The kids and I flew to Texas for spring break. Grandma, Papa, and
Uncle Bill scooped us up at the airport and we all sobbed a little over
Iowa State's last second NCAA tourney loss to Ohio State. The game ended
only minutes before we landed and – a frustrating thing in many sports –
the outcome hinged on a controversial referee decision, a charging /
blocking call. Charles Barkley was livid and insisted, in post-game TV
commentary, that Iowa State was robbed. I'm not one to disagree with
Charles Barkley. So we shook off disappointment and headed straight for
the Fort Worth Stockyards, a place that looks and feels – and smells – like a real cowtown. Real cowboys and cowgirls ride up and down the streets –
they ride horses, I mean, not Harley's or in cars, although those were
mixed into passing traffic also. The horse-riders appeared very capable
and authentic, with all the proper accessories and tools; they had worn
and dusty boots and hats, spurs, chaps, ropes, and Wranglers. They had
humongous belt buckles. Yosemite Sam comes to mind, and not as a
caricature or exaggeration. And many had holstered guns, which really
consummated the image until I noticed they also had holstered cell
phones. The area gets its name from cattle drives that still pass
through the town and into nearby sale barns and pens, aka stockyards. We
saw wagons and steers and several mustaches. We heard twangy voices and
sounds – I'm pretty sure they aren't words –
like y'all, reckin', fixin', and pardner. People were very nice. And I
was relieved to see exactly zero cowboys squinting at Google Maps on
saddle-mounted Android devices. Yee-haw!
I am
Megan's sherpa. If we go for a walk, or to a store, or a restaurant, or
anywhere at all, Megan will say, "Dad, will you hold my chapstick?" Sure. Then, "Dad, will you carry my scarf, please?" I guess,
followed by, "Dad, I'm hot; will you take my coat," and "Dad, can you
carry my sweater?" and "Dad, here's my hat." We go through everything
after that – purse, book, water bottle, paint chips, stupid pamphlets she picks up, (which I discard immediately) – until finally, "Dad, will you carry me?"
I oblige, because I won't be able to do it forever, and I don't get to
snuggle and sniff her much otherwise. And it's good exercise. And, I
don't know, shit, do I need more excuses not to sound like putty?
At dinner last night, Michael said, "Do we ever vacuum the kitchen floor?" I said, "As a matter of fact, Michael, we do not ever vacuum the kitchen floor, but I
do." Sometimes. Maybe not super-often. Maybe not often enough. Okay, I
get it. Although, in my defense, I just vacuumed last weekend (after a
minor, month-long hiatus) and I am definitely not one of the two people
who leave mountains of crumbs every time a cracker, cookie, or chip is
consumed, or a slice, piece, or bite of anything whatsoever is handled,
or, rather, mishandled. And, for the record, Michael has never
complained about the toilets. I clean those often. Maybe it's time he
clean those often. I still have the dishes, laundry, sinks, counters,
tables, mirrors, tub, and shower to keep me busy. And the floors! Don't
forget the floors!
