Our 9-year-old son Sam had an early morning doctor’s appointment to have some stitches removed. Stitches that tend to bother him so he walks around with one pant leg hiked up mid-thigh, well above the stitches.  Well, poor Sam needed one more stitch to remain a little longer, so there he sat in the backseat, as we drove to school, with one of his pant legs hiked up all high.

Flipping around on the radio, I found REM’s “Stand.” Ah, the perfect song to sing with a young lad in the backseat.  The perfect song to take me back to my Eighth Grade days.  The perfect song for bopping along in the car.  Fun.  Perky.  Just what we needed.  I taught Sam when to yell “Stand.”  We ignored the teenagers in the car next to us.  Nothing would ruin our “Stand” moment.

Nothing, but the lights that soon appeared in my rearview mirror. Sadly, I would no longer “Stand,” but rather I would pull over.  I had presumably committed an offense.  I knew not what, but I was sure that I was probably guilty.  I was in a moment of “Stand” and not pure driving concentration.

Oh, how I wanted to defend myself. “Officer, but ‘Stand’ was on the radio and I dare you not to car dance to that tune.”  “Officer, I have not embraced a beat like that since, ‘Bust a Move.’”  “Officer, I am taking my son to school and you see he just came from the doctor, as you can judge by his hiked up pants.”  “Officer, I am a hot mess and could you please cut me a break on this one.”  Oh, how I could have defended myself, but I knew the right response.  Instead, I apologized.  I apologized a lot.  I begged for mercy, because I was caught being a fool.  Caught being absorbed in “Stand.”  Caught being an unapologetic mess.

47 in a 35. Ugh.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  You see, I’m an idiot” or so went my plea.  After apology number 26, I think he began to feel sorry for me or just wanted to be rid of me, with or without the “Stand” explanation.

Pulling away, cautiously thrilled about my verbal warning, I drove with great awareness. What is the speed limit?  Oh, there’s the sign.  What is on the radio?  Who cares?  Drive careful, knucklehead.  That’s when it struck me.  How truly lucky I was.  Well, there was my wounded son in the backseat showing off his stitched up leg.  Not even my “good dad” sweater vest could defend me for it was buried well beneath my windbreaker.  The officer had obviously cut me a break on that one.

More so, however, he had ignored something that I completely forgot about. Today at work was “Fruitapalooza.”  A Fruit Fest to end all Fruit Fests, where a winning fruit would be decided (Blueberries beat Honeycrisp Apples, 11-2, and Avocado squeezed Lime in the Third Place game) and yummy fruit treats would be enjoyed by all.  My contribution was going to be a Fruit Pizza and there it sat in the passenger seat.  Next to a cup holder, which carried a pizza cutter and (gasp!) a knife.  Yep, I was trying to apologize my way out of a ticket, while I had a knife (that I had completely forgotten about) resting by my right hand.  “Stand” down, dope.  Speaking of dope, I also had a Pineapple themed sippy cup within reach.  Perfectly understandable for a Fruit-a-Thon or a delicious daiquiri on a warm Summer day, but just plain weird out of context.  I looked like some strange knife wielding Jimmy Buffett wannabe of a father.  Just not good.

Sadly, there are some things so ridiculous that you just cannot make them up.

After dropping off Sam at school, I was a changed man. A perfectly fun car song by Iggy Pop came on the radio.  I resisted the urge to dance.  I had become a model citizen.  A model citizen transporting a Fruit Pizza and driving exactly at the speed limit.  Yep, a once unapologetic mess, I had learned the beauty and forgiveness granted through a truly regretful apology.  Now an apologetic Jimmy Buffett wannabe looking mess of a dad, who knows the beauty of moderation, even when temped by the melodious tunes, such as “Stand.”

In the morning, I like to make the rounds.  Walking into each bedroom and either waking a slumbering child, opening curtains, or both.

This morning was the same.  I opened curtains and looked out into the front yard.  There stood the tree.  The tree always standing in front of our house.  Constant.  Silent.  Usually grey.  This morning was different, there was no grey.  The early morning sun wrapped the tree in a blanket of bright orange.  A beautiful glowing orange.

Pure joy.  Life embodied in morning light.  I looked around at the room of my son.  The light created a soft glow around me.  Surrounded by light.  Reminded of my precious sons.  I smiled.  Glad for life.  Thankful for the moment.  Blessed to be part of all that is, all that was, and all that will be.

My morning began as a letdown, when I realized that the top portion of my razor had gone dull.  Of the razor’s approximately nine blades, the top one had headed for the hills.  I realized this as I felt my mostly shaven face.  Unfortunately, a single row of hair under my nose remained.  Same thing with under my bottom lip.  I officially had a microstache.  Think John Waters’s mustache, but a lot thinner and more facially Northern.  A microstache of the most micro variety, the single row of hair.  For the remainder of the day, I would be tormented by a little tickle from that row of hair.  I could do it.  Hang in there champ and remember to change your blade in the morning.

No one at work appeared to notice my microstache and as a result, I did not feel even the least bit micro creepy. This would change.  I was chatting about using the employee exercise treadmill in the basement at work.  Highlighting how it kind of creeped me out to use it after work, when the rest of the building was empty.  In addition to being creeped out, I did not have anything to watch, while I was on the treadmill.  A coworker pointed out that I could have watched one of the workout DVDs.  Suddenly the visual transferred all of the creep vibe onto me.  Had I watched the exercise DVD, while I was all alone in the building, while on the treadmill, while wearing my yet to be noticed microstache, I would have been creepy.  Now, I was officially “Suspect Creepy.”

Later, the watercooler conversation (if we had a watercooler, but this was more of an entryway to my cubicle conversation) centered around how we were unable to get the Minnesota Twins home opener game audio streaming over our work computers. I believe that everyone would agree that this is a requirement for every office environment on Opening Day, even when a guy with a microstache is in the building.  Well, the conversation turned to baseball on TV and I acknowledged that the “MLB Network” is my “safe” channel.  “Safe,” as in every evening turn it to the MLB Network before turning off the television, that way I know that the kids will be watching something “safe” when they turn on the TV in the morning.  Begs the question, what was I watching that wasn’t “safe?”  A workout DVD?  While sporting my microstache?  Yuck.  Creepy.  Microcreepy.

At work, my colleagues have patiently tolerated my antics for the last month, as I encouraged a full scale “Fruit Madness” tournament (a fruity version of the basketball event). What was the point?  Oh, there was no point, just to determine the Top Fruit of All-Time, that’s all.

This Wednesday will be the championship (a Fruitapalooza of sorts) and to celebrate, this week’s “Cookie of the Week” honors the Tangy Two finalists, Blueberry v Honeycrisp Apple. So bake some up and decide for yourself.

Hey, one more “Fruit Madness” footnote, in Tuesday’s Third Place game, Avocado is pitted against Lime. Which frenemie will prevail?  It’s all in the guac.

FRUIT MADNESS COOKIES (a.k.a. Thumbprint Cookies)

1 cup Butter

¾ cup Powdered Sugar

1 teaspoon Clear Vanilla

2 cups Flour

¼ can Blueberry Pie Filling

¼ can Apple Pie Filling

½ cup White Chocolate Chips

½ Tablespoon Shortening

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Cream the butter and powdered sugar.

Mix in the clear vanilla.

Mix in the flour.

Take a Tablespoon sized ball of dough and place it on a parchment paper lined baking sheet.

Press your thumb into the ball of dough to create an imprint.

Fill the hole with either blueberry or apple filling. Alternate and you will end up with the same number of each type of cookie.

Bake for 12 minutes or until the cookie bottoms begin to brown.

Allow cookies to completely cool.

Use a microwave to melt together the white chocolate and shortening.

Drizzle over the cooled cookies.

Makes about 30 cookies.

Revised Source: “Cherry Pie Cookies” recipe on allrecipes.com.

Yesterday, it was really windy outside.  As I went out to pickup after Kirby the Beagle, I pulled some plastic grocery store sacks out of my pocket and waft, one lifted into the neighbor’s tree.

As I contemplated this dilemma, no good alternatives presented themselves.  I could try to get up on a ladder and free the bag with a rack.  Success, highly unlikely.  Risk of injury, 90%.  I could purchase an extendable tree branch clipper thingy.  Success, highly likely.  Cost, too high until all other options have been exhausted.  Talk to our neighbor.  Please, we live in the suburbs.  ‘Nuff said.  I could wait years and years for the sun and rain to gradually decompose the bag.  Okay, I’ll work with that one, until I figure out a better alternative.

Ugh, just a few more precious feet and the bag would have entered low Earth orbit.  So close and yet, so far.

Stopping by the grocery store to pick up some dinner, I swung by the beer store.  Standing in line, I was still contemplating the “Bag Situation.”  I overheard the guys behind the counter debating if Cal Ripken’s consecutive games streak would ever be broken.  Getting up to the counter, the cashier asked me, “So what sports record do you think will never be broken?”

I paused and reflected on the question.  Ah, a rare pause for me.  Probably an attempt by my brain to free some RAM from the “Bag Situation” and contemplate the new question.  One of the great questions of our time.  A question right in my wheelhouse.  As I thought, the cashier suggested, “Maybe DiMaggio’s hit streak?”  Stop it, Rookie.  I steeled myself.  I would not be distracted, especially when something so important was being discussed.

Boom!  The answer crashed into my consciousness, “Cy Young’s career wins total of 511.  Only one other pitcher even has more than 400.”  It’s a long drive!  Say goodbye!  Walk off answer!

Gentlemen, carry on.  My work here is done.  A moment of glory, regardless of the plastic bag still swaying in the breeze.

Sure, maybe every now and then. Certainly some days more so than others, but I’ll take this kind of undeserved compliment any day.

Oh, the power of a pencil and paper to make a dad happy.

That moment. It’s that moment, when you find something just over-the-top funny.  So incredibly funny that you begin to weep.

You’re not sure why. You don’t even know if anyone else considers it humorous.  You don’t even know if you will find it funny again.  You don’t care.  All you know is that you are now crying.  Plus, you will need to use some Visine at lunchtime, just to regain your vision.

Earlier today, I was blessed by such a moment. It really doesn’t matter how the conversation at work gently traversed to this point.  All that matters is that upon seeing it, the tears started flowing.

For me, it was seeing this antique greeting card entitled “Firecracker Boy…”

I know!  There are hardly words to describe such a sight.

Plus, the questions, oh the questions.

Other than the obvious question of “Why?” there are plenty more.

1. Really?  Why did people in the early 1900s dress their children up as sailors?  And who thought that this would make a good greeting card?  Did anyone actually purchase this?  Did they give it to a friend?  What kind of a friend would give this to someone?Did the person remain their friend after receiving this?  Was this the birth of frenemies?  Was this the start of a war?  A greeting card that launched a thousand ships?
2. Can you ever unsee something like this?  Oh, we all wish we could, don’t we?
3. Why would a sailor bring M-80s onto a ship?  Is he releasing some sort of depth charge?  Is this 1920s-ish boy trying to surface a U-Boat?  Would the U-Boat surrender in fear upon seeing this less-than-poster child for the hardened life at sea?
4. Are those colored pencils or bottle rockets?  The colored pencil theory would help explain the lipstick.
5. Without bothering to research the issue, is this one of the Cracker Jack boy’s comrades?  Or perhaps a sinister enemy?  Perhaps, he is seeking revenge on “Cracker Jack” for not receiving that lucrative endorsement deal.  Turns out that revenge tastes so sweet.  Sort of like caramel corn mixed with peanuts, but in this case, the prize in the box is a dark pit filled with hate.  Oh, why can’t we all just get along?
6. Why if he appears to be Dutch does he celebrate July 4?  Does he just like to blow stuff up?
7. Could someone please intervene in this boy’s life?  He is obviously crying out for help or else just begging for something to incinerate.
8. Is this a vision of the Anti-Christ?  Perhaps, but more likely just some sort of impish demon straight out of your worst nightmare.  Will he continue to haunt your dreams?  Most certainly, yes.
9. Why didn’t this photo crash the Internet?  The World Wide Web must be made of very strong fibers.
10. and of course, “Why?”  The hardest question to answer of them all.

Excuse me, while I wipe the soft tears from my eyes.  Thank you “Firecracker Boy” for bringing joy to my life.  You can leave now.  Yes, please just leave.

Okay, confession time.  Tonight, at dinner, I wanted just one thing.  One thing only:  pizza.  Greasy hot, nasty, takeout pizza.  Unhealthy and oh so much.  That’s all I wanted.

I had a clear path.  All Charlene had said as she headed off to her meeting was “You will have to feed the boys tonight.”  Ah, the path was clear for gluttony.  Bring it on!

Then came what I was expecting.  Then came what was in the cards.  Then came my check on pure diet disobedience.  Further spousal guidance, “We have stuff to make sandwiches or you could make soup.”  Dammit!  Goodbye, dear pizza.  Begone.  No more wishes of your forbidden cheese.  I must move on.

Ah, my heart aches, for as Tennyson once said, “‘Tis better to have tasted greasy cardiac assaulting pizza and lost than never to have tasted at all.”  Well said, Lord Tennyson.  Well said.

I had one goal in mind: get lunch quickly.  Well, that plus eat sort of healthy.  Okay and a third goal of having a positive interaction with the vending machine.  There, those were my goals.

Approaching the vending machine, I set my eyes upon the bag of popcorn.  I plunked in my change.  The gears whirled.  The popcorn was released.  Lunch fell.  Then, it got stuck.  My lunch sitting on a purgatorial perch between display and satisfaction.  I was sad.  The popcorn did not seem bothered.

Kind of like how my dog sits on the back of our couch on the porch.  We are sad to see him acting like a cat.  He does not seem bothered.

Where was I?  Oh yes, the popcorn.  There it sat.  Hanging in the balance and here is an actual photo of the event.  I know.  It’s troublesome.

I had to think quickly.  I could hear the footsteps of fellow workers coming for their snacks.  I tried to wiggle the machine.  Nothing happened.  I looked above to the peanut butter crackers.  Perhaps if they fell onto the popcorn, they would be free.  I plunked in more change.  The crackers brushed by the popcorn.  No luck.  No joy.

I was out of change and my options were dwindling.  I found a five dollar bill in my pocket.  My hands trembled, as I cashed it in.  The people waiting behind grew hungry.

I entered my new set of change and spied the brick-like Rice Krispy treat off to the side of the popcorn.  It had the girth, but would it have the trajectory?  Lunch was hanging in the balance.  Coworkers behind me looked weak.

Entering the corresponding letter and then number, the machine whirled.  The Krispy Treat was pushed to the front and the world smiled, as the popcorn was released.  Then, the blessings began to abundantly flow, as a second popcorn inexplicably fell from its perch.  It was raining prepackaged goodies.  I was indeed blessed.  Blessed in a highly processed and artificially colored way, but blessings are blessings and my lunchtime cornucopia was full.

The Vending Machine Lunch

Heading late to work, I rushed the prep of my morning oatmeal.  Hello, Mother of Invention.  With too much milk added and in a bowl “to go,” I headed to the car.  Then, as I drove along the highway drinking my oatmeal, I thought, “This could be sold.  Yep, ‘drinkable’ oatmeal.”

That’s when I saw the car ahead of me slam on their brakes.  That’s when I also slammed on my brakes and thankfully did not end up with my new invention all over the dashboard.

Thankfully, I also did not get in an accident.  Would have been bad to crash and not have even one of my top 100 bad ideas involved.  Yep, “drinkable oatmeal” does not even crack my 100 worst ideas.  Now, that’s just proof of the ongoing accident taking place inside my mind.  Sad, but true.

Now, who wants to buy some of my drinkable oatmeal?  Also, available in convenient highway ready travel bowls.