I have had two types of nicknames at work:  the lame and the mean.

In the lame category, the best entry ever was “Davewood.”  You see, I used to have meetings with an Elwood and a Sherwood.  As a result, they nicknamed me “Davewood.”  Sort of a cute nickname, but also kind of lame.  Humph.

In the mean category, well I guess it’s better that I never really knew.  Once there was a conversation that went like this, “The guys in the garage have a nickname for you, but it’s kind of mean.”  This was the most information that I could gather.  I suspected such, but having it confirmed with no additional detail was lousy.  Humph, humph.

Yesterday, I received some well deserved news.  My cheery disposition and my constant wearing of a sweater (our office is very, very cold) has landed me the nickname (drum roll, please)…  Mister Rogers.

I’ll take it!  If I’m going to receive a nickname, being compared to Fred Rogers is a quality comparable.  It is after all a beautiful day in the neighborhood.  Won’t you be my neighbor?

By the way, I promise not to take you to the “Neighborhood of Make-Believe.”  I promise.

Oh, I was tired.  Very tired.  Tired as I entered the building to go to work.

Heading toward the end of a long hallway, I took a sharp left.  Sharper and lefter than I ever have before.  That’s when I hit a wall.  I actually hit a wall.  Ran right into it with my left shoulder.  Not right.  Just not right.  Actually a hard left.

I kind of bounced off the wall and to the side.  I stumbled a few steps and regained my footing.  I was a mess.  That wall had been there everyday for over a year and for the first time, I ran right into it.

I would like to say that I have discovered a new way to jolt myself awake.  Perhaps, but I certainly would not recommend it.

There we were at work about to finish the second meeting of the day.  I heard a soft voice whispering to me.  It was the call of the office candy dish.

Sitting back down, my friend Josh had a realization.  The “Fun Size” candy bar in my hand really does not provide the optimal amount of “fun.”  No, for an adult, the optimal amount of fun would probably require gobbling about three “Fun Size” candy bars.  With this observation, Josh put our brilliance onto paper and thus was born the “Candy Curve” (applicable only to adults, because kids have such a different relationship to candy, they really deserve their own special curve to hold in their sticky chocolate covered fingers).

Behold, the “Candy Curve!”

As you can see, several aspects of our hazardous relationship with candy are visualized on this single curve.

The near perfect size of the “normal” candy bar.

The gross overplay of the “King” size.

The horrible misfortune that takes place when you don’t actually share the “Share” size.

Finally, the great sadness that takes place when not enough Trick-or-Treaters come to the door on Halloween and you binge on the entire candy bowl all alone.

It’s all there.  All of your candy concerns addressed.  So next time you reach for a snack, take some good advice and give heed to the wisdom of the “Candy Curve.”  It’s life changing truth coated in rich creamy milk chocolate.

I have a pair of exercise shorts that for some reason tend to (well, how shall we put this) drift down in the back.  Yes, without any emergency response, these shorts tend to head South.  Otherwise, they are fine shorts and as a result, they have stayed in the rotation, but this is (well, how shall we put this) a butt problem.

Earlier today, I was playing basketball with the boys.  Not a care in the world and my absentminded shorts snug around my hind quarters.  I went up for a shot and all of a sudden my kids reacted with a mix of shock and horror.  Apparently, as one of my boys later summarized the situation, “As Dad went up, his shorts went down.”

Embarrassed by the  whole ordeal, I tightened the drawstring around my waist and agreed that if it ever happened again, it would be a technical foul.  Indeed, technically nasty and disgustingly foul.

Damaging the eyes of my children with that vision should be reason enough for those shorts to head to Goodwill.  There is however something to be said for the tactical advantage they provide me on the basketball court.  It’s hard to defend against a guy, when you have been blinded by a full moon.

Earlier today, my boys were struggling.  You could tell that they were tired.  You could tell that they were having trouble expressing themselves.  You could tell their grumpiness.  You could tell that an explosion was about to take place.

Unfortunately, I had previously promised to take them to the gym, where I knew I had to face the likelihood of a full meltdown in public.  Promises however are promises, so we loaded into the car and I took my chances.  The plan was for me to run on the treadmill and the boys to play basketball in the gym.  The likelihood of a meltdown during those twenty to thirty minutes stood at close to 90%.

The boys, as usual, were much faster in the locker room than me.  This is probably due to the fact that my clothes are a lot larger, I am slower, and it’s understandable how no one really wants to be in their underwear around strangers.  So, the boys headed to the gym, after I gave them each a reminder / veiled threat / pep talk about keeping it together.  My speech reduced the risk of a meltdown by 5% at best.

Tying my shoes, I considered another option.  I could throw myself into the situation.  Give them some positive attention.  Help refocus them.  In some ways, give them a common enemy.  In other words, be a dad.

I marched into the gym.  Grabbed the basketball and announced that I would take them on.  Three against one.  Sons against their dad.  Sure I still have a significant height advantage, but I really cannot shoot to save my life, plus I am slow and middle aged.  It had the potential for a good game.

As we hustled around the court, sweating, laughing, enjoying each other, the realization dawned on me.  I had stumbled on a moment.  One of those moments that you tend to remember.  Not because it was planned.  Not because you did anything special.  You just happened to be present and let moment unfold around you.

I had found peace and prevented a meltdown.  It’s truly amazing how a few blocked shots and having a horrible shooting percentage from the floor can somehow turn around a day and make a memory that will cause smiles for many years to come.  Wonderful things are waiting to happen.  Wonderful things that come with being a dad.

Sleepy, I grabbed a cup of coffee on the way to the office.  A delicious gourmet cup of strong coffee.  Priority One – Do not set down the coffee.  Do not fall asleep at work.

Still sleepy, I began typing.  Typing with one hand, because well I was holding my super special, super strong cup of coffee.  Priority Two – Type, because that’s part of my job.  An important part of my job.

Seeing me sleepy and on the way to refresh the coffee pot, my co-worker stopped by my cube and offered to fill my office coffee cup with the remaining coffee (my special coffee was in a coffee shop paper cup).  How could I turn down such an offer of kindness?  How could I turn down such a lifeline?  I gripped the office coffee in my left hand and the coffee shop coffee in my right.  Priority Three – Always accept an offer of kindness.  Especially kindness associated with coffee.

Issue of sleepiness addressed.  Soon the caffeine would kick in, but I still needed to keep drinking my coffee.  Only problem was that I now had coffee in both hands and no way to type.  Priority Four – Keep typing, because it’s my job (see Priority Two).  How?  Well, that’s why God gave me a nose.  A nose for emergency typing and of course smelling delicious coffee.

That moment at work, when you just perfectly inserted the word “impetus” into your memo.  Oh yeah, work pride!  #BestMemoEver

Friday, on the way to work, I figured I would be festive.  I picked up a little shamrock plant at the grocery store and set it in the break room.  There under the florescent lights, I noticed something sad.  The shamrock plant was droopy.  Limp.  Almost had a wilted look about it.  Poor plant of three leaf clovers.  I set it by a window and went about my day.

Today, I felt a lot like that shamrock plant.  Not ill in any real way, just run down.  Out of steam.  Droopy and looking a bit wilted.

The last thing that I wanted to do was leave the house after dinner, but my son had a “confirmation class perfect attendance streak” to maintain and the church offered Wednesday night Lenten services.  Tired and grumpy, I slide into an empty pew with my son.

That’s when something spoke to me.  The words of the hymn were so clear.  “You make beautiful things.  You make beautiful things out of dust.  You make beautiful things.  You make beautiful things out of us.”

Even though I am little more than dust, God has made something truly special out of me.  God makes me a source of light for others.  A light full of beauty to be shared.  I was still tired, but I realized that God makes me beautiful the way God intended, every moment, no matter my mood.  I just need to look for God’s love and light around me.  That’s all I really need to go from dust to beauty in God’s eyes.

As for the shamrock, we came back in on Monday to find it alert and happy.  Full of life, well after Saint Patrick’s Day.  The sunlight had found it on the windowsill and provided it with all of the energy it needed.  Look around, the light is there, let it shine on you.

One item that I have made sure never to share with my boys are the names of any past girlfriends.  You see, I know what they would do with this information.  They would tease me.  Annoy me.  Bother me.  Nope, no need to share.

The other day, they asked me again.  “Dad, what are the names of your old girlfriends?”

“I’m not telling you that,” the answer they have heard consistently a hundred times.

“Well, I bet they hate you.”  Ouch.  Harsh.  Somewhat wrong.

I corrected them, “Not all of them hate me.”

Now scrambling for ammunition, “Well, I bet mom hates them.”

Giving a clever glance, I leveled the final blow, “Why would mom hate them?  She ended up with the prize.”

Their eyes looked blank.  They had no clue what I meant.  No comprehension that maybe, at some point, way back when, their dad was desirable in any way, shape, or form.

Humph, I’ll show them.  Remind me to embarrass them in front of their future love interests.  My boys now officially deserve it.

As soon as my co-worker returned from vacation, I had a confession to make.  All of that progress that I had planned to make on our joint project, well I had not gotten any of it done.  You see some of my other projects had suffered from “Project Hiccups.”

The more I explained them however the other projects had really suffered from more than just hiccups.  They had suffered full fledged “Project Burps” (patent pending).  Yep, that moment when a project that you thought was well on its way to being finished resurfaces with a nasty aftertaste.  Ew.  Indeed, I had a few “Project Burps” that had occurred, while she was on vacation.  That’s why I did not get that much done and that’s why I very much needed a “Project After Dinner Mint” (patent pending and major deal with Altoids in the works).