Insightful Sports Commentary from a True Sportster

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Insightful Sports Commentary from a True Sportster

In my twenties I did reckless things like collect cardigans and blog from a ridiculous persona named Princess TruffleFluff. Princess TruffleFluff was insane, and I had to get rid of her when I turned 30. Now I am a crotchety old woman who shakes a bony finger at rowdy youths, but I still enjoy reflecting on some of my Princess shenanigans. Please enjoy this insightful sports commentary I wrote in 2014 during the World Cup.

Because Princess owns about 17 pairs of Nike shorts, played at least 5 years of recreational basketball at her church, and once won a golf trophy, she is well-versed in anything “sporty.” Since the World Cup is going on, Princess thought many of her constituents could use a refresher on two very confusing sports, futbol and football.

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There Are No Small Ways to Love Someone

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There Are No Small Ways to Love Someone

When I told a friend that Granddaddy had died, she said she was making us dinner and that she’d drop it on the porch later. Normally I say something like, “Oh you don’t have to do that! We’ll be fine! You are so sweet!” But I just couldn’t think. I couldn’t summon the energy to turn it down, so I said a teary “thank you” and kept on parenting, poorly, kept on cleaning, clumsily, kept on stopping every hour or so to bury my face in my hands and cry. When I grabbed the package off the doorstep later that afternoon, I saw chili and cornbread muffins and coloring books for the kids, and I sobbed. The kids colored, and we ate a dinner that I didn’t have to make, and it fed deeper than physical hunger because each bite was a reminder of someone who saw me, who loved me, who was going to make sure I was taken care of that day. I knew my friend thought this was something small, but to me, it wasn’t.

It’s not small to make dinner for your struggling friend.

It’s not small to get a sitter so you can go to her granddad’s visitation or funeral.

It’s not small for you to remember that Granddaddy had the same birthday as Adelaide or his American flag cane or that you saw him a million times at our church growing up and that he was always kind. 

It’s not small at all. Not to me.

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Dear Diary

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Dear Diary

I recently flipped through the diary I kept sporadically from age 8 until I entered sixth grade. It’s the devastating tale of a pure-of-heart elementary school student who hated hand chimes (this is the depressing stepping stone to the glorious handbells of Christmas carol fame) and kept meticulous record of when she brushed her teeth, and how she grew into a nightmarish sixth grader who smiled on the outside but spewed sass in her diary and had dreams of her diary being as famous as Anne Frank’s while also confessing her deep and irrational fear of Anne Frank.

I spent the majority of the entries addressing the diary as one would a parole officer: sharing dutifully every single thing I did and apologizing if I listed them out of order or forgot to write one day, which of course I did, constantly. Every single entry contains an apology of some sort to this inanimate but oppressive diary, and this is totally, exactly how I am: enslaving myself to expectations no one else ever set, feeling terrible about it, and then eventually shaking my fist at the sky in resentment when I realize I can’t meet them. OH, HELP.

The scariest part about reading an old diary is not who you were, but who you STILL ARE. Have mercy. Here is what my diary taught me is (probably) eternally true about me:

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Very Little Ice - A Tribute to My Granddaddy

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Very Little Ice - A Tribute to My Granddaddy

“If they don’t want to hear about my grandchildren, they shouldn’t come talk to me." It's the thing I've heard him say that seems to sum him up the best: loving, unafraid to tell it like it is, and a maybe a tad bit braggadocious. He loved his family deeply and with grit. In fact, he once punched a shetland pony named Trigger IN THE FACE. Trigger had kicked my grandmother, and Granddaddy was not going to let him get away with that. 

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Nonsensical Thoughts: Halloween Edition

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Nonsensical Thoughts: Halloween Edition

I love Halloween. I always have. Candy, costumes, celebrating for no clear reason — these are, without debate, the best things ever. I tend to take costumes pretty seriously. If I get an idea in my head, you will need to sedate me and surgically remove the idea from my brain in order to get me to change course. My personality is a little off-kilter like this: I spend a good deal of time yielding to other’s opinions, very go-with-the-flow and “whatever you think!”, and then, out of nowhere, I’ll dig in my heels on something inconsequential, and you’ll never change my mind, not in a million years or for a million dollars. Ask my husband how he feels about this. (SPOILER: HE LOVES IT.) (Editor’s note: No he doesn’t.)

I remember having a crystal clear vision for my Halloween costume in fourth grade. I wanted to be an artist: have a tiny mustache, a painter’s palette, a beret. Oh, it would be very inspired! Very meaningful! Very French! Here’s how it turned out:

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