At work, some folks have a love-hate relationship with the copy machine.  As for me, it’s all love.  First of all, it never jams.  Second, it has all sorts of cool features.  Third, it gives me time to contemplate life as it collates the day’s work.  It is a thing of beauty, our office copier.

Well, the other day, I was watching it produce a nice 20 page or so document for stapling and it did the cutest thing.  Instead of just stapling right away or simply knocking the papers all to one side for processing, two tiny “hands” gently nudged the papers together into a nice stack.  Nudge, nudge, nudge, went the little copier hands.  It was adorable.

Noticing this nifty feature, I pointed it out to my co-worker, who was standing behind me, waiting for me to finish up.  With a gentle smile, she asked, “How is it that you noticed this?”  Um well (awkward moment), you see I am rather fond of the copier and we sort of have a special bond.  ‘Nuff said.

Copier, don’t worry.  I get you.  I know you have the closest thing a machine has to a soul.  Keep up the good work, the work of your precious tiny hands.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, we stayed on the fifth floor of a hotel and our room had a balcony.  There were two locks on the door leading to the balcony.  Let me repeat, the door leading to our fifth floor balcony had two locks.

This could mean any number of things.

A) They have a problem with Tom Cruise jumping from balcony to balcony and entering rooms.

B) Spider-Men infest the area.

C) Basketball team mascots dressed as gorillas frequently trampoline toward the side of the hotel and dunk on the balconies.

D)  Three terrifying words:  Clowns on Stilts.

No, what am I thinking?  The reason there are locks on the fifth floor balconies is because it is a small price to pay to ensure the safety of those dear to me, no matter how small the risk.

Okay, I will lock the balcony door, but you had me at “Clowns on Stilts.”

We planned pretty well.  We made a hotel reservation with a room featuring a balcony.  The best part being that the Thanksgiving Parade would pass below us.  Perched from up high, we had great seats.

Sitting in some folding chairs on the balcony, it was a lovely night.  The lights in the parade shown bright.  The marching band sounded crisp.  The air was chilly, but far from cold.

With hot chocolate in hand, my youngest son, 7-year-old Ben, asked if he could sit on my lap.  Climbing up, I held him close.  The night was perfect and I gave him a big hug.  His cold cheek next to mine.  His chilly small hands nestled within my seemingly huge mitts.

Yesterday, our oldest son became a teenager.  He was entering the on ramp to adulthood.  My days of chilly cuddles will soon become small in number.  My boys are growing up.  Such fun, intelligent, and caring young men.  What an amazing site to behold.  What a brief moment in time to treasure.

My boys enjoying the parade with Grandpa.

Thanksgiving dinner was scheduled for 3PM.  A few snacks and football around noon, then turkey time a little later.

With the couch and living room chairs occupied, I grabbed a throw pillow and rested on the floor with my 7-year-old son.  The game was less than exciting and my son had brought a teddy bear along with him.

So I was there, all relaxed and horizontal.  My son grew tired of the teddy bear and I held it under one arm.  My eyes turned heavy and I drifted off.

Flash forward an hour or two and I stirred awake.  There in front of me on the television was the final score of the game.  Apparently, even an exciting finish, after a whole game of drudgery, was not enough to wake me.

My wife commented on how cute I had been snoozing away, while clutching the teddy bear close.  She thought of taking a picture and posting it, but resisted out of respect to my peaceful slumber and self dignity.  I smiled back.  My smile contained a little relief mixed with sadness, an early warning sign of an aspiring social media narcissist.

So consider this your warning,  Turkey is a powerful bird.  Turns out that tryptophan can knock you out cold, just by being in close proximity.  A turkey, a nap, a warning, ’tis the season.

Thanksgiving morning, our family headed out for a 5k.  Charlene had plans to run it with our oldest son and I would walk a mile with our two younger sons.  Perfect balance.  Race day success.

Enjoying the stroll with my kids, at about 40 minutes into the mile walk, I came to the much delayed realization that we had missed the turn.  Either that or we were walking the slowest mile ever.  Guess we were now committed to the whole 5k.

Toward the end (or close to what I assumed was the end), we passed a bakery.  I suggested to my kids that we stop for a snack.  After all, when would we travel down this road again?  Maybe never.  Fine justification, David.  My boys looked as if they were having trouble marrying the idea of a 5k fitness event and a stop for doughnuts.  Ha!  No such conflict in my world.

Heading out with our snacks, I was surprised to find my wife and eldest son.  They had completed the race thirty minutes ago and could not find us.  Giving it a quick thought, they figured they would look for us at the bakery.

Humph.  It appears as if reputations are fast.  They even follow you to the end of a 5k.

A few weeks ago, the Boy Scouts came to the front door with an elaborate order form for Christmas wreathes.  Feeling a little Christmas militant, I looked down the list to find a really “Jesus” style wreath.  Finding the “Cross” wreath (evergreen branch stuff shaped like a cross), I felt like I had made my point.  Take that, hyper commercialization.  Take that, Santa and your bag full of toys.

Earlier this week, the wreath arrived.  By now, my aggressive “Jesus is the Reason for the Season” feelings had mellowed and I looked at the cross wreath with a bit of regret.  It looked sort of odd and oversized.  Not the Boys Scouts fault, it was all on me.  Just too much Easter in that Christmas decoration.  Ugh.

The top of our garage has a single hook way up high.  I could envision the previous owner hanging a lovely Christmas wreath from that hook.  Since the cross wreath was too tall for our front door, I figured I would give the wreath a try over the garage.  A second chance for the Easter wreath.  A rebirth, perhaps?  How appropriate.

As I ascended the ladder to hang the cross wreath, I soon discovered how high the hook was perched.  Going close to the top of the ladder, I hoisted the unwieldy wreath toward Heaven.  Fail.  Next try, fail.  Third try, fail.  I inserted a zip tie around the wreath and tried again.  Success!  I went to bed sort of pleased.

In the morning light, I viewed my handiwork.  The wreath was still attached to its garage top Calvary, but this morning it drooped.  The portion of above the zip tie seemed to be bowing down.  Much more funeral home arrangement, as opposed to glorious Christmas wreath.  Ugly.  Bah humbug.  Excuse me, does the Grinch live here?

Down the street, our neighbor’s Christmas lights glowed a bright red and green.  So celebratory.  So seasonal.  Our house, with its single strand of lights and out-of-season droopy cross wreath, looked sort of sad.  You could hear them saying, “Well, bless their souls.  They appear to be trying.”  Yes, we were trying and failing.  Perhaps, they just thought we had our seasons mixed up and we were decorating early for Easter.  The shame of the neighborhood, a pimple on the shimmer of Christmas.

Oh, Jesus may be the Reason for the Season, but its time for me to calm down a little and enjoy X-mas.  No more saggy cross wreaths for me.  Traditional circles of evergreen from this point foward.  Ho, ho, ho.  ‘Tis the season to be jolly.

Stopping to get gas, I noted the fuel gauge as I hopped out of the car.  One quarter tank of gas remained.  I knew just about how much fuel it would take to top off the tank.

As my boys left the car, I figured that I would impress them.  “Hey guys, I bet it will take ten gallons of gas to fill up the tank.”

I pumped the gas and watched anxiously as the numbers grew.  One gallon…  two gallons…  The boys had sort of a casual interest in my game, but I persisted.  Seven gallons…  eight gallons…  As I got closer, my excitement grew.  Nine gallons…  I was growing giddy.  Then, it stopped.  Stopped short of ten gallons.  I topped off the tank.  Still short of ten gallons.  Any more would spill on the ground.  I had a final tally.

9.922 gallons.  I pointed proudly at the total and remarked, “Pretty close to ten gallons.”  My boys glanced up and said with oh such sting, “Nope.  Fail.”

Ouch.  I guess we were using the “Price is Right” rules.  A universal standard.  Closest number without going over wins.

Shucks.  Well at least, I always remember to have my pets spayed or neutered.  Bob Barker would be kinda proud.

“Kindness and sensitivity, come on down!”

Today, I had one thing on my Outlook calendar for the entire afternoon, “4th Grade Musical.”

1:15PM rolled around and there I was sprinting to the parking lot, because seats are of premium value at 4th grade musicals.  Plus, this year’s theme was “50 States.”  Oh, there would be songs a plenty, plus many a state factoid.  Earlier in the week, our 4th grader Sam had recited his line for us.  It was a monologue about Oklahoma and its plentiful oil, a.k.a. “Black Gold.”  A good factoid, indeed.

Arriving at the musical and sliding into the seat that my wife had saved for me, I watched the show and it was truly amazing.  Not for the music (although very nice and well rehearsed), not for the dialog (although I did learn that Alaska could stretch from Florida to California), but rather for something else.  It was amazing for where I found myself.  Next to my beautiful wife.  With a job that understands the value of home.  Watching my son perform a speech about Oklahoma.  A father to three boys, who I cherish beyond measure.  Living in a country, where freedom is so deeply valued.  Enjoying life in that moment.  Blessed beyond measure.

As a 4th grader, I would have been unable to envision myself today.  Looking back however, I would not want life any other way.

Another state factoid.  In a strange demographic twist, Minnesota 4th Grade Classrooms all have a 6-1, Girl-to-Boy ratio.  Go figure.

After completing some early Christmas shopping, we contemplated the day’s remaining activities.  Make dinner, help the kids finish homework, clean the bathrooms, and wrapping the presents all made the list.

Having seen me volunteer to finish the bathrooms and coordinate homework completion, my lovely, charming, and talented wife volunteered to wrap the presents.  She said this in all seriousness.  Have I mentioned that my wife has many talents?  Too many to mention.  Well, wrapping gifts is not one of them.

In the mix of household talents, I received the full bank of gift wrapping skill.  Yep, mine look like they were prepared at the department store.  Poor Charlene’s?  Well she tries and let’s just hope that a gift bag and tissue paper are close at hand.

Have I mentioned that my wife has many talents?  That being said, I am okay wrapping my own gifts with my eyes closed, I really am.

Have I mentioned that my wife is beautiful, too?  And that if she ever reads this, I hope it made her smile and that she is still willing to buy me some gifts, even though I deserve an icy cold shoulder.  Teasing in the context of love is sort of okay, right?  Have I mentioned that I love her, too?

All that being said, I’ll wrap this year’s presents, no problem.

For the last two weeks (and what seems like has been an eternity), I have been fighting various ailments.  In an effort to kill the viruses once and for all time, I enlisted a variety of techniques, which include two that are best done in private.  No worries, they are eye drops and gargling with salt water.  I know they sound weird, but trust me, anything is worth it to be well again.  Well, almost anything.

The primary problem has been finding an acceptable place at work to administer my treatments.  Sure, I could put in the eye drops in my cubicle, but my co-workers have really suffered enough.  Next best option, especially for the salt water gargling, which by the way does a great job at soothing a sore throat and also gives you the breath of a castaway, is the handicap accessible bathroom down the hall.  For some reason however, it always seems to be occupied.  Ugh, probably some co-worker trying to escape exposure to my plague.  Double ugh.

Given that even the briefest use of the “Nursing Mothers” room would be frowned upon and also the absolute worst place for me to be bringing my non-contagious, but suspect of sickness self, the only place left is the public rest room.  In a stall or by the sinks.  Ugh and yuck, either way.

So there I am extending my elbows up beyond the privacy barriers, while I put in my eye drops.  Probably an odd enough thing to see when entering the bathroom.  Then I wait until I think I am alone for the gargle treatment.  I’m probably alone, because someone reaches for the door and hears a loud throat bubbling noise and heads toward the handicap restroom.  Sorry buddy, it’s probably occupied.