At work, across the lobby from my cube, are a few meeting rooms and the Men’s Room.  Well, it just so happens that right in the middle of the journey across the lobby is a big meeting room.  A meeting room that happened to be occupied today with a meeting where I was not invited.  A meeting room that just so happened to have a refreshment cart placed right outside the door.  A refreshment cart containing water, store bought cookies, and doughnuts.  Many a glorious doughnut.  Waiting.  Just waiting to be enjoyed.  Waiting to make someone happy.

The refreshment cart of many temptations.

And the topper.  The actual topper.  The doughnut perched upon a bear claw was a glorious vision.  A perfect jelly filled doughnut covered with powder sugar.  A wonder of baking goodness.  Perfection.  A real beauty.  Surely it would go quick.

I walked across the hall for a different meeting in a different room.  The doughnut tempted me.  Stay strong, Paulsen.

I returned to my cube.  The doughnut remained.

Another meeting.  Another exchange of longing glances with my doughnut of desire.

A trip to the restroom.  It was still there.

The meeting that had control of the doughnut had breaks.  Lunch breaks.  More breaks.  Did no one see this perfection that was assigned to them?  Ungrateful bastards!  My blood boiled.  Boiled with passion for my doughnut of desire.  I was meant to be with that doughnut.  I truly appreciated that doughnut.  That doughnut belonged with me.  Damn society and its rules of conduct!

Finally, the day ended and I headed out the door.  There was the doughnut waiting to say goodbye.  We looked at one another.  We knew how we felt.  No words needed to be said.  I continued toward the door, but paused to look in on the meeting that was adjourning and there on the Power Point’s screen it read, “Thank You!”

Yeah sure, you are welcome.  The doughnut is now all yours.  I won’t stand in your way.  Just promise to treat her right.  Promise to make her happy.  Give her a good home.  She’s a beauty and deserves only the best.

The End.

That overwhelmingly tired feeling.  The one that comes with coaching your son’s Little League baseball team to its sixth consecutive loss.  So tired that you walk in the door and throw your jersey in the laundry basket.

Sad, when you realize that the trash still needs to go out to the curb, but you are now shirtless.  So tired, that you are somewhat okay walking outside shirtless to take the trash to the curb.  Okay, because you are a man.  A sad and tired man, but still an American male and therefore permitted to wander around within certain perimeters shirtless.

Sad, when you realize at the curb that every woman in the neighborhood is tending to something in their front yards.  Extra self consciously saddened to accept that you are vulnerably shirtless, in the view of so many, and have more of a body like the Grinch than Brad Pitt.

Super sad in a special idiot sort of way, when you realize that you took the trash out to the curb a day ahead of time.  Sad, shirtless, but in an odd way, ahead of my time.

Question for you, “What is super creepy?”

Answer, “Walking into the restroom at Target and seeing these shoes peeking out from under stall.”

Of course, I did not take a photo of the actual shoes, because that would have been super duper creepy.  Even creepier than shoes with toes, which out of context look like some sort of hideous man-beast feet, which should be banished to the underworld from which they surfaced (into the Target restroom).

Yep, plenty creepy without the photo.

My fatherly saying of the weekend.  Enjoy!

(Said in response to learning what was for dinner) “Fajitas?  There’s nothing beat-a.”

Corny, with a side of ham, but oh so perfectly “fatherly.” Just like me.

I have been lazy.  For weeks, bags of yard waste sat waiting in the third bay of our garage.  Well, today they said goodbye.

Piling half of the bags, plus my kids, into the car (I planned on returning with the kids), we headed for the brush site.  Seeing that it was our first trip to the Land of Brush, I had a question regarding my bags containing old bushes.  “Can I leave the bag?” Pretty straight forward, but the answer was somewhat perplexing.  “If you don’t leave the bag, they go in that pile,” motioning to the closest hill.  “If you use that pile over there, you can leave the bag.”

The distance was not that much between them, so I headed for the more distant “Can Leave the Paper Sack” mountain of yard waste.  Pretending a little fear and apprehension, I turned to the kids and asked, “I wonder what dangers await” (that would require us to drive past the first pile).  Junk yard dogs?  Mulch monsters?  Plumes of decomposition smells?

Good news, we made it to the pile okay.  I began throwing the bags onto the hill, one by one.  Final bag, I asked the kids, “Can I get this one to the top?” Hoisting the sack, it landed halfway up.  The kids mocked.  The lady in the car next to me said she thought it was a pretty good throw.  Damn right, it was.  I would show those youngsters.

We went home.  Packed the car with the remaining sacks and headed back.  I surveyed the mountain.  I picked up the bags (which sadly were heavier than the first load).  One by one, I threw the bags.  Nowhere close to the top.  The kids lost interest.  One bag remained.  One final chance for redemption.  I alerted the kids.  I grasped the sack.  I threw with all I had.  The angle was right.  The wind billowed under the paper.  The wings of angels appeared to accompany the bag’s flight.  Then with a soft “thud,” the bag rested on the summit.

For one fine moment, I savored compost redemption.  I was indeed King of the (Yard Waste) Mountain.

The mountain.

A vision of triumph.  My sack on top.

In honor of National Flip Flop Day, it seems appropriate to have a socks battle, because they certainly aren’t on our feet.

The Battle Arena:  The Paulsen Family Mud Room.

The Combatants:  Dad v the Paulsen Boys.

The Rules of Engagement:  whoever has the most socks just randomly sitting around loses.

First up, we see some of the Paulsen boy socks nestled by a pair of Dad’s flip flops.

Score:  Dad 1, Kids 0.

Oh dear, a pair of Dad’s socks are resting by Mom’s purse.

All tied up, 1-1.

Ah, there we go…  some random Vacation Bible School items resting next to some abandoned kid socks.

Dad 2, Kids 1.

Oops, a box of light bulbs that Dad needs to install and an empty McDonald’s Happy Meal box, but sitting next to them is a pair of Dad’s dress socks.

All tied up, 2-2.  We head into the garage for sudden death overtime.

A pile of dirty baseball cleats.  Looks promising, but…  NO!  Dad’s socks rest at the bottom of the pile.

Kid’s win, 3-2 in OT.

Great job, now pick up your dirty socks and your father’s, while you are at it.  Oh and by the way, Happy Flip Flop Day!

Approaching home plate, our team was suffering a four game losing streak.  Time for the pregame rule discussion with the other coach.  Fine, he does not like loose balls scattered around the pitching rubber.  I agreed to stuff the extra baseballs into my cargo shorts, while pitching.  Thus the Baseball Butterfly Effect begins.

[Nugget of background…  if a batted ball hits the pitching machine, it is declared a “dead ball” and runners advance one base.  If it hits the coach operating the pitching machine, it is a redo and the pitch takes place again.  Stupid rule difference?  Yes.  Was it in the rule book?  Yes.  Okay, settled.]

Flash forward to the bottom of the sixth, the final inning.  Our team is down by five runs.  Bases are loaded.  Two outs.  Tying run is on deck.  Two strikes.  I pull back the arm of the pitching machine.  The batter hits it swiftly up the middle.  It looks like it will score a few runs.  I pivot my hips.  [The Baseball Butterfly Effect arrives…]  The ball strikes my bulging front pocket that contains the many baseballs that the other coach requested that I stuff into my pants.  The play is dead.  The pitch would be played over again.

I sighed.  The other coach yells from the sidelines, “Nice job, coach.”  Gosh, thank you for rubbing it in.  I pull the lever again.  The batter swings and misses.  Strike three.  Game over.  Defeat number five in a row.  Ugh.  [The Baseball Butterfly Effect laughs in my face…]

Getting into the car, I drive directly to Dairy Queen, because nothing erases the bad taste of defeat like ice cream.  Licking our Blizzards, as my children and I return to the car, I glance back at the restaurant.  In the two minutes between us arriving and receiving our order, the line had grown from two people to about forty.  Our timing had been perfect.

Baseball game tonight, defeat.  Timing at the ice cream stand, victory.  Overall, I’ll call the night a win.

During our daily rundown of the day’s events, I asked my kids what the church had planned for the money raised from Vacation Bible School.

“We are buying a goat to send to Norway.”

Oh dear, I had no idea things were that bad in the European Union.  Either that or there is a goat that really needs a vacation.

I had ten extra minutes to spare. I had arrived at my meeting well ahead of time.  Given my surplus of minutes, I decided to pick up a cup of coffee.  Surveying my limited options, I regretted so carelessly passing the Starbucks on the highway.  Oh well, we play with the hand we are dealt, so I settled on a gas station down the road.

Thankfully, the gas station had a wall full of coffee options, so I would be alright. Considering my surplus of minutes, I figured I would also use the restroom, before the meeting.  Going to wash my hands and thinking of the coffee goodness awaiting me, I slathered some soap onto my hands.  Then I waved them below the faucet.  No reaction.  Even though the sink appeared wet, the motion sensor did not want to give me water.  I tried again.  Nothing.  Not a drop.  I continued to rub the soap into my hands.  They would at least be covered with soap, if not wet.

Giving up on the water, I decided to just dry off the soap. Sadly the only remaining option was an electric hot air hand drier.  This was not going to be good.  Soon, I had hands covered with warm soap.  Soon, my surplus of minutes was dwindling.  I had to make a choice.  I selected the hand drying on the pant leg option.  I was pitiful.  I was the embodiment of gas station coffee.

On the Brightside, I now had soapy smelling hands, a cup of scalding hot gas station coffee, and an arrival at my meeting barely ahead of time. Things were indeed taking a turn for the better and I would face that happy future with soap covered pants, because that’s how I roll.  No water required.

Last night, I entered my 12-year-old son Jacob’s room to say goodnight.  We sat there recapping the day’s events.  His team had won his baseball tournament.  It had been a day of joy.  A beautiful day in the sun.

There was however something I wanted to explain to him.  An event that he had been fortunate enough to miss.  Something he would inevitably hear about and something I wanted to try and explain.  A man had committed an unspeakable crime of hate.  Something so horrible and wrong.  Taking the lives of so many others.  As I choked up, I explained that sometimes people do awful things that hurt the innocent.  Crimes of hate.  Inexplicable crimes beyond comprehension.  Tragedies where we can only pray for the survivors and the families of those lost.

Fortunately, I am blessed.  I have a beautiful family and meaningful job.  This morning, I was given another day surrounded by those blessings.

Wrapping up work, I headed out and hoped to avoid most of the rush hour traffic.  There in the parking lot was another reminder of the tragedy.  A reminder of such sadness.  The country grieved.  Our flag reflected the pain.

Opening up the side car door and flinging my briefcase into the passenger seat, I noticed something very different.  A reminder of happiness was stored in the side door.

A baseball from the day before.  A reminder of sunny days.  Days of innocence and happiness.  Also, a sign of hope.

There is a generation waiting.  Waiting to make the world a better place.  A generation filled with dreams and promise.

In these days of pain.  In these days, where hate stings so deep.  Let us show our most powerful side.  A side of hope and love.  A gift given to us by our God of creation, the same God that has given us another day.  Let us take this gift and fill it with love.  Love those around us.  Remind those we care about that we treasure them.  Let us show the next generation an example of love and prepare them to pass that gift along.

That next generation is on deck.  In these dark hours, let us show them the power of light and love.