For a man on an eternal diet, even the slightest hint of ice cream equals the sound of a Heavenly choir.  So when my boys reminded me of our annual tradition of angel food cake, strawberries, and ice cream on International Women’s Day, my heart skipped a beat.  You see, my beautiful wife and the only woman in our family loves that dessert and I love my wife.  Plus, I love ice cream.  So win, win, win all the way around.

On the way home, I picked up the goodies for dessert.  Stopping in the frozen food aisle, I was reminded of my diet.  So I picked up gelato, instead of ice cream, just a tad healthier and a little win for the dieting dad.

Preparing to scoop out the gelato to place on the cake and strawberries, I grabbed the metal ice cream scoop.  I served out the portions, we wished Charlene “Happy International Women’s Day” and I stared at the metal ice cream scoop.  There looking back at me, looking back at the man on the never ending diet, was temptation.  A dollop of gelato perched upon the scoop.  Too much to be washed off.  Just enough for my wanting belly.

I brought the scoop to my mouth and I was met with cold.  Not just a normal cold, but extreme cold.  Extreme cold of the painful sort.  The kind that you imagine only when you stick your tongue to a frozen flagpole.  Yes, that kind of extreme and painful cold.  Only this time, it was inside my mouth.  The gelato’s wonderful taste slid across my tongue, even as I peeled the frozen scoop off inside of my upper lip.  It hurt bad.  Real bad, but given the gelato and its sinfully smooth taste, bad never hurt so good.

One of the challenges every night is checking homework for our Fourth Grade son Sam.  Not that it has a lot of errors or is of great abundance, but it is consistently there every night.  Oh and did I mention that Sam really, really, really needs to work on his penmanship?  As a result, every night, I am huddled over the kitchen table trying to interpret the seemingly foreign scribbles of our ten-year-old boy.

Tonight was a church night, so after the service had ended, we piled into the car and conducted a homework census.  Seventh Grader, homework under control.  Check.  Second Grader, small reading assignment.  No problem.  Taking a deep breath, we checked in with Sam.  No homework.  What?!?  Really?!?  A blessing from above.

Folks, if ever there was a reward for going to church, this was it.  Plus, if this really was a carrot for living the spiritual life, sign me up for church every night, because my son appears to already be writing in tongues.

So at first, I was sad that my kids were turning up their noses at the tuna casserole that I had worked hard fixing for dinner.

Then I noticed that when faced with a choice between starvation and tuna casserole, the kids decided to eat their vegetables, instead.  Looks like the tuna casserole was a success after all.

You know your efficiency has started to regress, when you update a project timeline at work and everything looks fine.

Then a co-worker asks, “Did you mean to replace ‘April’ with ‘April?'”

Yes, yes, I did, because you know, font is everything.

Admittedly, I am a pain in the rump, when it comes to jeans shopping.  I complain, “It takes too long.” I whine, “Do I have to?” I become super insecure, “How does my butt look?” All on the way to looking stunningly average.

Well, a few months ago, at a great emotional toll, I got two new pairs of jeans.  They fit good.  They look good.  My butt looks good.  I am happily average in them.  Sadly, however, one of the pairs has begun to wear out.  I got sad thinking about searching for a replacement, but a sudden thought came to the rescue.  I had all of the essential jean info, including brand, style, and size.  All I needed to do was order a replacement online and the jeans suffering would come to an end.  Clones R Us, here I come.  One pair of replacement jeans, please.  Double click.  Done.  Average man in jeans status secure.  A win for the lumpy gender.

This weekend, my new jeans arrived.  I pulled them on and I was good to go.  Watch out world, here comes average.  Problem was that the tug was not quite the same, the snug was a little off, the tag dug in, the belt rode rough.  It was a similar pair of pants, but different.  The clone was no clone, but rather a jeans relative.

Shopping for jeans is never easy.  Turns out that looking average is no cakewalk, either.

Earlier today, I was shopping for groceries.  Seeing the nebulous item of “Fruit” on the grocery list, I figured I would look for whatever was on sale.  Leaving my cart, I briefly scanned the shelves and in a few seconds found the perfect candidate.  Strawberries.  On sale and looking all sorts of plump, red, and delicious.

I grabbed two cartons and headed back to my cart.  Much to my surprise, I went to set the strawberries into my basket to find, strawberries.  Strawberries already there.  Pausing for a second, I considered how silly I was to already forget my previous selection.  Then it struck me, I was reaching into someone else’s cart.  I was a grocery store creeper.

Looking down the aisle, I found the proper cart and scurried in that direction with the hopes that I had not been noticed.  Looking around I did not see anyone who looked concerned.  Instead, I saw faces.  For the first time in a long time, I actually “saw” other people in the store.  Not obstacles.  Not strangers who I shared a smile and “excuse me,” as I passed.  No, I saw people.  People just like me.  People with hopes, dreams, and pain, just like me.

Perhaps, they had a rough morning, like me.  Perhaps, they just wanted to be out of the store quickly, like me.  Perhaps, they had every intention of returning to buy Thin Mints from the Girl Scouts, just like me.

They were not people to be avoided.  They were not people to be feared.  They were people who deserved my respect.  They were people to be understood.

None of us are any better than our neighbor.  We are all just trying to figure this out.  Some of us just have more trouble finding the correct cart for our strawberries, that’s the only difference I could see.

The veggie tray in the work breakroom, the great democratic experiment.  Which vegetable will be left behind?  Which vegetable will be scorned?  Which vegetable is so unloved that even ranch dressing can’t make it gobblable?

Well, today’s free food veggie tray consisted of five contestants.

1) Baby carrots, the small orange wonder with a crunch.

2) Celery, the crunchy one with inexcusable strings inside.

3) Cherry tomatoes, the stealthy fruit that likes to pass itself off as a vegetable.

4) Snap peas, the crisp pod with little friends inside.

5) Broccoli, the little tree that never found the will to grow up.

And the winner (well, really sort of a loser) is…

Broccoli!

Sorry little trees, you should have stayed in the Hidden Valley.

In honor of Daniel Craig’s birthday and considering that Daniel Craig is my wife’s celebrity crush, I figured I would clean myself with some “007” shower gel.  Sadly…

plus

does not equal

Sorry honey, cannot blame a guy for trying.

As my Second Grade son Ben’s basketball game ended on Monday night, I swear that I heard the coach say, “See you on Wednesday night.”  I did not have a game listed for Ben on Wednesday (tonight), but I have been know to be wrong, so “Yep, see you Wednesday night,” I said with hesitant confidence.

So tonight rolled around.  Wednesday night.  Ash Wednesday night.  We pulled into the parking lot and well, unless there was some sort of “Basketball Surprise Party” planned, the lack of cars seemed to indicate that I was right the first time and no game was scheduled.

Looks like a single basketball would have won tonight’s game.

No worries, if we headed straight to church, we could still attend the Ash Wednesday services.

And that is how I ended up wearing my Minnesota Twins shirt to church, since I had left the house dressed to attend a basketball game.  Again, no worries.  You see the Twins lost Tuesday’s Spring Training game 19-0, so I figure they need the prayers.

The good news is that I happened to be wearing my “nice” Twins shirt.

#Classy

Charlene and I only watched about five minutes of the Academy Awards.  In those five minutes, I began to question both my memory and who I have been watching movies with for the last twenty years.

First up, actress Salma Hayek presented an award.  I remarked, “She was in that movie about Studio 54, where Mike Myers played the owner.”  Charlene’s response, “I don’t know who you saw that with, but it wasn’t me.”  Humph, I’m sure I saw the movie.  I’m sure I did not see it alone.  I’m sure it was a bad movie.  Humph.

Next up, Meryl Streep came on the screen in a clip from a movie with Clint Eastwood.  I struggled to place the movie.  Charlene noted, “That’s ‘Bridges of Madison County.”  I responded, “Oh yeah, I saw that with you.”  Then I was promptly corrected by my wife who has now apparently never seen a movie with me, “No, I read the book.  You never saw that movie.”  Humph, well maybe not.  I do know however that long ago I saw “Titanic” with my wife.  I think.  Maybe.  Humph.

“…and the Academy Award goes to…  my faulty memory!”