You know science has gone a step too far, when the Man-Cow is featured at the Fair.

How does one man single-handedly keep several young men in close proximity, while meandering through a zoo?

Oh, you need to know your wildlife.  Tour the zoo between meals and carry a large bag of popcorn.  No need to keep track of the kids.  Trust me, they’ll find you.  They’ll keep coming back for more.

Unfortunately, bears also like popcorn.  Darn that Law of Unintended Consequences.

When you find yourself driving, driving over lunchtime.

When you find yourself hungry, hungry since it’s lunchtime.

When you find yourself pleased, pleased with yourself, because you packed a lunch.

When you realize you packed a salad and you begin to question whether or not you should eat a salad, eat a salad while driving.

When you get extra sad, extra sad, because you forgot to pack a fork.

When you are so hungry, so hungry that you throw caution to the wind and begin eating your salad with your bare hands, while driving down the road.

When you find yourself strangely pleased, pleased with yourself, because you are no longer hungry, no longer hungry, while you drive down the road with an empty salad container by your side.

I picked a bad time to bust out the solar calculator at work.

This Fall, our 13-year-old son Jacob is playing for the neighboring community’s baseball team.  As a result, all of my green Cottage Grove Wolfpack apparel does not do me a lick of good, when cheering for his new team the Woodbury Royals, who of course wear royal blue.  What to do?  What to do?

Well, digging through my box of baseball hats (every man should have a box full of baseball caps, very American and all that), I found one that fit the bill.  It was a fitted white ball cap with a blue “W.”  I had purchased it several years ago, when I was interviewing for a community that started with the letter “W.”  I thought it would pump me up  for the interview or something.  Hey, it did not work and I did not get the job, but it landed me a nice baseball cap.  A fine addition to my hat box.

I put on the hat, proud that I had solved my dilemma.  Only one problem, the fitted 7 5/8 inch hat no longer fit.  It was too small.  What?  How does a fully grown man get a bigger head?  It was not like it was just snug, because I needed a haircut, it really was too small now.  I now had a bigger head (note, I avoided the term “Big Head” and you should too).

Even worse, the hat had a cooler story to it.  The “W” hat was a replica from the uniform worn the only year that Hall of Fame pitcher Walter Johnson won a World Series championship with the usually dreadful Washington Senators.  Cool, huh?  Well, not when your head apparently grew another 1/4 inch and the hat no longer fits.  Ugh.

Asking my son Jacob how the hat looked on me, his face told the story.  Not good.  His face kind of grimaced and he remarked, “It makes you look old.”  Dear God, my head grew and it makes me look old!  Farewell “W” hat, you may have served Walter Johnson well, but me oh my, I never wanted to be his contemporary.  Especially one with a big head (there, I said it, happy?).

Squeeze your big head into that hat, Grandpa Dave.  You can do it!

Oh, a moment to treasure.  A memory to capture on film.  Your son just stole second base.

You grab the phone.  A proud papa, who is also proud that he remembered to take a picture of the moment.

Your son taking his lead off second.  Click.  Great job, dad.  Great timing.  Play resumes, you glance at the photo and…

Um, well, yeah, trust me, he is somewhere in the darkness leading off second and the memory will live on in my mind’s eye forever.

I have a secret to tell.  At the gym, I’m lazy getting off the treadmill.  “Gasp,” you say sarcastically.  Well, here me out.  It really is a naughty habit.

Rather than letting the treadmill slow to a stop and stepping off like a normal person, I live life on the edge.  Actually on the edge.  With the treadmill still running, I hop off to plant my feet on either side and then stop the machine.  Stupid, I know, but I have landed that jump thousands of times over many years.  Never a problem…  until today.

Jumping to the sides, one of my big ‘ol feet missed its mark.  I made a racket as my feet thumped hard, my body scrambled, and my arms thankfully landed on the side rails.  I had survived, barely.  A split second delay and I would have been thrown twenty feet back into an unsuspecting elliptical machine, with a broken nose and no good excuse.  Thud goes the dumbo.

As it was, the other folks at the gym glanced my way in unison, gave a look that said “fool,” and resumed sweating.  I was alive, I was still a member in good standing at the gym, and most importantly, I was not moaning a sad song of regret at the ER.  Regret for being Mr. Lazy Treadmill Dismounter (soon to be reformed, albeit one misplaced step too late).

As I munched away on my salad over lunch, my boss stopped by my cube to discuss a project.  Mid-discussion, I took a bite.  What seemed like a promising mixture of work and lunch took a sad turn.  My molars had chomped firmly down onto a peppercorn.

Continuing with the project update, I noticed that the peppercorn was starting to give me trouble.  Trouble speaking.  Trouble in the form of tears welling in my eyes.  Mustering just enough air, I announced that I had encountered a peppercorn that was making me weepy.  It wasn’t the project that was bringing me to tears.  Honest.  Just nutrition and a powerful spice.

Dave Paulsen, sure he’ll work on your project, but watch out, he’s the sensitive type.

My 13-year-old son Jacob needed to be at school a few minutes early to help orient new students.  A little 8th Grade love being extended to the 6th Graders.

The plan was simple.  Be in the car by 7:30 and I would drop him off on the way to work.  7:30 came, I entered the garage, I was met by a quiet franticness.  You see, it was raining.  It was raining and he wanted to wear his baseball pullover jacket.  The jacket was nowhere to be found.  The search ensued.

In his dresser?  Nope.  In his closet?  Nada.  On the floor of his room?  Higher degree of possibility than you would think, but still no.  Hall closet?  Mud room?  Mom and Dad’s closet?  Brother’s rooms?  Baseball bag?  The answer for all:  still no.

All the while, as I saw the clock tick, I knew I was going to be later and later for work.  I also knew that any wrong word or sudden show of emotion might evoke an equal and opposite teen response.  An “Angst Arms Race” was on the horizon, but I stood down.

Finally, the baseball jacket turned up in his golf bag.  A list of others that were to blame was provided to me.  In a move of teen diplomacy, he did not put me on the list of those to blame.  Wise move.

As we drove to school, I estimated that I would be ten minutes late for work.  Humph.  The jacket had however been found and all conflict avoided.  Considering the circumstances, only “Half-a-Humph” seemed appropriate.

Pulling up in front of the school and looking at the time, my son jumped out of the car and headed toward the school entrance.  In mid-stride however, Jacob stopped short and looked to his left.  I waited to see if he needed something from me, but his gaze was somewhere else.  Soon I saw one of his friends striding up to meet him.  My son smiled slightly, one of those subtle “Pleased to Belong” smiles.

I smiled in turn.  Ten minutes late in exchange for seeing my son happy?  A trade I would make any day.