Look hard enough and you can find plenty of reasons to give thanks, even in some odd situations.  Here’s proof.

It has gotten chilly outside, so I went searching the house for our favorite snuggle blankets.  Soon, I spotted one in the basement under the steps.  Our 9-year-old son Sam often builds a “fort” in this area, so finding an warm and cuddly blanket in this locale is nothing unusual.

Yanking on the blanket, I saw a shower of stale pretzels and goldfish crackers erupt from the fort.  Fortunately, my trusty beagle was close by my side and was all to happy to assist with cleanup.

This story’s “Thankful Tally” was ten!  Ten reasons to give thanks.

1. Thankful for the change of seasons, even though I grumble about the cold.
2. Thankful that we own blankets to use for snuggling.
3. Thankful we have each other to assist with snuggling.
4. Thankful for our home, where our kids can spread out and even have room to build forts.
5. Thankful to have creative kids, who would even think of building forts.
6. Thankful for pretzels, goldfish crackers, and other healthy snack options.
7. Thankful that maybe my kids are saving up food for winter.
8. Thankful that my pup was on hand to clean up the mess.
9. (Extra Specially) Thankful that we found the stash of snack crackers before any vermin.
10. Thankful that I have such an amazing family that provides me with endless joy and writing material.  For all of these and the many others that I’m sure I missed, “Thank you, God.  Amen.”

When Charlene asked me for some help, I didn’t know what to expect.  She needed help interpreting our 9-year-old son Sam’s math homework.  Looking at the paper, I was baffled.

How did he channel my thought process?

How does he mirror my mind?

Get that boy a white board, because I love white board time.

Great minds scribble (incomprehensibly to others) alike.  We will gladly provide interpreting services for each other.

Tonight, I saw a note above the hamper…

I looked closer…

Then closer still…

A drawing of me with a beard.  In this case, a beard that I grew when I gave up shaving for Lent…  in 2011!  Did I really look that bad that my children still remembered that beard from over five years ago?

Okay, they were right.  It was a bad beard and sad to say, their drawing was pretty accurate.

Good to know one of the many deep scars that will remain with them until late in life.  “Remember that time when Dad gave up shaving for Lent and grew a nasty beard?”  Yes, sadly we all will remember that Lent for a long, long time.

Hypothetical situation:  man is running late for a meeting and is speeding down the highway in his less than speedy ten-year-old crossover vehicle.

Speeding along, making time, gaining hope that he might just make it to his meeting on time, the man hits a wall of sorts.  Slow moving truck in the right lane.  Red Corvette in the passing lane.

What’s the choice?  That’s easy, follow the Corvette.  What?  The Red Corvette has decided it has a desire to move at the same slow speed as the truck.  What?  I thought Red Corvettes with nothing but empty road ahead would zoom on down the highway.  Nope, looks not to be the case.  Slow truck next to slow Red Corvette.  No one moving over.  No one going anywhere fast.

Not only (hypothetically) was I sad that I had been racing along and risking a ticket, just to get stuck behind a vehicle that should never be moving as slow as a truck.  Sad that there is a Red Corvette that belongs to someone clearly undeserving of a sports car.  Sad that I would be late for my meeting.  Sad that this Rule of the Road (i.e. “Fast sports cars should only be driven fast.”) was no longer valid.

Another Rule of the Road, don’t sit shotgun, that’s Kirby’s spot.

He’ll remind you.

It was one of those moments.  One of those times when you are forever changed.  You see things that you can never unsee.  Experience smells that must have been pulled directly from the belly of Satan himself.

Yes, I answered the call to unplug the downstairs toilet.  I entered that bathroom and returned a changed man.

Fear not for I armed myself for the battle at hand.

At work there is an exercise room with a treadmill.  The problem is that there is very little to do to occupy your attention, while running on the treadmill.  Reading while jogging is too much up and down.  Watching one of the Jillian Michaels exercise DVDs while I run would be just plain creepy.  As a result, I planned ahead.

Knowing that I would be using the exercise room after work on Friday, I took along a copy of the new James Bond movie, “Spectre.”  Rated PG-13, it should have plenty of action to keep me entertained for 40 minutes.  Victory.

Well, needless to say, the building was very quiet after work on Friday and I had the exercise room to myself.  In fact, it appeared as if I had the whole building to myself.

Popping in the DVD, I began to run.  Action sequence.  Backstory.  More action.  More backstory.  Then at about 38 minutes, one of the only true sexy moments of the film.  Run some more.  Then, slam!  The door to the exercise room swings open and a buff man enters to lift some weights.  Shocked that someone else was in the building, I almost flew off the back of the treadmill, but worse was the DVD.  Having entered during the only sixty saucy seconds of the entire two hour movie, I looked like an exercise room creeper.  Defeat.

Flash forward to this afternoon.  I hustled to the gym over lunchtime and jumped onto a treadmill.  As I ran, I looked at the treadmill’s video screen.  Seeing that it offered a health blog for reading, I clicked on the screen.  Hey, if I am not going to be completely healthy, I might as well read about a healthy lifestyle.  It’s a start.

Seeing an article by Olympic skier and all around attractive human Lindsey Vonn, I thought about clicking on the screen.  She wrote some article about staying active while traveling.  Fine, I’ll click on it.  Did I mention that she is an attractive human?  Fine, well I scrolled down through the article and then there was an interactive video that I could click on.  Fine, she is after all an attractive human, I should click on the video.  Then as I ran, my screen was filled with Lindsey Vonn doing some weird push up slash lung type exercise on a playground swing set.  Odd, but interesting.  Interesting, but inappropriate for the gym.  Inappropriate, but she is an attractive human.  Still shocked that this was now being broadcast on my treadmill screen minus any context, I had once again become a gym creeper.  Ugh, working out can be dangerous and put you at risk of being creepy.

Finishing my workout, I slinked all full of shame down to the Family Locker Room to change.  Normally, this would be creepy.  A man all alone going into the Family Locker Room to change, but the gym locker rooms are being remodeled and everyone is being funneled through the Family Locker Room.  Fine, I would be okay on the creepy scale, at least for a moment.  Finishing up, I began to leave my private shower area only to find that some people who far less attractive than Lindsey Vonn or James Bond were strutting around the Family Locker Room wrapped in just towels.  Bellies and less than attractive skin all around.  Boundaries people!  We live in a society!  Back to your individual Family Locker Room pods!

Ah, life had come full circle.  The gym creeper had himself been creeped.

Back in the spring, I began decorating my office cubicle with family photos.  If I would take a photo worthy of framing, I would have a copy printed at Target, purchase a frame, and decorate my cubicle one photo at a time.

It had become a routine.  Go to Target, press the “Need Service” button at the photo counter, wait a few seconds, and have a Target customer service representative retrieve my photo.  Bing, bang, boom.  We had a routine established.  We were a team decorating my cubicle.  It was a winning relationship, the Target photo center and me.

Earlier today, I went to Target to collect my most recent photo.  I pressed the service button and waited.  Nothing.  The person next to me left to go shopping, instead of wait.  Seconds passed.  It had never taken this long before.  I pressed the button again.  Nothing.  I saw an employee report to the button that had been pushed at the Electronics Counter.  The Photo Center was not first in line.  It was going to be a while.

I glanced across the counter.  I saw the same drawer that Target employees had accessed so many times before.  I knew where the photo was waiting.  All I needed was for an employee to grab them.  I waited.  Nothing.

I glanced at the drawer again.  What was the worst that could happen if I retrieved my photos on my own?  Snipers?  Handcuffs?  Black helicopters?  Bouncers?  I took action.

Quickly heading toward the drawer, I looked inside.  “A-M” photos.  Crap!  Wrong drawer.  Paulsen starts with a “P.”  I opened the drawer to the right and there it was.  My photo contained within a neatly prepared envelope containing a “Dave Paulsen” sticker.  I grabbed my photo and headed back into the customer safe zone.  The area where I was supposed to be.

You know what happened?  Nothing.  No response.  From anywhere.  Ever.  Heading toward the checkout lane, I knew I had done what was needed.  I was a man of retail action.  A man who could now continue to decorate his cube.

My cubicle’s newest photo.  It shows my three boys and it seems to include a subtle clue that the restaurant has introduced a Mexican food themed menu.

Giddy, I headed straight for the freezer.  I had in my hand a new type of Oktoberfest Beer and I could not wait to give it a taste.  Popping the beer into the freezer at 5:30PM, I went about my night, with visions of delightful beer flavors dancing in my head.

Four hours later, shock and dismay entered my mind.  I had forgotten my much anticipated beer.  Hustling toward the freezer, I had a choice.  Either I could place the beer in the refrigerator to thaw and properly enjoy it tomorrow or I could take my chances.  I could throw caution to the wind and open that partially frozen Oktoberfest concoction.  I could embark on a beer adventure.  I chose to live life dangerously.  I popped the top.

What I saw next happened quickly, but also sort of slowly.  The beer slushy began spewing out of the can in slow motion.  I licked the frozen beer up like a thirsty pup.  A gross and pitifully stupid thirsty pup.  The only problem was that the beer slushy kept coming.  After a spell, I would have beer slushy brain freeze.  I had to do something quick.

Grabbing a pint glass (while still sucking up the frozen beverage that kept rising from the can), I poured what I could into the glass.  Then using the end of a wooden spoon, I got some more slushy and a bit of actual beer into the glass.  Smiling, I set the beer slush mess aside to melt.  In a bit, I would sort of be able to properly enjoy the Oktoberfest delight.

I had survived the beer slushy geyser.  I was a champion.  A champion who would have to wait just a bit longer to enjoy a beer like a normal man.  Hey, it’s a start.  A very cold and slushy start.

At my gym, they have undergone a major remodeling project.  New workout studios, new locker rooms, new gym, you get the idea.  Well, they were raising money for the project by taking bids for the “First Basket” in the new gym.  Given my basketball skill level, I passed.

Last week, as I marched toward the locker room to prepare for a round on the treadmill, I saw a fun little sign outside the gym.  The sign read, “Open gym all day!  Come on in and shoot a basket.”  I was intrigued.  It would not be the “first” basket, but they were inviting me to check it out.  Alright, I’m game.

Walking in, I was a curious site.  I had come during lunchtime, so I was still wearing my business casual clothes and dress shoes.  Certainly not basketball attire, but as long as I did not mark up the new floor, I would be okay.  And new it was, indeed.  It had that welcoming smell of paint and flooring.  Sort of a “new gym” smell, if I have ever sniffed one (and now I have).

Grabbing a ball, I was alone in the gym.  The only onlooker was a man occasionally glancing through the second floor workout room’s glass windows that look down into the gym.  It was just me and the basket.  I placed my toes on the free throw line, took aim, fired, and…  air ball.  About two feet below the net.  Pitiful.  The man looking down from the workout room turned away.

I retrieved the ball from the base of the gym wall and I approached the basket for a gentle layup.  Thud.  Off the rim.

I got the ball and tried yet again.  Another miss.  This was officially sad.

After several more misses, I lined up, shot, and the ball went through the hoop.  2 points!  The man in the workout room, who now had his back to me, did not seem impressed.

Retrieving the ball and placing it back into its bin, I left the gym somewhat satisfied.  I could retire a winner.  My final shot went through the hoop.  Plus, I did not have to pay a dime to record the first “air ball” in the new gym.  It may not be a source of pride for me, but I’m certainly now part of history.

It breaks my heart to say it, but with leaves falling on the hammock, there’s no more denying it.

“Goodbye, summer.” There I said it.  The first step toward winter acceptance.  Brace for impact.