When I lived in San Francisco, my mom used to call me every Saturday morning.
She was in Maryland, waiting impatiently until a "civil" time to call. She usually waited until 9 or 9:30.
The trouble with that is the whole pesky time zone thing. So, alllllllllllll the way in San Francisco, my phone would RINGRINGRING at 6 or 6:30 AM.
The trouble with that is that Saturday morning comes after Friday night.
For example: We used to go to a bar in the Mission called the Makeout Room. They played Social Distortion and had a baby doll head in a jar of formaldehyde behind the bar. We took cabs and stayed until closing time. I had a black faux fur Hello Kitty purse.
Last Saturday morning, Jack had his first ever soccer game of life.
The game was on the fields just down the street. They start at either 8 or 9.
Jack and his doppelganger, A., ran around, passed the ball, made shots, made those shots at the correct goals, and scored a few times.
|Look at my soccer mom photobomb. Look at it!|
I, never one to cheer, found myself whooping on the sidelines with the best of'em.
The trouble with this is that I think I am now TECHNICALLY a soccer mom.
For example: Durel is the team's coach. I emailed all the parents to rotate who brings snacks to the games. I brought them this time. I brought Goldfish, orange slices, and 100% juice pouches. I wore (hot pink, thankfully) sneakers.
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Tell me how you spend your Saturday mornings, and I'll tell you who you are.
Hope you diversify over time.