Hang in there Random Polar Bears Ice Skating Throw Pillow…

Only two months to go and you will be back in season.

Trying to burn a few extra calories, I have been sneaking away to run on a treadmill during lunch.  This sounds great in theory, “Oh Dave, you go get ’em.  Lose that weight.  You can do it, slugger!”  The problem is that in practice, between the drive to and from the gym, in addition to any post-run clean up time, it only leaves me about 20 minutes to run.  As a result, I must take a ultra quick shower.

So earlier this week, I jumped into the shower, but as my feet hit the wet locker room floor, I was struck by hesitation.  A fear.  A realization that my bare feet had just entered a realm of danger.  An area potentially prime for wart transmission.  Ew.  Double ew.  Triple ew.  Yuck and more yuck.

Heading back to work, I made a judgement call.  Would I be anywhere close to a store that sells cheap flip-flop shower shoes anytime soon?  Would said stores even have flip-flops for sale this time of year?  How much time am I wasting even considering the question?  Oh, the answer became clear.  I was wasting more time than it would take to justify the shipping costs of a flip-flop shower shoe purchase on Amazon.

Select color.  Click.  Select size.  Click.  See “Buy” button.  Click.  Done deal.  No more showering without a safety net.  My feet are now gonna be worry free.  Now, I just need to figure out how to bend space and time to fit in a few more minutes of exercise and everything is going to be just fine.

With an estimated 30 minutes remaining until their mother returned home, I gathered the boys together.

Looking deep in their eyes, I provided them with a likely scenario.  A scenario involving the treadmill sitting in the basement.  The same basement that contains the majority of their toys.

“In about 30 minutes, your mother will return home.  She will be so happy to see you and we will all enjoy a lovely dinner.  Shortly after dinner, Mom will say, ‘That was a wonderful meal, now I think I will walk on the treadmill.'”

“Now, I don’t know the current condition of the basement.  I’m not sure if the toys are all picked up and the basement is clean, but if I were you, I would head downstairs and make sure everything looks good.”

As the boys ran off to rapidly clean the basement, I smiled to myself.  A threat nestled within the warning of a likelihood, it appears as if all is well in the Paulsen house.

Wandering through a quaint little downtown area, not too far from home, my boys and I had differing agendas.  They wanted to play at the park down the street.  I wanted to check out the antique mall.

We struck a bargain.  They would head down to the park and play for a few minutes, while I quickly checked out the antique mall.  No losers in this deal.  My 12-year-old son shepherded his younger brothers toward the park.  I headed into the antique mall.

Strolling around, I was truly relaxed.  Some antique picture frames here.  Vintage glassware there.  Nothing of interest, but all was good.  The dust rested comfortably, as my feet softly meandered from booth to booth.

Working my way around a tight corner in the back of the shop, my heart suddenly stopped.  My boys were standing right in front of me!  In the back of the store.  Surrounded by many an overpriced knickknack.  Many a thing that I had no interest in buying.  Many a thing that it would take me many years to repay.  Many an item well within reach of their curious grasp.

Oh dear, oh dear.  Kids, slowly retrace your steps back to the front of the store.  Do not pass “Go.”  Do not collect “$200.”  With any luck, my savings account would not suffer any permanent damage.  With any luck, college for my youngsters would still be a reality.  With any luck, the Land of Overpriced Aged Breakables would live to see another day.

As I prepared dinner, the boys were all having their fun.  One of my boys was in the basement and a friend from down the block had come over to play.

As I continued with dinner, the doorbell rang.  A new random neighborhood child had shown up at the door.  Having at one point been a random neighborhood child myself, I understood the phenomena.  Children show up to play.  Let them be kids.  Continue about my business.

Random Child had a simple question, “Can I play?”

Sure, come on in.  I suspect that the child you are looking for is in the basement.  I did however have a message for Random Child.  A ground rule.  “We are having dinner in 15 minutes.”  Code words for “At 5:45 PM, you will need to scram.”

There, I had given my guidance.  Welcome to the Paulsen House, Random Child, but that’s the key rule to leave by.  You will need to vanish by dinnertime.

Looking at me with such honest intentions, Random Child responded, “I need to be home by 6:30 PM.”

Um, that’s nice Random Child with no sense of time.  On second thought, you can leave now.

As we hurried to get ready for church, my 7-year-old son Ben presented himself and asked, “Do I need to wear church shoes?”

Well, with a horizontal striped blue shirt, orange shorts, and black socks pulled up high, I would say that church shoes were the least of his fashion concerns.

Fully comprehending Ben’s look, I smiled and said, “No, you’re fine.”

The other night, I picked up our oldest son from confirmation class.  Turning to my other boys, who were along for the ride, I suggested that we go to Target for slushies.  Other than one son continually trying to get a drink from the spout clearly glowing with the “Do Not Use When Lit” light, all was going fine.

“Son, I understand the overpowering allure of the ‘Blue Raspberry,’ but if it isn’t ready, it isn’t ready.”

Then it struck me, I don’t want any of these high sugar content, very sticky, and most likely to be spilt frozen beverages in my car.  We should walk around Target, while finishing the drinks.

So wandering through the toy aisles, I suddenly heard my 9-year-old son laughing uncontrollably.  One of those genuine strong belly laughs.  That’s when he emerged from the next aisle with this…

Fat Cat

Yes, that’s right, it’s a hideous fat cat ball.  It bounces.  It’s ugly.  It has a high likelihood of taking out an eye, but it’s funny.  Pure funny.

Playing with it in the aisle, I scanned it’s price tag.  $6 and some odd cents.  Hum.  Normally, I place a price ceiling on stupid purchases that make me laugh at $5, but this is really funny.  Plus, it makes for a great story and is something that most likely will get caught in the basketball hoop’s net.  Hum.  It’s worth it!

With shocked looks on their faces, my children saw me head toward the checkout lanes with the Fat Cat ball.  Then beginning to laugh, the young checker found her evening’s entertainment.  Turning to me she said, “So you guys said, ‘Hey, let’s go out to Target tonight and buy a cat ball’?”  Yep, pretty much.  That’s how we roll and now we know that the price of a really good joke has risen to $6.  Call it Chuckle Inflation, another sign of the times.

Plus, if you really want to give the kids a good laugh.  Turn the cat around to show the Fat Cat’s rear end.  Now, that might be worth even a little more than $6.  Just sayin’.

Ask not, “who is to blame for the bedtime meltdown?”  Why not?  Well, he is looking right back at you in the mirror, Mr. Let-Them-Stay-Up-To-Play-A-Board-Game.  Mr. That-Was-A-Really-Bad-Idea.

Oh yes, you are to blame.  Blame for the game going awry.  Blame for winning.  Blame for engaging highly competitive in a children in a game that is largely chance, when the odds were not good that it would end well.  Blame for a child getting so tired and punch drunk that he could no longer seem to count in a game heavily dependent upon counting.  Blame for threatening to call the game off for wild behavior so many times, but not pulling the trigger, because the game appeared to be so near completion.  Blame for not recognizing that the game is never really ever near completion.  Blame for letting them continue to play for second and third place.  Oh yes, that last one was unforgivably stupid and I fully shoulder the blame.

I am “Sorry” on so many levels and I am to blame.  Goodnight.

At work, I was doing some initial data gathering for a project.  For part of it (roll with me on this one), I had to visit the web site for a municipality in Florida.

As I looked for the data, I noticed something in the upper right corner of the screen.  A promising button that reminded me of warmer days.  A button entitled “Beach Camera.”  Yes, rather than being in my cubicle, I could be magically transported to a gulf coast beach in Florida.  A beach on a sunny 80 degree day.  The waves gently rolling onto the sand.  Happy sundrenched people collecting shells.  I could be part of it.  Sand practically between my toes.  The Internet would take me there.  All I needed to do was click the button.

The magical “Beach Camera” button that promised to instantly inject me with a real time vision of sunshine.

Clicking the button, I prepared myself for magic.  Instead I was confronted with reality.  Suddenly a warning appeared on my computer screen.  A warning that said something to the effect of “You should not be viewing this site.  IT thinks it might be related to ‘surveillance’ and that’s a ‘no, no.'”

What?!?  Wait!  No, you don’t understand.  Let me through, damn it!  This isn’t a “Nanny Cam.”  This isn’t a game.  This is my instant portal that can return me to Summer.  This isn’t fair…

Ah, the wonders of the Internet.  Technology giveth and IT taketh away.

I could not find the proper case for my cell phone.  As a result, I purchased an ill fitting model that accidentally pushes random combinations of buttons, when carried in my pocket.

The other day, while walking around at work, the misfit case activated the video recording function.  The result is video footage that will take you inside the front pocket of my khakis.  Hold on tight…

Amazing!  It’s like being in a womb.  Faint voices.  Being jostled about.  Strange lights.  Then of course, the miracle of birth.  This time into my office cubicle.

Welcome to the world cell phone, this is the happiest day of my life.