Play soccer not soldier!

I recently blogged about how soccer transcends politics.  I can now report that it also transcends war!  It's been reported by more than one news source that there was a pause in the bombing of Gaza that coincided with the final match of the World Cup.  And, it was NOT a coincidence.  BOTH sides were watching the match!


I mean, GET OUT!!!


I can see the slogans:


Play soccer not soldier!
Tackle world issues on the pitch!
Boots not bombs!
Balls not bombs!
Put Germany in charge (awkward... trying to come up with something funny to do with Germany)
One ball could save thousands!
World peace is the goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllll!!


One can hope.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today my dad turns 90. 


Frank Lochridge was born in Illinois and raised in South Dakota.  His father was a Methodist minister.  He had one older brother, now deceased.  He was a soldier in World War II, a husband for 65 years, father to five boys and one girl, and grandfather and great-grandfather to many, many more. 


My father lived a good life by most standards.  He would argue with me, but I suspect he was kind of spoiled.  His father wasn't present, as we like to say now.  Then, it wasn't unusual.  So he was left to his mother's care.  To say she loved him dearly is an understatement.  In her eyes, he could do no wrong.  My daughter Jenny would say she wore "mom goggles."


Esther Lochridge called my father June, as in Junior.  We kids once tried to call him that, mocking his feminine moniker.  It didn't really go over.


My father loved all sports.  If it involved a ball, he played.  He was a natural and luckily was able to turn his athleticism into an occupation after college.  He would spend the next 25 years with the YMCA, mostly in Aberdeen, S.D.


Then a vacation trip in 1974 to California and back to South Dakota took my father, mother and two younger brothers through Montana.  I recall his excitement upon returning.  He and my mother had decided to sell everything and move to this wondrous place with grand mountains and forests and raging rivers.  But don't tell Esther.  Yet. 


It turned out to be the right decision.  He loved Montana and the challenge of making a living there.  He and my mother and two younger brothers became Montanans. They are Montanans.  And they were able to bring Esther to live with them for her final years. 


Now my father is in his final years.  For several years he has been gradually leaving us as dementia has pretty much replaced his ability to think and remember.  But he made it to 90 years!  That is an accomplishment.


Happy Birthday, Dad!   

Obama in Texas (I hope someone packed the olive branch)

The president is coming to Texas for a couple of fundraisers.  Nothing wrong with that, right?


Wait. I forgot we are talking about President Obama so the GOP theory of any movement is the wrong movement must apply.  Walk one of his dogs?  Cat hater!   Not engage with crazy dictators?  Dictator hater!  The activity is irrelevant.  It's all about the hate.


So when Gov. Perry asks the president to carve out some time during his visit to talk about the lost children of South America crossing our borders, Obama has said thanks, but no thanks.  I can't say I blame the president and his staff for brushing off our governor.  Been snake bit one too many times by that one.    


But this time I do hope our president reconsiders his decision not to meet with Gov. Perry.  This situation needs any and all ideas.  Imagine the good that could come from a meeting of these two men and their staffs.


Fingers crossed. 


UPDATE: The president has reconsidered and is meeting with Gov. Perry tomorrow.  Fingers still crossed.

Me to customer service: Yahh, don't have a nice day, then!

I am pissed today.  Had to control my breathing to slow the old heart rate.  What set me off?  Horrible customer service.  We aren't getting our pool serviced this week (awwww, poor us, I know), because our dog barked yesterday at the pool guy and he wouldn't come into the backyard.


OK.  First, Thursdays (which is today, not yesterday) is our scheduled service day.  Second, when I pointed that out to the customer service person, she could care less.  "It's our short week."  Fourth of July and all.  I think I still would have kept it together if only she had added those two magic words, "I'm sorry." 


I know I shouldn't be sweating the small stuff, but it's MY small stuff and why should I always be the nice one.  Niceness; my cultural albatross.


This past week I binge watched the FX show "Fargo."  It reminded me how agonizingly polite my people (I was born in North Dakota, raised in South Dakota) are.  The portrayals of course are an exaggerated homage to world class passivity.  Billy Bob Thornton's character attempts to obliterate niceness.  Characters played by Colin Hank and Alison Tolman stand in his way.  Holy shit, it got intense.  Or, as my people would say: Aw heck, it was scary!


Maybe my pissed reaction to the I-could-care-less customer service person was a lingering influence from the show.  Make a stand, gosh darn it!  But don't be impolite, yahh know.


So when I was told there would be no one coming, I said "that's all I needed to know" and hit the end call button on my cell phone.  I could hear the customer service person still talking when I hung up.  Uff dah!  That should make her think twice next time, then. 


It for sure made me feel better, dontcha know...