Picking my teenage son up from confirmation class, I let him know that I needed to make a quick stop at the grocery store.  I needed to pick up a newspaper (I am old and I like my news non-electronic and a minimum of twelve hours old) and ingredients for breakfast smoothies (yes, I have become that guy, that breakfast smoothie type guy).

Walking through the store, our errand could not have taken longer than fifteen minutes.  In that short amount of time, I witnessed my teenage son practically bouncing around the store.  It was as if his soul wanted to burst forth and shout, “Hey, world!” To be honest, it was sort of worrisome.  Worrisome until I remembered that I was like that.  Teen energy bounding forth.  I smiled.  Everything was just as it should be.

Bounce on, my dear son.  Bounce on.

Watching Kirby the Beagle crawl into our dishwasher, at least his tongue is acting as a pre-rinse cycle.

Now if he could just figure out what is wrong with my son’s Google Play account, then he would really be earning his keep.

The “Man who can never seem to get his kids anywhere on time, ever” was at peace with himself.  Sure, he was running late again, but less than five minutes late.  Not too bad, considering that I am a mess (or something like that).

Pulling into the park and getting ready to encourage my son to run to his baseball practice, I paused.  Where was his team?  What was up?  Was I a whole day late (would not be the first time)?

Quickly checking my phone, I realized that I was not only running late, but I was also at the wrong field in the wrong park.

The “Man who is a certified mess” was sort of at peace with himself.  Sure, he was at the wrong field and running late (again, but more so this time), but at least he was in the right city.  Considering all that appears to be wrong with me (or something like that), being in the right city is a good place to start.

The boys had a fine idea, give Mom the day off from cooking on Mother’s Day.  Each of them planned on making a meal.

Breakfast – Crepes by Jacob

Lunch – Omelettes by Sam

Dinner – Risotto with a Beer Can Chicken by Ben

Little did I know how tiring it would be to spend an entire day as a Sous Chef to my kids.

Mind you, not too tired to laugh at the site of a chicken roaster standing tall (pure comedy there), but still tuckered out.

So, was it worth it?  No doubt, it was priceless, just like my family.

Is pickling a vegetable’s afterlife?

Is this a method for achieving cucumber immortality?

A briny Valhalla providing certainty and permanence?

An escape from the fruit flies and pains of decay?

A protected future within secure and comforting walls?

Forever basking in the light, which shines into the Mason jar’s paradise?

Today at lunch, I was a good boy and went to the gym.  Not only was I a good boy, I worked it hard.  Sweating, grunting, sweating some more.  Success.  Such a good boy.

Well, I showered off, threw on my clothes, and got ready to go back to work.  Glancing in the mirror, I was somewhat shocked.  I looked like Hell.  Sure I was tired after working it, but there was no excuse for looking this bad.  Something had to be done.

I hobbled back to my locker, grabbed a squeeze bottle of hair gel, and headed back toward the mirror.  Perhaps the hair gel could at least get me back to average.  The office deserved at least that much from me.

Realizing how worn out I was, I focused on the mirror, and absentmindedly squeezed the bottle.  With that blunder, a quick burst of gel exited the tube and splattered across the locker room’s tile floor.  Yuck!  Warning, nasty dude in the locker room (me).

Returning to my locker to find something, anything, to clean up my mess, I grabbed the closest item, my sweaty gym shorts.  Double nasty, but they would do.  Heading back toward the spill, I hoped and prayed that no one would slip on my mess and crack their skull as a result of my blunder.

Yes, I had endangered the lives of others, while just trying to make myself look average.  Sometimes my friends, maintaining the temple at only minimal levels can be a significant undertaking and hair gel can be a dangerous thing.

My teenage son giggled, took a photo, and typed away on his phone.  Repeat.

Eventually, I gave in and asked him what he was doing.  He explained that his friends were all taking photos of the sides of their heads and sending them to each other.  Not profiles.  Rather, the sides of their heads.  Nonsensical, pure and simple.

Sure it was strange, but it was also clever.  Witty.  Original.  Playful.  Fun.

I smiled.  I wished I had come up with the idea.  I smiled, again.  The future is in good hands.  Good hands taking pictures of the sides of their heads.

In a rare scheduling event, my wife and I were able to enjoy lunch together.  Just the two of us.  No kids.  No dog.  Just us.

As we waited for our food, I had a clever thought.  Something that the kids had said or did earlier that would be great material for the blog.  I stored it away.

Our meals arrived.  We talked.  We relaxed.  We enjoyed each other’s time.  One of those meals that you just don’t want to end.

The check came.  I paid and we strolled toward our cars.  Giving her a kiss, we got into our separate cars and headed back to our jobs.

I smiled and had a fleeting thought.  What was it that I was going to write about tonight?  What had the boys done or said that was so clever?  No bother, I didn’t care.  My wife helped me forget it all.  After all these years, she still can clear my mind.  My lovely bride had provided me an escape, what a beautiful thing.

You know you’re tired when you barely have the energy to write your evening blog post.  This counts, right?

It was Opening Day scrimmage time for my baseball team full of 8-year-olds.  As Manager, I get to operate the pitch machine and the only real benefit of operating the pitch machine is that you get to somewhat determine the pace of play.

Our Lead Off hitter approached home plate and I knew what I had to do, sure it would delay the game for a few seconds, but it was for the sake of tradition.  I jogged to meet the hitter at home plate and asked him to hand me his bat.  Placing the bat in my hand, I pretended to lean over sideways from the weight.  “That bat is full of hits,” I said.  The boy smiled and almost simultaneously I heard a groan from behind home plate.

There on the bleachers is my long suffering wife, who has heard my joke countless times.  Trust me, after hearing it for the thousandth time, I’m sure that it does grow old.  In this case however, it was so appropriate.  It was Opening Day.  The sun was shining.  I controlled the pitch machine and the kid was fresh to the team.  The old joke was new to him and somehow that made everything right.  Now (finally), it was time to play ball!