1
I'd only play golf if I could swing with a baseball bat.

Daughter2 puts HEAD in HANDS.

Dad1, continued
I think the ball would go really far. What would you call that? Balf? Is that a B-o or B-a? Some decisions have to be made.

Daughter2
What color should we paint the den.


In unrelated news, I've spent the last month speaking with contractors (Contracter #2: I promise Miss, the house will look very pretty. Me: How did you get in here?), pouring through carpet and color samples, and packing. Which means I'm running into things I forgot we had. Like a Tahitian Hip Hop with Kili workout video. And a videotape labeled "VIBE AWARDS 1997".

I blame Russell Simmons.