That moment, you know the one.  That moment when you spit up coffee during the staff meeting.  That moment when it splashes all over you, because you were drinking out of a travel mug.  That moment when you hope no one saw you, but you can’t tell, because you’re partially blinded by coffee in your eye.  Yep, that moment.

The task was daunting.  The challenge had been issued.  I would not back down.  I would succeed.  Somehow.

The two youngest boys challenged me to cross over on the playground’s Monkey Bars.  They knew the odds were long.  Given my general girthiness, height, lack of upper body strength, and that whole “Gravity Thing,” I would really need to dig deep.  Somehow.

The site of my Waterloo.

Grabbing on, I swung with all my might and…  plopped onto the sand.

Another try, same result.

My sons laughed.  I would need another approach. Somehow.

Getting ready to swing, I adjusted.  I thought outside the box or more so on top of the bars.

Rather than swing, I hoisted.  I flung my large frame skyward and planted my arm pits onto the top of either bar.

Wiggling my hips and scooching my arms, I willed myself forward.  As my children watched in wonder and my arm’s skin burned onto the playground metal, I neared my goal.  Swinging my feet across the final bit a chasm, I arrived.  A loophole finder.  A game time innovator.  A playground champion.

My two youngest spawn (a.k.a. my playground tormentors).

Kids, pay attention, life lesson coming.  Sometimes the best way to make change, real change, long lasting change, life altering good for all change, you need to work within the system.  That’s why I have made a sacrifice at work for the greater good.

You see, an espresso machine at work would really rock.  #UndeniableTruth That is why in order to help with the “Frappe Friday” lobbying effort, I am making a huge sacrifice.  I took home my illegal “cup warmer.” You see, while researching work’s Greenhouse Gas Emissions policies, I stumbled upon the internal employee energy policy, which forbids cup warmers.  Sadness, polar bears looking for a cold place to sit sadness.

 Here you see the former location of my beloved cup warmer holding my www.CookiesbyDave.com mug.  It is also by the yellow notepad, which just ran out and was replaced by the soulless white notepad.  Great sadness all around.  Ch-ch-ch-changes.

My cup warmer is amazing.  An office gift from years ago.  I have gone through generations of cup warmers.  All of them maintaining a magical level of coffee warmness.  What is the the point of the modern age, if not for this?  But, rules are rules and the need for safety (please, note that the Mr. Coffee cup warmer was UL certified for safety, because I am a responsible office mate), unanimity, and energy efficiency are real.

So with a cold cup of coffee in hand, I stand with the people.  I shall play by the office small appliance rules.  I shall bid farewell to my friend with my eyes on the future.  A future filled with the delicious prospect of cappuccinos a plenty.  Dare to dream, kids.  Dare to dream.

Tonight, we attended the Superhero themed elementary school carnival.  After the initial loop of cheeseburgers, popcorn, games, silent auction, and inflatables, I was sent to pick up our eldest son from baseball practice.  Leaving our younger ones with Charlene, I walked toward the car.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw an opportunity.  There was a Batman cardboard cutout.  The perfect chance for a selfie, without even embarrassing my kids.  Perfect.

Standing there.  Happy.  Satisfied.  I posed for my perfect shot.  Getting ready to “click” the photo, I heard a group of teenagers shout, “Hey, there’s a guy taking a selfie!” Waving to them, I continued with my selfie.  I would not give into their mockery.  This was a victimless selfie.  No embarrassed family members.  Only one happy man.  I bravely proceeded.  I would not be intimidated.  Batman would be proud.

Helping coach my 3rd Grade son Sam’s baseball team, I nervously strolled along the bench.  That’s when I saw it, something of wonder.  Something of mystical delight, Bacon Flavored Sunflower Seeds.

I could not resist the temptation.  I approached the youngster holding the bag and asked if I could try a few.  How could he really resist?  I am approximately four times his size and five times his age.  Big bully.

Reaching into the bag, I grabbed a few.  Bacon treat of wonderful delight.  I popped them into my mouth and chomped down.  Then, instant pain.  A tooth was under attack.  A trip to the dentist may be needed.  Man should never fly so close to the sun.

Everyday is the same.  Everyday, it waits for me.  Everyday, I embrace my space.

Everyday at work, I park in the same space.  Three from the end of the far row.  Always next to the red pickup truck.  It’s like clockwork.  It’s the way it should be.  The way it should be, everyday.

Everyday, except yesterday.  Much to my shock.  Much to my sadness.  Much to my disorientation.  I pulled into the parking lot at work and someone was in my spot.  Oh, the horror!

Not that my spot is marked.  Not that anyone should necessarily know.  But still, back off!  It’s my place!  Can’t you sense my inner being yearning for placement in my designated space?  Can’t you park out in the hinterlands?  A land where you certainly won’t be taking someone’s precious source of parking stability.  Have a heart, watch out where you park.

Don’t make me mark my space in chalk.  “Don’t make me do it,” says the sensitive man with chalk in hand.

Today, I traveled with my Third Grader Sam to a new world for me: the elementary school “Lost and Found.” There we dug through bin upon bin of discarded and abandoned clothes looking for Sam’s lost jacket.

As I dug, my mind wandered. “Really? Don’t parents ask what happened to Johnny’s snow pants?” “I know he left school wearing snow pants, but now they are missing. Oh, well.” “Who does that?”

Then it struck me, as well as distracted me from my line of imaginary questions, these clothes felt yucky. Sort of a layer of filth permeated them. Perhaps, it’s some sort of buried fear of lice. Perhaps, some dislike of being dirty in general. Perhaps, I just don’t like being around the clothing of others. All I knew is that I needed to wrap up the search and find a sink to wash up. Quickly.

Unsuccessful in our search, I suggested to Sam that we wash our hands. Note that I did so in a non-panicky voice so as not to pass along my phobias to my son. There, as I feverishly scrubbed my hands in the elementary school restroom, I realized something very valuable. No, I hadn’t found Sam’s lost jacket, but I had found something pretty powerful. A new phobia. Well, at least I found something. Winning, fear of germs style.

One sign that I’m getting old, I’ve got a story for almost anything. Deli meat? Got you covered. Clueless man? Oh, my vault is full of those. Brushes with greatness? Have I ever told you about how I changed the channels for Hall of Fame catcher Gary Carter? Yep, I’ve got a story for almost anything.

So (future story of an awkward literary transition) earlier today, I was driving my 9-year-old son home from baseball practice. I thought practice had gone well, that’s why I was surprised to glance into the rear view mirror and see young Sam getting all misty eyed. Asking him what was wrong, Sam explained that earlier today he had lost his favorite jacket at school. He had looked all around. He had searched through “lost and found.” His jacket had gone missing. He suspected that another kid had taken it.

Digging in my bag of many stories, I told young Sam about Junior High gym class. Yes, there I was, young David taking the mandatory swim classes. After class, our gym teacher would have all of the 7^th Grade boys line up and then he would say (I apologize in advance to any of my junior high classmates who may read this and for the horrible memories this story may trigger), “Drop ’em!” That’s right, the gym teacher would make us all strip down and drop our wet swimsuits into a bucket, as he walked by. Yuck! Still the putrid stank of painful years, even in the dark shadows of my conscience.

Well, the swimsuits would then go to some washing facility, get clean, and reappear, prior to the next swim class for us to collect from the bucket. That was the process and we were forced to live by it.

I thought we had all agreed to live by it too, until one day, when my swimsuit went missing. Yep, stolen. The worst part of it all. The other kid had the nerve to wear it to the next swim class. There he stood wearing my (wait for it) red Speedo. Ewww. I don’t know what is nastier, my memory or the fact that I once wore a red Speedo to junior high gym class. Ewww.

There you have it, my distracting story designed to sooth the wounds associated with the loss of a favorite piece of apparel. Plus, as an added bonus, now I have a story about how I gave my eight faithful blog readers the vision of a young Dave in a Speedo that will not leave their memory anytime soon. For this, I owe you one. Thank you.

I would rather be doing almost anything other than laundry right now.

I have a pretty good idea about the location of 9-year-old Sam’s right sock, but I fear that he has lost his lefty in a game of Strip Uno.