Red Hot Love or Radar Love? Which is it?

Have you ever wondered what the lyrics of songs actually were?

Did you ever sing the wrong lyrics?

At the top of your lungs?!

This is a Fab Short Story about the most famous mis-sung song in history!

Red Hot Love!

I mean…

Radar Love…

I mean…

Oh crap, which is it?

Dang that Golden Earring!

I don’t care… just read it!

And, if you have an extra moment…

Write a good review, because I know you’re going to love it!

Red Hot Love Or... Radar Love? Which is it?

oxo

Belle

www.BelleKarper.com

—–

Now… go feed my fish!

They are freaking hungry, man!

—–

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Red Hot Love Or... Radar Love? Which is it?

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Multi Award-Winning Author Get your copy today!

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Writer’s Digest Awarded “E.B. White and Me.” Get your copy today!

Available for ALL DIGITAL READERS!

Available at Amazon!

E.B. White and Me

BUY IT TODAY!

xoxo

Belle

www.BelleKarper.com

Beverly Hills Film Festival – Official Selection Finalist

Awarded Author

Fade In Awards Quarter-Finalist – still in the running!

FIRST PLACE WINNER – MOFILM Los Angeles, Next SXSW competition in Austin, then Barcelona, Spain!

A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author

Finalist 2011 Top 25 Semi-Finalist Los Angeles Comedy Festival

Finalist 2011 10th FilmMakers International Screenwriting Awards (1st Round Qualifier — Still in Running)

Finalist 2011 New York City Gotham Film Festival – Final 5th Place Comedy

Finalist and 1st Runner Up Screenwriting Comp

Top 24 Finalist Los Angeles Reel Film Festival 2011

Contest Top 20 Finalist Atlanta PeachTree Film Festival 2011

Top 24 Finalist SkyFest Film Festival 2011

— Announcing  “PICKLED TINK” — Screwball Comedy Screenplay!   Belle Karper,

— Announcing  “MAKING UP WITH MORTELLA” — Dark Comedy about Good and Evil, the magic of MakeUp and the Beauty of the Heart.

Award-Winning Author, Screenwriter, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com                         Email Belle@BelleKarper.com WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor Check out Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog! and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – The Ridiculous Escapades of Belle Karper on YouTube!

All on Website Save it, Baby! Count me in!

Taco Bell again?…!

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Taco Bell again?…My son’s definitely a connoisseur of fine dining. Three tacos and a crunchwrap, please.

UGH Please!

xoxo

Belle

Save it, Baby! Count me in!

And, of course, watch my Skydiving Video.

MOFILM First Place Winner, onto Austin, then Barcelona!

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

I have to tell you that last weekend was incredible!

MOFILM competition sort of fell into my lap last Sunday where well over 100 people came together To make a MOFILM Short Commercial for a hired client.

Sorry, I can tell you who it is.   😉

Do you want to know why?

Because we won FIRST PLACE!

And now we are going on to the competition in Austin at the SXSW level, and then on to Barcelona, Spain!

Hell-0-0 — I hear Barcelona calling me!

Yeh-eah!

Let me tell you how it went…

We showed up at 9 AM at location in Los Angeles

Where at approximately 9:15 we were told who the client was, what they were seeking, and who their market was.

Pretty cool!

But then the work began…

We had to form teams with people we didn’t even know! (Teams of 5 only)

We had to come up with an idea that would capture the client issues and needs

We had to formulate that idea into a script

We had to cast it

We had to go on location

We had to shoot it

Arturo Toledo and I in the shot for our MOFILM victory commercial

We had to come back and edit it

ALL BY 4 PM ON THE SAME DAY!

HOLY CRAP!

Let’s just say that we, (I and my team of 4 others — Arturo, Bill, Christine, Marilu and myself! AAAAAh!)…

WE DID IT!

WE WON FIRST PLACE!

And, I won a Sony Camera… not too shabby!

Stay tuned!

xoxo

Belle

www.BelleKarper.com

FIRST PLACE WINNER – MOFILM Los Angeles, Next SXSW competition in Austin, then Barcelona, Spain!

A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author

Finalist 2011 Top 25 Semi-Finalist Los Angeles Comedy Festival

Finalist 2011 10th FilmMakers International Screenwriting Awards (1st Round Qualifier — Still in Running)

Finalist 2011 New York City Gotham Film Festival – Final 5th Place Comedy

Finalist and 1st Runner Up Screenwriting Comp

Top 24 Finalist Los Angeles Reel Film Festival 2011

Contest Top 20 Finalist Atlanta PeachTree Film Festival 2011

Top 24 Finalist SkyFest Film Festival 2011

— Announcing  “PICKLED TINK” — Screwball Comedy Screenplay!   Belle Karper,

— Announcing  “MAKING UP WITH MORTELLA” — Dark Comedy about Good and Evil, the magic of MakeUp and the Beauty of the Heart.

Award-Winning Author, Screenwriter, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com                         Email Belle@BelleKarper.com
WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – The Ridiculous Escapades of Belle Karper on YouTube!

All on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

And, of course, watch my Skydiving Video.

Who Won?

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

Well, let’s just suffice it to say that I had to spray a lot of perfume on this morning. There was no time to shower, much less mascara my eyelashes. This game was just too dang early…

 I’m not happy to admit this, and so I am not formally admitting this… but my husband informs me that I may not be a “morning person.”

Huh?

What does he know?

He is off riding the mountainsides in Utah right now.

He may or may not be right. I don’t have the freaking patience to find out at this early hour, but I did have a hard time waking up this morning.

Go figure.

My only incentives being:

A. To see my son play

B. To see my son play well

C. To see my son play well against “dickhead.”

Now, I am not one to hold any grudges.

Like, I have almost forgiven that little bitch in high school… almost.

I don’t use the voodoo doll on her anymore… well, only semi-annually.

Heck, I have other things to do than live in the past.

And, that neighbor that I used to have living near me, emphasis on used to (and no, nothing mysterious happened to her… much to my regret. She just moved… how common, right?)

Let’s just say that when the book came out, The Devil Wears Prada, I thought it was about my neighbor.

Bee-atch, with a small ass and rock-hard boobs.

Yikes. I remember the first time she hugged me. I was bruised for a week from her plastic surgery stone tits.

Well, I am still in therapy over all of that neighborhood nonsense stuff. 

No one here misses her dropping her garbage into other people’s cans.

Yeah baby, you can keep your dirty diapers to yourself.

Schtinky.

My dog misses them though. Evidently, there is something attractive with the scent of toddler diarrhea rolled in a Pampers disposables…

Eeeeeeuuuuw.

So, like I said I’m not one to keep grudges. So the fact that we are facing up dickhead and his team this morning is double-edged.

First off, I had to drive all the way back to my house because I forgot my chair.

I knew this was not going to be a good sign.

My sweet little sugar-coated ass would melt on the beauty of the morning dew if I were to sit on the ground. We can’t be having any of that wet dew sinking into my “down there” now can we?

Right.

So, I drove back to get my chair.

Gosh.

Secondly, I can’t help it that I express myself verbally.

Calling a kid dickhead seemed and still seems appropriate, and if the conditions arise again… and I feel the need to express myself in these and other matters, then I am bound by the “Mother Bear” Codes of Conduct to protect my little cub.

Regardless.

And… I am going to disregard the coaches messages left on my cell phone informing me of various muzzle supply shops.

A muzzle?

For who?

Dickhead?

That might be a little extreme for a 15-year-old, but I picked one up for him just in case.

I do understand the mouths of these babes, because I live with two teenagers and I could see how it could come in handy.

Like… everyday.

So, I bought him an extra-large.

Because he has an extra-large dickhead.

Du-u-uh.

I learned that from my kids… that “duh” thing.

Doesn’t it just make you feel good all over?

….

Well, right now… we are knee-deep in the second half and the score is one-to-one.

The kids are dripping with sweated competitiveness. Licking their teenaged chops for this victory that is due them. The tension hovers over the parents around me.

And me… well, I am in a catatonic stare… they are all navy colored enemies against our white shirted boys, and now those 15-year-old little penile wannabes threaten our good Saturday.

They have kicked two of our guys in the balls.

Hard.

One of their players received a red card.

And if that is not enough, they have tackled my son to the point where he was lying on the ground for literally two minutes.

Just lying there.

Unmoving.

And, I was not allowed to go on the field.

Mama bear does not like this part.

And, I’m going to tell you that two minutes is a very long time when your son is in pain, on the ground and not moving.

….

I would like to say that we won the game, but we did not.

We played a hard fight, but a clean one.

I left my comments until after the three tweets of the whistles were heard, signaling the end of the game.

Then I let a few “explicatives” fly…

A tough loss for all…

For us…

For other dickheads across the world…

And… for the world…

I don’t think that I am over exaggerating here, when I say that this IS a tough loss for the entire world…

Tragic.

And then of course, we all went to CoCo’s for breakfast.

🙂

Hug, hug, kiss, kiss, Y’all — Even you with hard boobies — Still love ya! xoxo

 

The is the final to: 

If you don’t know who dickhead is … ***** Then Click Here *****  

A must read story.

A follow-up story with pictures is ***** Here*****

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

There is no justice!!!

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .   

 

My darling son has advanced into tournament playoffs…

Of course… He is after all — fabulous!

And, guess who he is playing…

That’s right…

Dickhead.

Bright and early (holy crap, I hope I’m able to take a shower this time!) Saturday morning.

If you don’t know who dickhead is … ***** Then Click Here *****  

A must read story.

A follow-up story with pictures is ***** Here*****

I might have to put my picture in again of me croaking out… although I will probably have another picture by then… with a new heart attack on the horizon.

😉

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

Meet Ma and Pa Kettle…My Parents and Pics!

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

Okay, let’s face it they’re not going to be exactly thrilled that I called them “Ma & Pa Kettle.”

And, also please don’t point out the fact that I am showing my age by even knowing who “Ma & Pa Kettle” are…

I am aware of this disastrous revelation.

But, really… I am not THAT old.

And, if you think that I AM that old, then I am truly complimented because I look absolutely amazing for a 80-year old woman…

So, “Ma & Pa Kettle”…

FYI, they are not the thing that is sitting on your stove.

Nor are they cute little salt and pepper shakers.

I really don’t think I’m here to educate you, Dahhhhhhhlings… so Google it, baby… if you must.

In any event, these are pictures of the fine procreators that got together on one chilly fall evening to make the life-changing event that would happen nine months later…

Me! Moi!

Si.

Okay… so I’m bilingual.

Uh… trilingual.

My husband is very appreciative of my lingual abilities… 😉

So, without any further ado…

Oh, and don’t forget to read “GAMEY at the Game” post — great fun!

Mom and I... Chicks on a Mission...

My delightful husband and my groovy Dad!

Me... about to have a freaking heart attack at the game... AAAAAh!

 

Mom, Dad, Me... Oh yeah, and the reason why we are here -- "The Boy!"

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

“Gamey” at the Game…

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

So, I’m sitting at the game. The soccer game. The sport that my son loves, and is “uber” talented at.

What a fricking irritating word that is… “uber?”

Since I’m not from Europe I don’t feel like I have the right to use it.

Uber. Uber. Uber.

Screw it. I’m feeling more European already. I have the unshaved legs to prove it.

Furthermore, my husband is sitting next to me…  He reminds me that I neglected to shower today.

Dingleberry.

But, I love this dingleberry, but he still a little bit of a Doo-Doo… for reminding me.

What can I say?

He’s right.

This is the second day in a row that we’ve had to wake up so early in the morning after a Friday night and Saturday night of partying, but I just didn’t have it in me to wake up early enough to take a shower this morning.

Yeah.

So… I’m a little shtinky.

I want to make a formal apology to everybody that had to sit near me.

So here it is…

….

Did you hear it?

The apology?

It was faint, I know.

But, it was there. I assure you. I swear on a stack of Victoria’s Secret catalogs that I apologized… for being “gamey” at the game.

Will you forgive me?

I just want you all to know that I put on extra deodorant…

And,  a lot of strong perfume spraying was going on in my bathroom before we left.

Only the strongest perfume, I might add.

And, only the best.

When I stink, I smell good doing it, at least.

And, I wore a hat, so that the strands of my hair would be tethered down instead of full flare in the bright of the morning sun.

No hair flaring, right?

I’ve got it covered, y’all.

I’m not going to embarrass anybody here.

People tend not to sit next to me anyway because I’m the loudest one on the field.

IS THIS A FRICKING SURPRISE HERE?

People from the other side of the field are still talking about some of my comments…

NORMALLY ….  I am the person cheering the loudest for BOTH sides of the team. When someone makes an excellent play — I cheer for it, despite which side they are on. I am the token parent that is always yelling “Go! Team! Go!” Ever present for every move that they make on the field. I don’t care if they make a bad play, I just keep yelling, “Keep on kicking! Keep up the pressure! You guys are great!”

I can’t help it… it’s in my blood.

I was a cheerleader in Junior High, High School, and at the University of Arizona — Baby, it is in my blood!

However, today… something happened…

Babies…

Well, I tried to be polite by giving that kid from the other team the ball when it almost hit me, but when he found out that it was “our” throw in, he kicked it away from our boys and me…

I can’t help that I happen to call him a “dickhead.”

Just like he can’t help being one, I suppose…

But, that was just a rude thing to do…

Here I was being kind, and all… to the other team, I want to remind you… and here, the little “dickhead” kicked the ball away from everybody when “nanny-nanny-boo-boo” he found out that it wasn’t “their” throw in…

Meanie.

They are in high school and old enough to know better…

My husband is still trying to convince me (in front of my son) and I didn’t actually mean to call him a “dickhead.”

And, I keep telling my husband, also in front of my son, that I DID intend to call him a “dickhead”… It’s just that I DIDN’T intend for the other side to hear it…

Including the parents across the field…

Evidently, they heard it, too.

Eeeeek!

Hmmm…

My son was laughing when he heard it, and shot the opposing procreators “a look” when they gasped at my social faux pas.

Pardon me… but my subconscious seems to have belched…

Oops.

I’m going to blame it on the fact that I didn’t shower today. That the little stinky part leapt into my brain, and caused me to do wild and unspeakable actions… even though they are irrepressibly true…

I can’t help it that my voice carries…

Dang, I hate that when that happens…

Yeah… Well, I just wanted to tell you all that my son’s team, that really does play a clean game of soccer (seriously folks, I am not making this up) that his team won the 35th Annual Best Sportsmanship Medal for the entire League today…

This is TRUE and they are deserving.

They are THE BEST.

Truly.

Despite my “dickhead” comment…

Now, I am going to leave it open here as to whether you think I am calling myself a “dickhead” in that last line of relaying this story to you…

Maybe, I’m feeling a little bad here.

Maybe.

Maybe he’s a great kid… depsite me??!!

Waaaa-aaah-ahhhh … aaahh (this is me crying…) Sniff… sniff…

I can’t help that I am only human… a human mom… with feelings… and energies… and a fricking mouth…. Waaaa-aaah-ahhhh … aaahh (this is me STILL crying…) Sniff… sniff…

I am so proud of he and his teammates for rising above the name calling on… sniff, sniff…  (and evidently off) the field…

Love me… in spite of me!…  😉

My Star Player wearing his 35th Annual Sportsmanship Medal -- Best in entire League!

Our Great Team! "The Boy" Front Row, 2nd from Right

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

The Freaking Ice Cream Man…

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

I’m sitting once again at my son’s soccer game.

He excels in soccer and his team is riding high — undefeated in the tournament league. All kinds of parents around me, however the older big kids get, the fewer the parents to show up.

The ice cream guy is driving by. A rickety contraption that is identical to the truck they used in “Borat.”

The music is damned annoying.

Frankly, it’s a miracle that this thing moves at all. It’s a gasolin-ic wonder on wheels, despite the load it carries of the re-re-re-frozen goodies.

FYI — I never buy anything milk-based from one of these frozen “Goodie men.” I figure that I am risking my next 5-12 hours of digestive health whenever I purchase anything from one of these “trucks.”

Possible botulism on a stick.

I thus, further argue that you can re-freeze a fruity popsicle at least 20 times in a season before the bacteria converts it from a perky cherry pink to dulled dark grape. Wouldn’t that be a hoot — that grape is not actually a flavor at all… just the natural progression of bacterial degradation…?

I digress.

So, I walk up to the Goodie truck.

Also FYI, I am always wary of ice cream trucks or vans with no windows.

Makes me nervous.

Like… what’s going on back there? You got a secret, buddy? Something you don’t want the world to know about? A little contra-

“What do you want, lady?”

“I’m…uh… trying to make up my mind…”

“Well, hurry up. I’ve gotta hit two more soccer fields before noon.”

“What kind of popsicles do you have?”

“What lady, you can’t read?” He asks impatiently. “Make up your mind woman, because once I start playing my music again — I’m outta  here.”

“Okay… a Cherry Popswider, please.”

“Out.”

“Huh?’

“No have. Out. Nada. Zero. Got it, ding dong?”

Ding Dong? “Uh… Okay,” I leaned back and reread the side of the truck. “How about a Lemon Ginger Crack?”

“You joking me? Don’t you see that line crossed out for that one?”

I take a step back and look at the 6 inch painted letters that say Lemon Ginger Crack, and I see a single pen line drawn through it that looks more like a key scratch which happens to match all the other 8 million scratches on this musical motorized contraption.

“Kids don’t like no stinking Ginger.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice and ‘ice creamy’ like the digital music that you blarefrom those dangling speakers?” I proceed with caution, “I think I remember another guy. He’s a little nicer, you know. Are you really the ice cream man?”

“No. I’m his brother. He’s out interviewing clients for a case.”

“He’s… an attorney?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

What did he just say?

“Now are you gonna buy a freaking popsicle or you gonna find out more about my illustrious family tree, doll face?” He circles his nipples with his ring fingers and blows me a silent kiss.

Eeeeuuuu.

I am now officially scared of this man. 

“Uh… Do you have any Tutti-Frutti on a Stick?”

“How fricking old are you? Those were out in the 90s, man. Join the 21st century, Darlin’.”

Here I am, being berated by a substitute ice cream man?

WTF?

I decide that I can’t handle the stress of ordering one of these frozen pastels. One of these icy delights…

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

“No.” Jerk off. Doo-doo head. Nanny nanny Boo Boo, stick you head in-

“Do you want something or not, I’ve got an itchy music finger.”

“Press your fricking music button, asshole. What do you do during the week when you’re not degrading preteen ice cream clients and their parents?”

“I drive a cab. Now get out of the fricking way.”

—–

Just a little Saturday humor!

Happy freaking Saturday, y’all!

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

Waking Up Sleeping Bitchy…

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

I feel a gentle shake on my shoulder this morning. “Honey, time to wake up. ‘The boy’s’ soccer game. We’ve got to get up.”

I hear my son call in the background. “I have to kiss your mother first,” my husband says.

“Are you going to kiss me, and dare to wake up Sleeping Bitchy?” I give a little smirk with my eyes still closed. I can hear him giggle near my face.

“Come on, kiss me already! Sleeping Bitchy has to get moving,” my eyes still closed with a full smile on my face.

I can feel him hovering over me… deciding… “should I wake this sleeping beauty, or let this sleeping dog lie?”

“Kiss me, dammit!”

Still nothing.

“You’re a pooter,” I say and he starts to laugh.

“Maybe, it’s like waking up sleeping whiny!” he says.

“Whatever, just kiss me already.”

So, alas, the Prince, Sir Dick-a-lot places a speculative kiss of aggravation on the perturbed lips of the impatiently waiting Sleeping Bitchy.

And, then, as if by magic, she opens and flutters her mascara stained eyes that have sort of glued together due to the ridiculously expensive eye cream that she smoothed around her orbs the night before after she hugged her irritated teenagers good night when they responded with the entitled arrogance of the times.

Sleeping Bitchy is so proud…

Right.

So we can understand Sir Dick-a-lot’s reticence, can’t we?

His perception is — There she lies, the freaking “queen.”

Sleeping Bitchy/Whiny/(fill in the blank…).

Hair a-flounced, static electricitied into a blond fuzz. The right side of her delicate wisps cemented to the concave of her cheek.

So attractive… Sleeping Bitchy is…

Hmmm…

AND, yet… he kissed me with “wake up” breath.

Sir Dick-a-lot, you are so brave!

My face swollen with a sleepy bloat, as if to defy gravity…

And yet…

He still kissed… this maiden of the dreams… me, Sleeping Bitchy.

Hmmm…

Could this be love?

Does the Prince, Sir Dick-a-lot actually love Sleeping Bitchy?

Despite the trappings of the daily wake-up process?

Despite sleepy dead mouth?

Despite smoochy mascara goo-ed eye glomps?

Despite the hair fanned across the pillow and bonded to the right side of my face with virile tenacity?

And… yet…

He still kissed me…

Sleeping Bitchy…

Yes, this must be love…

And, I wake up, like it is a suprise to be awake! I am awake! Sleeping Bitchy is now awake!

I give Sir Dick-a-lot a grateful hug, drink some of my left-over tea from the night before and …

Then I scream, “Where’s my freaking tiara?”

The day has begun…

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

Being a Soccer Mom…(Pic)

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

So here I am sitting at my son’s soccer game today. Surrounded by all of the people that generally come to these types of things — supportive moms and dads, geriatric grandparents they can barely make it to the field, coaches that have their jock straps onto tight, and the occasional homeless person driving a cart filled with all kinds of crap dating back to the 1980s.

So like I said, I’m sitting at my son’s soccer game and I am screaming the normal hoots and hollers like any ex-University cheerleader with do — a cheerleading history spanning from Junior High, High School, and then the varsity line at University of Arizona. That’s fricking true, goddammit.

Needless to say (but I will say it if I want to . . .) that I am the loudest one on the sidelines.

No biggie.

People are used to me.

They have learned to bring their earplugs by now.

If not, they certainly will remember them by the next game . . .

I have been coming to the soccer games for longer than I can remember.

Let’s think back . . . I remember going to my sons soccer game and my daughter’s soccer games my daughter is now 17 so I went to 10 or 11 years of soccer games for her and I’ve been to… I think this is the eighth season for my son. This means so I have been doing this for at least 13 years.

Lucky 13.

As I said, we parents of the soccer cloth have to sit on the sidelines.

The boys have gotten to the age now that they require three referees per game.  The “on the field” ref (don’t you love my technical terminology?), and two sideline flag refs.

You also have to understand that soccer in Southern California is nothing like soccer in Pennsylvania, for the mere fact that our “grasses” are generally a greenish brown and barely even resemble grass at all.  They are sort of a ragged scattering of carpet-like growth that barely makes it to the end of the field. 

None of this greenish-grass-like stuff is wasted on the sidelines.

None of it.

So, we, the parents. The supporting and instigating portion of this whole scenario, get to sit in dirt. Loose, nasty, non-grassed dirt.

It’s not the lush beautiful green grass that you have on the East Coast, the South or even in the Midwest. 

This crap is dry, man.

Therefore, it’s dryness is magnified by it’s nearness to this rabid ground growth that we Californians call “grass.”  Said “grass” is not to be confused with any type of recreational grass that might be being sold by Joe, the homeless man over there, or by Jose in the Ice Cream truck.

No. Those are completely different kinds of grasses.

So, these are the sidelines and the backdrop for our Saturdays and Sundays, where we get to watch our children kick the “soccer crap” out of other children’s butts on the field. 

Just a little weekend fun, kids . . . hey, no one is getting hur—“Hey Ref that kid just kicked my son in the mouth — Yellow card, yellow card — where the freaking yellow card on that, you blind SOB.” The other parents support me with a unified “Boooooooooo.”

Yeah.

Just a little Saturday . . . Sunday fun out in the ball park.

Sucking dust.

Gotta love just a little live action team bonding.

So we sit in our folding chairs, eating chocolate croissants, and drinking our double decaf Starbucks cappuccinos (lite). Yeah, just shoving all that caloric crap in our mouths while we shout out orders to our kids on the field — AS IF we could do even half of what our kids are mastering — yes, we continue to shout out our orders and our advanced expertise.

But . . . do they listen?

No. They just keep listening to their coach.

They just keep sticking to the game plan.

Why do I waste my breath, right?

So we sit there watching our kids work off a few calories combined with the divine enjoyment of seeing them inhale vast amounts Los Angeles fluorocarbons, general city pollutants and dried dust mites that reside in this ground dust.

By the end of the season, parents are bringing margarita’s and get toasted at a mere 9 o’clock in the morning.

Now, I am not one to turn down a margarita, don’t get me wrong. I just have my standards and those include not having margarita until at least 930 in the morning.  You know, it’s important to set guidelines.

And, while I sit in the sort of the dust bowl of sticks and dried flour-like dirt that clouds itself around me — even if I am sitting still — I hope that I won’t get a choking attack and thoroughly embarrass my dear, precious son. I happen to set my purse down on the ground and this airy-dirt immediately clings to the outside of my purse and a before I know it my white outfit has now turned a light shade of brown.

I really wanted it to stay white.

So I’m sitting here and the excitement of the game as always, almost causes me to have a coronary. I want so badly for my son to do well, and he is an extraordinary soccer player. So it is very fun to watch him run that ball up and down the field despite the other players the get in the way.

Fuck ’em.

I want my kid to win.

As I sit here in this Linus-like dust cloud am reminded of Charlie Brown in so much that the sideline flag referee comments on my excitement when my son cakes in a beautiful goal and scores a point for our team.

Needless to say I am jumping up and down and up and down and hurling in the hooting and hollering like a crazed lunatic, but really it mostly resembles an excited mom that has this perfected and has been doing this for like I said, 13 years.

So, I have the jumping-up-and-down-thing the twirling-thing the kicking-thing, and the saying-and-screaming-thing . . . down.

Like I could be a professional-jumper-twirler-kicker-screamer.

Alas, at this point I don’t see much of a market for professional jumper- twirler-kicker-screamers, so I confine my talents to the amateur high school age soccer arena. Of which, I am sure, all of the other parents are “thrilled” that I am there to be the resident jumper-twirler-kicker-screamer.

So, what.

I am not here to embarrass them.

I am here to embarrass my kid.

And, have done so for more that 13 years.

I HAVE IT DOWN.

Sometimes, they giggled quietly among themselves.

I think I am an amusement to them.

They certainly know when I am in attendance.

But, like I said my son kicked the goal into the soccer netting, and I flew out of my seat with such an intensity that’s a I think it would’ve scored a 9.8 for the Americans on the Olympic scale of the great Nadia Comaneci status.

Yes, I flew out of my chair a with a sidekick arched twirling and spinning and screaming and hooting and hollering at this sideline referee made the very opinionated comment, “My, my, my… it seems like someone is excited here.”

No shit, Sherlock.

That’s my fricking boy out there that just scored the winning goal.  What do you expect me to do, crochet?

And then I happened to look in his red rounded face as he is saying that this delightful commentary about my exuberance, I am looking at him and when I notice him saying this, that his shorts have now crept up to such a bundle in his crotch, that I don’t even know how he’s able to walk this way and that to perform his little flag waves for the sideline.

His thighs are so tightly scraping together that if it weren’t for the noisy excitement on the field combined with my hoots and hollers in the occasional guffaws of the other parents, I am sure that I would hear a sandpaper sound with every stride that he made.

Of course I am excited, jerk-off — get your panties out of a wad. Crap, that I cannot say what I am thinking.

Please . . . stop walking . . . stop running.

I can almost see some pubes, I don’t want to see “your holy mother of god apricot sack” if your shorts crawl up to certain height.

Step. Step. “White Ball,”  he screams.

Each step he takes . . . and his shorts go up a little further.

STOP WALKING FOR GOD’S SAKE — THIS IS NOT AN ANATOMY LESSON!

Just know, that it you take one more step sir, I and all the people with 20/20 vision may become blind.

Finally, I am jolted out of this revolting observation due to the fact that my son scores another goal.

Once again — leap-fly-swirl-scream-jump! Yay!!!!!

Whistle. “Off-sides.”

Traitor.

Asshole.

Bad call, you mo-fo.

We try to keep the language clean . . . for the kids, you know.

My son is angry. His second goal — which honestly should have been good — even the coach was upset . . .

But, alas . . . WE WON . . .  We, as if I had anything to do with it.

My son scored the winning goal!

Life is great.

They all clap hands with the other team. “Good game” each kid says one to the other. It’s a good sport.

We pack up the chairs, the Gatorade, the empty Starbucks cups, notebooks, charts, water bottles, umbrellas, hats, sunscreen, and what’s left of our pride, and waddle toward the car.

Yeah, soccer is a great game.

Even if you get your shorts in a bind . . .

The Winning Goal!

Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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