Heading home for the weekend, I grabbed my laptop.  Yes, I had the best of intentions.  I was going to take a few hours this weekend and get caught up on some work.  Good job, Dave.  Pat on the back.

A little while later, I went to log in.  Cleaning out the work email inbox is always a good thing.  I was going to get so much done.  Watch me roll.

First attempt to put in my password failed.  Hum.  Second attempt failed, then I remembered that earlier in the day my computer had required me to update my password.  Considering that I had reset my password several hours ago, I struggled to remember the new code.  All I recalled was that I had trouble picking out a new one.   Oh that and there were all sorts of rules.  Length.  Capitals.  Special characters.  Numbers.  Ugh.  This was not going to be easy.

I thought I remembered the password.  Fail.  Guess that was an old one.  Try another variation.  Fail.  Try another word.  Fail.  Seventeen attempts later.  Still no progress, just lots and lots of fails.

Looking outside, I saw the sun beginning to set on the day.  The weather forecast was beautiful.  Monday morning would come and there was little that could be done between now and then.  Little else other than enjoying life.  Best intentions had been bested by an absent mind.  Sometimes failing again and again is a good thing.  Especially, when work has no choice, but to wait until Monday, and a beautiful weekend awaits.

I had a long overdue workweek lunch with my wife and as usual, I was running a minute or two late.

I pulled into a parking spot and hopped out the car.  Taking two or three strides toward the restaurant, I heard a familiar voice call out, “Dave.”

I looked around trying to find her and soon spotted my beautiful wife walking toward me.  Just the sight of her made me smile.  Just the sound of her saying my name felt so right.

We have been married close to twenty years.  Event filled times that neither of us could have ever imagined.  Through it all, just the thought of her still makes me happy.  My wife, my forever joy.

Don’t worry too much about the details, just focus on the task that I had at hand.  I needed to deliver a pair of running shoes to my 13-year-old son, Jacob.

Knowing that his shoes are almost the same size as his mother’s and look a lot like the shoes of his brothers, I figured that I would employ a Double Check.  I asked his 10-year-old brother Sam to find a pair of Jacob’s shoes.  The first check.

Looking at the shoes he selected, I called upstairs to his mother.  “Are the blue Nike shoes with a yellow interior Jacob’s?”  The answer came from upstairs, “Yes.”  The second check.

I was good to go.

Delivering the shoes to Jacob, he provided the final confirmation, “I promise not to tell Mom that you accidentally brought me a pair of her shoes.”  What?  Boy, after what I went through, if the shoes fit, wear ’em.

A fine pair of shoes for anyone.

On my desk sits a relic of the past, a phone.  Every now and then, I receive a call on it.  Almost always a wrong number with someone looking for Real Estate Taxes.  I politely transfer the caller, after giving them the correct number.  They have usually dialed a 9 instead of a 6.  I hang up the phone.  Happy with myself.  Happy with customer service.  Happy to ignore my phone until the next time.  Happy to return to my life as a creature of email.

Today was going to be different.  I had two calls coming in.  Two calls related to my job.  Two calls that would be ideal for a conference call.  First call came in.  I exchanged pleasantries.  Second call came in.  I placed first call on hold.  Pushed “Conf” (thinking it meant “Conference”) and the first call promptly disappeared.  I talked to the person on Line Two.  Said hello, said I would try the conference again.  Pushed “Hold.”  Called back first person, after entering a six digit long distance code, and pressed “Conf,” which of course caused the person on Line Two to vanish.  I was becoming desperate.  Repeating different orders of buttons, but always losing the same two callers.  More than desperate, I was becoming pitiful.  After ten minutes of trying and a suggestion from one caller that I just speak with them one at a time, I gave up.  I had failed at 1980s technology.

Finishing up my calls and apologizing to the callers a lot, I searched for answers.  What had gone wrong?  Why was I a phone failure?  Finding the instructions for the phone online, I soon learned that my phone was a one-way ticket for conferencing.  I had to initiate the calls.  I could not receive them.  Not only did I have technology from the 1980s on my desk, it only operated one way.  Outbound.

The moral of the story?  You can’t go back, especially in terms of technology.  I read it on the internet.

12:05AM – “Gosh, I should get some sleep.  I’m going to sleep like a baby.”

4:30AM – “Why can’t I sleep?”

5:25AM – “Ugh, still not asleep.”

6:35AM – “Damn!  Overslept.”

About 5 and 1/2 hours of spotty sleep, all a genius needs (or someone who jumped straight from delirious to fool).

A long, long time ago in high school (about 28 years or so), I wrote a poem, “String Cheese.”  It is one of those fun little pieces of playful art that rests happily in the back of your mind.

“String Cheese”

You think you’re so smart

Shedding your skin like a cylindrical reptile

Take heed though little dairy product

Your changes are numbered

I used to recite it at the lunch table to the joy and bewilderment of my friends, as I unwrapped a slender stick of string cheese.  Then little did I know that the poem waited patiently for the perfect mix of both delivery method (Twitter) and appreciation (NPR’s All Things Considered and their celebration of April as National Poetry Month).

So it is with great pride and a playful joy that I announce tonight, National Public Radio took “String Cheese” nationwide.   Major thank you shout out to Liz Baker, Michel Martin, and NPR’s All Things Considered, you made a little dairy product’s day.  Enjoy!

#NPRpoetry Month: Vince Staples Reads His Favorite Twitter Poems

PS – Thank you to Vince Staples for letting me be your opening act.  Anytime, just ask  :0)

The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day.  I pulled my shorts out of the closet and much to my surprise, they were loose.  They actually were too big.  I was on top of the world.  Swimming in my shorts.

Later in the night, feeling all confident about myself, I joined my three boys in the hot tub.  Sliding in, they scooted to the other side.  Claims that there was not enough room abounded.  Oh kids, you are wrong, my loose fitting shorts are proof.

Then came the deal breaker, a well intended joke and a funny one at that, which landed squarely on my belly.  My youngest son, 8-year-old Ben, said in jest, “I wish upon a star that Dad would leave the hot tub.”  Laughter all around.  Fine, I shall take my smaller versioned self elsewhere.

Walking back into the house, my wife (who was smart enough not to go hot tubing with the boys) asked, “Did you get voted out of the hot tub?”  Yes, my dear, it appears so.

Good feelings and self confidence.  Enjoy them, while they last.  In my case, about four hours or until that first toe enters a hot tub full of judgement.

The boys were obviously into the April Fool’s Day spirit.  The early morning, Sharpie on the brother’s face was a good indication.

As a result, when our youngest son, 8-year-old Ben, wanted to prank his brothers by offering them hot cocoa that was actually coffee, we shrugged.  Go for it.  Not a bad idea.

Maybe not a bad idea, but a bad reaction.  Sure enough, upon sipping the coffee his brother did a spit take.  Coffee on the carpet, never a good thing.

Responding with the carpet cleaner, I surprised myself.  Instead of grumbling, I smiled. My boys were in the spirit.  Better to be a fool making a mess, than not having a decent excuse.  Prank away my boys, celebrate the day.

Today at work, a sinful proposal was made.  “Wanna go to Taco Bell?”  How can a man resist?  I am after all a mere mortal.

At Taco Bell, I was intrigued by something very cold and very blue.  The Airhead Raspberry Blue frozen drink.  Imagine drinking 16 ounces of melted Airhead candies.  Yes, that overpoweringly sweet.  That over the top.  At the same time, however, hard to stop drinking.  I am after all a weak man.

This really was a self inflicted wound.  Really only hurting myself, until it was pointed out that I now had a blue tongue.  A blue tongue and a video conference call coming up within the hour.  Um, odd feature to have accentuated during a call.  “Remember that guy with the blue tongue?  He really made some good points.”  I may never be known as having a silver tongue, but I certainly have cornered the market on the color blue.

Dinner featured one of our favorites, bratwurst.  We had plowed through the first serving and you could see the look on our eyes, as we sized up the final brat.

It was agreed that we would share the sausage and it was cut in two for distribution.  The best part was that I would be one of the lucky recipients.  As I headed back to the kitchen table with my prize (half a bratwurst in a bun), our beagle Kirby circled my feet.  Silly dog, brats are for people.

I sat down.  My eyes took in the beautifully grilled sight.  I took the bratwurst in my hands and for some inexplicable reason, I looked up.  I looked up in time to see something disturbing to meat lovers around the world.

There was my youngest son Ben still working on his first bratwurst.  He sat with the sausage held out to the side, preparing for his next bite.  Then without warning and much to the shock of everyone around, Kirby the Beagle stood up on his hind legs and silently snatched the bratwurst from Ben’s outstretched hand.  Absolutely no contact with Ben, it was a clean swipe.  A bratwurst theft in broad daylight.  A sort of revenge eating for what Kirby perceived as a slight in not having his previous request for a bratwurst approved.

After an appropriate amount of dog shaming, dinner finally resumed.  Something however was amiss.  My son Ben sat with tears in his eyes and there I sat with my extra half-a-brat.  The only right thing to do, really the only thing to do, was to offer Ben my brat, which he quickly accepted.  Ben’s tears dried, as they swelled in my eyes.  Oh dear bratwurst, how I wish I had the pleasure of gobbling you up.

Looking sad, my family looked at the positive of the situation.  “At least, Kirby kept Dad on his diet.”  I suppose so, but the bright side never before lacked so much light.  The loss of a brat was sort of all right.