Tag Archive | soccer

The Freaking Ice Cream Man…

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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.”



“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.


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?


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,


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

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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…


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…


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.


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,


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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
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Being a Soccer Mom…(Pic)

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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.”


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.


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.


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.”



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!
The Winning Goal!

Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

Be well,


Bookmark and Share

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! Add to Technorati Favorites
S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker