Over the weekend, the lower portion of my chest hurt.  Just sort of sore, like I ran into something and bruised it.  Trying to figure out how I injured myself, I concluded that I hurt myself during a show of determination, a demonstration of manhood, a feat of physical strength.  I did a sit-up.

You see, I was being a very good boy.  I had accompanied my wife to the hotel fitness center to burn off a few Thanksgiving calories.  I must say, I had done a really good job.  I pushed myself hard on the treadmill and sweating like a man who recently ate too much stuffing.  Getting ready to exit the fitness center, my uberfit wife spotted my belly (it is hard to miss) and suggested that I may want to add some sit-ups to my routine.  Considering that I hate sit-ups, she was kind and said that 30 might be reasonable place to start.

Contorting my body, which is inflexible to begin with, onto the angled sit-up bench, I began.  The first 20 felt pretty decent, the next 7 uncomfortable, and the last 3 borderline painful, but I finished.  I was quite proud of myself.  But now, the pride has receded leaving only a sore upper abdominal muscle in its wake.  No longer a fitness center warrior, merely a holiday weekend gym survivor.

Without fail, whenever Charlene and I go out for a drink, mine will arrive at the table and be by far the most girly drink you have ever seen.  Umbrella.  Slice of fruit.  Weird glass.  Without fail, mine always looks silly for a man to be ordering.

Well, tonight it happened again.  After hearing the selection of draft beers, I ordered a pint of Blue Moon beer, since they did not have Guinness or Bass on tap and at least I would be getting half of a Black and Blue.  All well and good, right?  Wrong, instead my pint of beer arrived with a slice of orange.  Good Lord, how could this have turned out so bad?

Never fear, hoping to make the situation better, I inquired if they had Guinness in a bottle.  My thought  was that by drinking half of my girly beer, I could correct the situation by pouring half a Guinness on top and thereby making it a Black and Blue and transforming my girly fruit slice drink into a coolio fancy pants drink.

Still willing to help our table, the waiter indicated that they did not have Guinness in a bottle, but only in a can, would that be fine?  Yes, most certainly, but here is where my attempt at redemption was side railed.  I ordered the Guinness in a can, as well as a spoon.  What?  Well, you need a spoon to pour a Black and Blue, but who in their right mind orders a drink and a spoon?  Loser.  Girly strange loser.

My only chance at redemption remained in the actual pouring of the drink.  If I kept my wits about me, ignored any fear that the waiter displayed in bringing a beer along with a spoon (Was I going to order a bowl next?  Yes, Guinness is a thick drink and I prefer to consume it like a soup.  Loser.  Super loser.), and poured a perfect drink, I could still redeem my dignity, manhood, and evening.

Holding the spoon steady, I poured.  Perfection.  The perfect drink (well a little disproportionate on the Guinness side, but a man can be forgiven for such failures) and the perfect look.  My night had been saved.  Time to enjoy my Black and Blue, as well as my slice of orange.

The look of a near perfect Black and Blue.  Tasty.  Pretty.  Perfect.  Redemption in a pint glass.

Wait a second…

Use the flash Einstein…

Now, that’s better.

Sometimes even the best technology cannot account for operator error.  ‘Nuff said.

“Cookies by Dave” Grand Prize Winner (from back in August…  it takes me a while to wrap these things up) Bob Stevens thankful for his Grand Prize, an official limited edition first run “Cookies by Dave” coffee mug.  Perfect for use at all major (and minor) holidays.

The official “Cookies by Dave” coffee cup comes in a variety of colors, as long as it’s black print on a white mug.

“Be thankful you don’t melt.” (signed) The Paulsen Family Snowmen

Even the great Jonny Carson utilized guest hosts (remember Garry Shandling’s frequent appearances in the guest host chair?), so tonight, I would like to introduce my first “guest post” on Cookies by Dave, my beloved, caring, and talented big sister Kathy.

By the way, my sister and Garry Shandling share something in common. When my sister lived in Germany, she would grow tired of German television, which apparently was very soccer intensive in the late 1980s. Well, Kathy would ask me to tape American television shows and mail the VHS tapes to her. At that point in time, I was fascinated by “It’s Garry Shandling’s Show” and even though my sister was not fond of the show, I would still faithfully tape episodes and mail them to her. Annoying younger brother? Mission accomplished. So as an intro, I would like to recite by memory the opening theme to “It’s Garry Shandling’s Show.”

“This is the theme to Garry’s show, the opening theme to Garry’s show. This is the music that you hear, as you watch the credits. I’m almost to the part of where I start to whistle, then we’ll watch, “It’s Garry Shandling’s Show. [insert man whistling the theme song]”

So without further adieu, I present to you, “Where in the World are Aunt Kathy’s socks?” by my amazing, talented, loving, and infinitely forgiving sister, Kathy Carlin.

“It was a rather blustery night. The sort in which most sensible aunts would be inside sipping tea…perhaps with a bit of honey. But Uncle Jimmy, being the matter-of-fact chap that he is, insisted on covering the newly poured cement. And that meant that Aunt Kathy would need to help him. And THAT meant that Aunt Kathy would not only need to find her work shoes but also her socks. “I know I saw them around here somewhere,” said Aunt Kathy (who was rather hoping that the longer she took to get dressed, the less time she would have to spend in the gale-force wind and sleet). “HMPH” snorted Uncle Jimmy (sounding a bit like a woozle with a cold), “It will only take us 5 minutes. Common,” he said as he scurried outside. “Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh ddddddear”, said Aunt Kathy shivering at the thought of going out into the pitch black yard where she was sure the Chupacabra was hiding. Reluctantly she bundled up and headed out to the back porch where, to her amazement, there in the deepest darkest coldest recesses of the house… next to a pile of artificially flavored beverages (the sort that Uncle Jimmy’s prefer), her garden shoes, and a long neglected dog leash was… HER SOCKS! Hastily she put them on and, in no time, the cement was covered and Aunt Kathy and Uncle Jimmy were back inside sipping tea by the fire – with honey of course – laughing and telling tales about the fabled Chupacabra.”

Editor’s Note: the Chupacabra is NOT a legend. It is real. They especially like to attack people with exposed toes. Be careful, be very, very careful.

It’s a big morning in the Paulsen house, as our annual snowman collection made the morning newspaper (West Central Tribune in Willmar, Minnesota). With this edition, our snowmen have achieved immortality and no longer do they fear the sun.

The caption says, “Thirteen seasonal visitors stand outside a home on the 800 block of Fifth Street Southwest in Willmar. The sign states ‘Time for Mayflower and Snow Showers.’”

Today, not one, but two pairs of Jacob’s socks were discovered on the “checker board” end table located in front of the television. Although many questions remain, such as “Why was he wearing two pairs of socks?” and “Isn’t he cold without any socks on his feet?”, one question stands out above the rest, “What were they watching?” Well, after some thought (a whole five seconds), I suspect they were watching “Field of Dreams” and “Eight Men Out,” both of which are of course about the “Black Sox” scandal.

This bad pun has been brought to you by Procter & Gamble makers of Tide laundry detergent, “If it’s got to be clean, it’s got to be Tide.”

At the corner of 5^th and Kandiyohi in Willmar, Minnesota, temps rose just enough to create a magic moment, a moment when previously troublesome snow transformed into “snowman snow.” Just right for building a snowman or two or three or… twelve (including one with a pumpkin head), plus a snowdog, plus a mini snowman. Frosty would be proud.

PS – the sign says, “Time for Mayflower and Snow Shower.” Just in case, people are confused by the Jack-‘o-Lantern head.

The complete set of snowmen

7-year-old Sam’s snowdog creation

The snowboys

Plus, a snowball arsenal. Be afraid, be very afraid.

Walking home from last night’s parade, I reached down and grabbed some snow.  Much to my surprise, I found at my feet a glorious surprise.  The temps had risen just enough to create the best part of Winter, “Snowman Snow.”  As bedtime approached, our lawn was now brimming full of the stuff that makes snowy legions.

This simple revelation that the snow had “turned,” gave us something special.  The first full sized snowman of the season.  Not only that, but also his explanation of November in Minnesota.