Standing in the warm Spring sun, I took pleasure in watching our Second Grader Sam’s “Field Day.”  Slowly, however, I became aware of the return of an enemy.  An enemy that had taken leave for several months.  It started with a warm feeling on my brow.  I knew what was happening.  I dreaded the feeling.  I had no retreat.  The delicate skin of my Scandinavian ancestors, the same skin that has been locked away in a six month Winter, was now baking in the sunlight.  I needed sunblock.  I would be rewarded with no such comfort.  I would suffer.  Now and later.

At the end of Field Day, I said goodbye to Sam, as he returned to class and I had time to run one quick errand for work.  I knew that my face had been lightly broiled, but I had no clue as to the other side effects.  My errand was to a big box hardware store that will remain unmentioned (Menards, oops, I let it slip).  I knew exactly what I wanted, but had no idea as to the item’s real name (those little utility marker flags) or where they would be located.  As a result, I went to the source of all answers.  The place that would point me in the right direction:  the service counter.

Approaching the service counter with my bright pink face, I was met with an odd sight.  The employee at the counter was standing behind a large (2-3 feet in diameter) concrete or plastic-looking-like-concrete tortoise.  Yes, a tortoise statue was resting between us.  Shocked and somewhat delighted by this strange sight, I looked at the huge turtle and remarked, “What I need help finding is certainly not going to be as interesting as this.”  Nothing.  I was met by a blank stare.  No, worse than a blank stare.  An empty stare.  It was almost like she wanted me dead.  Like she had been tormented all day by comments about the plasticy concrete turtle.  No worse, she had such a blank look it almost bordered on pure distain.  Something like a look saying, “I wish you never had been born.  Vanish from my sight, you filth!”

Stunned, I tried to recover.  I stumbled through a description of the product.  She was very helpful in trying to help me locate, where the item might be located, but never once did that look of sheer hatred leave her face.  The tortoise statue tried to act casual.

Wandering off in search of my utility marker flags or whatever they are really called, I feared the worst.  Not only had the sun toasted my face, it had burned off my essence.  My je ne sais quoi* lay in ashes.  I was no longer myself.  I was but a sad remains.  Now all I can do is take comfort.  Comfort in the fact that time heals all wounds.  All wounds including burnt skin and wounded pride.

* – “je ne sais quoi” a French term referring to an intangible quality that makes something distinctive or attractive.  Ah, je ne sais quoi.  Along with the bikini and salty fries, another reason I say, “Vive la France!”

For the Summer months, our church combines its 8:15AM and 10:30AM services into a single Mega Service.  The problem is that I can never seem to remember when the combined service begins.

Early Sunday morning, I was convinced that the service began at 9:15AM.  I was getting the kids fed and ready.  All going well.  I was showered and dressed.  All continuing to go well.  Quick check of the church service’s time (which has been announced many, many, many times in print and verbally, but I cannot seem to ever remember) and find out that the service is at 9AM.  Start time in about five minutes.  Not well at all.

Hurrying to pack the kids into the car and speed to church, we arrived during the announcements.  No problem, we would simply slide in the back.  No harm, no foul.  Spotting a partially open pew, which would be big enough for our family of five, we marched in.  One, two, three, four, and me, number five.  Just enough room.  Then I looked up to find a pillar directly in front of my nose.  Yes, I was the lucky winner of a seat behind a pillar.  Turning to my family, they all shrugged and grinned.  With the exception of my direct neighbor, my 6-year-old son Ben, who could barely contain his laughter.

Simulated view from behind the church pillar.  Lovely.  At least no one would see me crying.  The sobbing of a sad and lonely sinner.  Off to my left, muffled laughter coming from under my son Ben’s cupped hands.

It reminded me of the time I had purchased what I thought would be great upper deck right field box seats at the old Tiger Stadium.  Arriving in our seats, I soon discovered that we could only see about half the field, considering that another section jutted directly out in front of us.  Classic obstructed view seats.  Classically uninformed of this fact, when I had purchased my tickets.  Don’t whine boy, do you really need to see anything to the right of second base?  Deal with it.  My 6-year-old son would have laughed.

Oh well, I figured I would be alright.  Just as I had suffered through the Tigers game with one eye rendered useless, this church service would be just fine.  The church has a good sound system.  I could listen to the service and lean over every so often and see some of the action.  It should be okay.  Then I stood up and realized that standing brought the pillar within two inches of my nose.  Yes, apparently I would be flying in coach during this morning’s church service.  Ben continued to laugh.

Reaching down for my bulletin, I discovered that one of my family members had absconded with my program.  I was flying without directions.  Ben sketched on the stolen bulletin, as he continued to laugh.

Adding to the situation, I usually like to perch my hymnal on the back of the pew in front of me.  Problem, there was only a sliver of another pew off to the side.  Considering that I had no room to hold my hymnal in front of me, I placed the hymnal on an angle on a sliver of the other pew, so that I could at least partially see some of the lyrics.  My sight and now my voice had been taken from me.  I was a cramped and silent sinner.  A cramped and silent sinner with an obstructed view.  I deserved nothing more and I would receive nothing more.  Ben’s laughing would continue.

“Thanks be to God,” or at least that’s what I heard.

Earlier today, our son Sam’s second grade class had a field trip to the Y Center pool.  His class went with two other classes and the reports were positive.  So and So’s mother chaperoned.  So and So decided to only go on the waterslide.  So and So was accidently playing in the swim lanes.  Sam had a good time.

As dinner wrapped up, Sam began to tell a story, but he began with a warning.  “I have a gross story to tell, but it’s true.”  I looked across the table and waited for my wife to put a halt to this story, but much to my surprise, Charlene allowed Sam to continue.  “Today at the pool, during the whole time, not one kid took a bathroom break.”

I was relieved.  Sam’s gross story only alluded to a gross topic (going to the bathroom or in this case not), rather than the story actually being gross.  Continuing to eat dinner, my relief was suddenly replaced by revulsion.  Dozens of second graders.  Swimming.  Zero bathroom breaks.  Sudden realization.  Sure, zero bathroom breaks, but most likely many, many potty breaks within the pool.  Nasty.

Looking across the table at my wife, my face revealed my revulsion realization.  Looking back with a crooked smile, Charlene clarified the real point of concern, “That took you a while.”  Indeed, but I have been quick to learn that when chaperoning a trip to the Y Center, avoid joining the class of second graders in the pool.

Ah, another side effect of the recent downturn in temperatures, my 11-year-old son Jacob’s socks have burrowed down deep to stay warm.

A normal looking throw pillow, which also serves as…

a stealthy sock covering.

 Stay warm, young socks.  Stay warm.

Bonus Material – Okay, I have a hang up.  Okay, I have several, but here is the one that bothered me today.  When I log into my email, I receive a “news” feed.  Fine, all well and good, except that it combines actual “news” and “entertainment news,” as if it was on equal footing.  A fall in Airbus stocks, followed by “news” that the on-again off-again couple, Chris Martin and Jennifer Lawrence, appear to be planning for the future.  What?  Really?  Please, some separation folks (no, not you, Chris and Jennifer, I was referring to “world news” versus “entertainment news”).  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy seeing Jennifer Lawrence’s face appear in my news feed, but it just makes me want to type “ugh.”  Well, on the brightside, it gives me an excuse to rerun my favorite blog post, “That’s cold(play).”  Enjoy.

TEDDY-DOWN-UNDER RASPBERRY BARS

“Charlene loves raspberries, so I figured I would make a raspberry inspired cream cheese bar for Mother’s Day.  The original recipe calls for ‘Chocolate Wafer Cookies,’ but when I saw Chocolate Teddy Grahams in the store and realized that I could pulverize them as a substitute in the recipe, I jumped at the opportunity.  Sure it was a little wrong to take delight in crushing the Teddy Grahams, but I felt a little better, when I accepted the fact that someone was going to eventually eat them anyway.  Not too many people are out there avoiding the tasting pleasures of Teddy Grahams, in order to honor animal shaped cookie rights.  Top each bar with a ‘survivor’ Teddy and you will have paid a proper tribute.

Oh, by the way, these bars are deliciously creamy.  I promise that you will be pleased, as the chocolate crust and veins of raspberry jam dance a tasty waltz on your tongue.  Savor each bite, Teddy Grahams and all.”

1½ cups Chocolate Teddy Grahams

6 Tablespoons Butter

16 ounces Cream Cheese, softened

½ Sugar

2 Eggs

2 Tablespoons Flour

½ teaspoon Almond Extract

1/3 cup Raspberry Jam, seedless

Raspberries for topping

Survivor Chocolate Teddy Grahams for topping

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Line an 8-inch pan with aluminum foil.

Leave some foil hanging over the sides to allow for the bars to be lifted out of the pan at a later point.

Lightly grease the foil.

Crush the Teddy Grahams, by pulverizing them in a food processor.

Melt the butter.

Mix together the crushed Teddy Grahams and butter.

Press the crushed Teddy Grahams and butter into the bottom of the pan.

Bake for 12 minutes.

Let cool for 15 minutes.

While the crushed Teddy Graham crust is cooling, prepare the cream cheese mixture.

Mix together the softened cream cheese and sugar.

Mix in the eggs, flour, and almond extract.

Pour cream cheese mixture over the cooled crushed Teddy Graham crust.

Drop raspberry jam by teaspoons onto the top of the cream cheese mixture.

Use a knife to swirl together the cream cheese and raspberry jam.

Bake for 40 minutes, until the bars are set.

Cool completely on a wire rack, which will take about an hour.

Lift bars out of the pan.

Cut into bars.

Top with raspberries and surviving Teddy Grahams.

Store any leftover bars in the refrigerator.

Makes about 20 bars.

Revised Source:  “Raspberry-Swirl Cheesecake Bars” recipe on www.BettyCrocker.com.

A mom and her boys about to enjoy some oh so yummy “Teddy-Down-Under Raspberry Bars.”

All my life, I have been haunted by an arbitrary standard of measurement.  6 feet.  Yep, 6 feet tall.  I fall just short.  5’11”.  Just short of that magical standard of male talliness.  In my defense, I once read that the average American man is 5’11” tall.  There you have it, I’m average.  Nothing wrong with that, except that it leaves me just short of “tall” and it causes problems for the bottoms of my pant legs.

5’11” turns out to be a bad thing for pant legs, because in my case it translates into 32” long pant legs being the closest size.  Unfortunately, 32” long pants is about 1/4” too long for me and as a result my pants continually brush along the floor.  So the pants quickly fray, in addition to another problem…

I was being responsible and placing my dirty jeans in the hamper, when I noticed something disturbing.  There, stuck to the bottom of a pant leg was a “fruit” sticker.  One of those stickers on a piece of fruit that contains the name of the fruit and its reference number.  This one was for a “Lemon.”

Ah, the Lemon sticker, the most resourceful of the produce labels. 

I did not recall the last time we used a lemon or its zest, but apparently its sticker was hiding out in a dark and long neglected corner of the kitchen floor.  Hiding.  Waiting.  Waiting for my slightly too long pants to come along.  Come along for the sticker to hitch a ride.

My 5’11” status, just short of 6 feet tall, but apparently just right to become a “Human Swiffer.”

Bonus Material – In case you missed it, take a look at the first trailer for this Summer’s upcoming Blockbuster event or better said, “Blogbuster.”  The Blogosphere will never be the same.

So I was struggling a bit with a topic for this evening’s blog post.  Call it writer’s block.  Call it a blessing (hey, wait a second.  No one is forcing you to read this).  Call it whatever, I just did not have much.

Then I got to thinking, why not just borrow someone else’s idea.  Someone else’s great idea (thank you, Vicki Davis).  Yep, so that’s what I’m going to do.  As a result, tonight I am going to go all Hollywood on you.  I’m going to take an idea and turn it into a Summer Blockbuster, but wait.  First a trailer.  All great blockbusters begin with a trailer.  Something to get you excited.  Something to build interest.  Something intriguing.  Something to leave you wanting more.  “Chewy, we’re home.”  (Wait.  Sorry.  Cannot use that last bit.  I’m sure Disney already has that copyrighted.)

Sometimes, even the best “Thinkers” need to build upon someone else’s great idea.

 So without further ado, sit back and enjoy Official Trailer No. 1…

Coming soon.  A Joint The Goodness Coffee House and www.CookiesbyDave.com Production.

(Insert dramatic music, ramping up in an exciting crescendo.)

“Blog as Art”…

(Insert crazy dramatic and exciting graphics, maybe flying cookies.)

“The Blogosphere will never be the same.”

Summer 2015.

(Fade to black.  Audience left speechless.)

This morning, our 8-year-old son Sam approached me very worried.  These days most things worry Sam.  Lost papers.  Getting to school on-time.  Kirby the Beagle’s constant whereabouts (usually running around pell-mell outside).  It’s just a phase, but a worry filled one for him.  Well, this morning, it was his closet that was worrying him.  Yes, Sam’s younger brother Ben had made a mess of their shared closet and this bothered Sam greatly.  He needed help addressing it.  Urgent help.  Cleaning the closet.  15 minutes before it was time to head out for school.

Grumbly, I headed upstairs.  As I helped clean the closet, I grumbled.  As I convinced them that a deflated balloon was not worth saving, I grumbled.  As I scooped up toys and barked cleaning directions, I grumbled.  In short, we cleaned the closet, but I was very grumbly.

Getting to work, I settled into my cubicle.  My cubicle that happens to be a mess.  Car counters, here (don’t ask).  Boat plugs, there (don’t ask).  Stacks of paper abounding.  Post-It Note style wallpaper.  I won’t even get started on the shovel propped up in the corner.  It was one of those types of weeks.  Best of all, I had a prototype for a series of aquatic invasive species monitoring plates hanging from my coat hook, which also held my sports jacket.  A shared hook hosting all manner of devices and outerwear.  My cubicle was a mess.

Given this small world of chaos, I felt a sudden urge to run to the copier.  Maybe a fight or flight type response.  Similar actions to those of a squirrel darting back and forth in the middle of the street.  I was a mess, just like my cubicle.  Well, I performed that sudden bolt toward the copier and ran straight into a very pointy corner on the hanging prototype monitoring plates.  The monitoring plates made out of an old windshield (oh, I failed to mention that.  A very pointy old piece of a windshield).  Like I said, with very pointy corners.  Right into my outer thigh.  That very pointiness hurt very bad.  So bad I considered hiking up my pant leg to take a look.  I did not.  “Thankfully,” says all of those working in close proximity to me.

 Suspended monitoring plates.  Don’t ask, just note their “pointiness.”  Fleshy thigh + pointy corner = ouch!

In pain and sitting down in my rat’s nest of a workspace, I reflected on some cleaning that needed to be done and now seemed very urgent.  Maybe I had been too rough on my assessment of Sam’s messy closet.  Maybe it was in need of urgent cleaning.  Perhaps, but I knew one thing.  My grumbliness had been replaced with pain.  Pure pain.  Paybacks are indeed Hell.  A very pointy, pain inducing form of Hell.

You know it must be “School Picture Day,” when 11-year-old Jacob’s socks are clean, freshly folded, resting on the table next to the order form, and ready to show their good side.

 Go ahead socks, glam it up.

My Grandfather:  Used to write on the top front page of the newspaper articles that he would like to go back to and read.

My Father:  Used to write many a note on plain white paper (about 3”x5” in size) and keep it tucked away in this office.  Must have been the genes.

Me:  The other day, sitting in a meeting, I realized I was out of paper.  I tore a tiny portion off a larger (and already utilized) sheet of paper and began writing a note.  Looking across the table, a friend realized the ludicrous nature of my actions and offered, “Would you like a piece of paper?”  No, somehow I was just fine.  It was all in the genes.

Me, again:  Looking at my work to-do list, I noticed that all of the top priority items were listed with stars.  Problem.  7 out of 11 items were listed with stars.  Flawed system.  I blame the genes.

Me, again, again:  Often I’m found writing random thoughts on tiny bits of paper.  Who benefits from this?  You the reader, who benefits from me writing down random thoughts and later developing them into full essays.  Who’s to blame?  The genes.

My 8-year-old son Sam:  “I need a piece of paper.”  Suggesting that he borrow one from the computer printer in the basement, he opted to tear off a 1”x1” corner off a flier from school hanging on the (much closer than the basement) refrigerator.  Scribbling on the paper, Sam wrote down some bits of trivia that he wanted to remember.  “Bored is 150” (translation:  during Sunday’s children’s sermon, Sam learned that the word “bored” was first used by Charles Dickens about 150 years ago).  “Revenge of the Fifth” (translation:  if May the 4^th is a Star Wars pun on “May the Force,” then May 5^th can be “Revenge of the Fifth,” a pun on “Revenge of the Sith,” the third Star War prequel).  Poor, poor Sam.  He doesn’t stand a chance.  Once again, the genes.

At least Sam used good penmanship for his micro note.  Good penmanship is usually nowhere to be found “in the genes.”