Monday, May 17, 2010

Neosporin breath

I'm a 55 year old knucklehead with an 8 year old daughter.

And four grown kids.

Yes, I know the math.

Yes, I know the issues.

Just please allow me to share the joy of what an 8 year old girl is all about.

On Saturday, we went to her riding lesson at Palos Verdes Stables.

If you've never driven south of Los Angeles into PV, you've missed something.

It is a magic place.

Years ago, the rich folk found it.

It is near the Pacific.

The air, the trees, the flora are all different there.

And in the middle of it is horse country.

Sandy loam.

And today, it is run by women.

Reedy, salty, earthy blonde women that love horses and dogs. And each other. And their husbands and boyfriends.

It is estrogen heaven.

As sports bars are to men, this place is to women.

It's all about the horses. And the discipline. And the life of brushing, and sweeping out, and feeding, and caring, and learning.

My peanut loves it. She is learning to ride English. Which I learned watching her means the rider actually exercises and works. I thought it was the horse that did all the work. Once again, I'm wrong. Which is ok, so long as I learn.

On Sunday, it was father-daughter dance night with the girl scouts.

Much more time was spent getting buffed than was spent dancing. Maybe one go round with pops and she and they were done. It was a classic generational learning session.

Every current song was well known by the 8-10 year old girls. They danced together. They conga lined together.

When "Play That Funky Music White Boy" came over the speakers, all the girls sat down. The dads all had their white man overbite ready to go, with nobody to dance with.

Soon, she realized this wasn't all that much fun. And her high heels hurt her feet.

She had two hot dogs. As did I plus a cold cheeseburger.

We took what I'm sure will be a classic picture with the photographer of, "I really don't want to be here".

All she wanted was to go home and relax and snuggle.

So we did. And then she asked if I wanted a back rub.

Of course I did.

So she starts the program. She walks on my back. She massages me with her strong little hands.

Then starts the "process". As a female, she somehow knows that special herbs and oils are required.

So as I lay prone, she starts rubbing something on my back.

"Peanut, what is that?"

"Neosporin, daddy. It will make your back feel better."

"Where did you get Neosporin?"

"It's in your shaving kit. And I'm going to use this old toothbrush to massage it into your back."

It was the most loving and lovely massage.

And my back is germ free.

And after brushing my teeth this morning, I can tell you that Neosporin mixed with Colgate leaves you with a hint of Vicks Vaporub breath with a minty finish.

And the knowledge that one little girl loves you.

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