Forget about the Third Place game, what youth basketball really needs is a trophy awarded to parents for “Endurance Bleacher Sitting.”

On second thought, after what seemed like a hundred losses, a Third Place place finish makes all of those painful hours on bleachers seem worthwhile.

I know household budgets require serious trade-offs, but you know uncomfortable discussions were had when you spot a bra and panties abandoned in the Candy Aisle.

Forget about the first hard frost, the first snowflake, freezing temps, Black Friday, or even December 21.

The first real sign that Winter has arrived is the large plume of blue smoke rising from my snowblower, as it awakes for six months of intense combat with Minnesota snow.

Game on, Jack Frost!

At work (and in life in general), I am a pretty peppy fella.

“How’s your day going, Dave?” “Fantastic (!) Phylis, how about yours?” (In this instance, it probably was a crappy day and by the way, I don’t work with a Phylis.)

“What are you having for lunch, Dave?” “The most delicious food ever!” (Sad leftovers.)

Okay, I could be considered a liar (which by the way is hard to spell, which is the truth), but I like to consider it as just a glass half full outlook.

So at work, we were chatting and I slipped.  I described a situation and said, “Oh, it’ll be fine.” That’s when a realization swept through the room.  I had revealed a secret.  My cheery Poker Face had been blown.  My tell was “fine.” If I really thought of something as a dumpster fire, I would describe it as “fine.” Just “fine.” No more, no less.

So when you hear me say these words of sweet assurance, “It’s fine.” You had best run for cover, because I just said that the world was going to end in Happy Guy Speak.  That’s my tell.  Fine, now you know.

“Today is gonna be the day
That they’re gonna throw it back to you.”

Strangely enough, my 14-year-old son and I usually agree on a radio station.

“By now you should’ve somehow
Realized what you gotta do.”

That’s why I was so surprised by his objection to “Wonderwall,” by Oasis.

“I don’t believe that anybody
Feels the way I do, about you now.”

I’ve never seen his hand reach to change a station so fast.

“Because maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me.”

And he’s never seen me block his hand and sing so loudly in response.

“And after all, you’re my wonderwall.”

Yep, that’s right.  “You’re my wonderwall.” That’s something we can all agree on.

At lunch, there I was in an exercise class.  It had something to do with cardio, weights, and all sorts of sweat.  There I was giving it my all.  One man struggling to keep up with my female classmates.

Before I go any further, let me note one thing.  I have taken plenty of classes with a multitude of these women lunchtime exercisers and on any given day, any of them could kick my butt.  All of us have our strengths and as I chugged away during class, it was obvious that my strength is often far from the top.  There I said it.  Plenty of humble pie for Gym Dude Dave.  Masculinity in check.  Time for the exciting conclusion of my tale.

Grabbing our weights, we awaited the instructor’s next, well, instruction.  She gave us our orders, “(Do something really hard), girls” (insert short pause) “and Dave.”

That’s when my endorphin charged mind had a blurry, but potentially epic thought.  What a great name for a band!  “Girls and Dave.” If only I could sing, write music, dance, or anything else useful to a band.  Oh, and if my svelte female friends in the class would not kick my behind for making such a silly suggestion or at least give me a roll of the eyes or well deserved sideways glance of disapproval.

I suppose it would be right to reject my fictitious band name, but oh how they might feel differently someday, when I develop some sort of musical talent.  Well, that is, after they had finished kicking my butt in that lunchtime cardio filled class with weights.

Walking to the car with my 9-year-old son Ben, I had a moment of manly inspiration.  I let out a healthy burp with the only intent of impressing him.

As I inhaled for a second belch, I was startled to find out that my son has unlimited burping capacity.  The boy must have rattled off a dozen spontaneous burps, before I could even respond.  My boy is apparently an air expulsionary protege.

Never before have I been so proud at something so questionable.  Never will I forget that it is best not to challenge a 9-year-old at a juvenile game.

After repeating the day’s schedule to my child for the hundredth time, I took pen to paper.

“Your basketball game starts at 11:15.  Coach wants you there 45 minutes early.  11:15 minus 45 minutes equals 10:30.  It takes about 45 minutes to drive there.  10:30 minus 45 minutes equals 9:45.  Add 15 minutes to make sure we have enough time and BAM! 9:30.  That’s when we will leave.”

Paper to pen time travel.  It’s a beautiful thing.

I was running late for my lunchtime gym appointment.  My friend was already well into her workout.  In a rush, I headed toward the weight room.  Passing the Trainer’s Table, a personal trainer very familiar with our routine noted my late arrival and said, “There’s Captain America!”

How ironic that I finally received the recognition I deserve on a day that I didn’t deserve it.  Oh well, would somebody please get me a shield?

The photo seemed like a good idea, as I handed the phone to my son and in a hushed voice said, “Hey, take a picture of this.”

Then, when my beautiful wife glanced over and said, “Ew, no one is going to want to eat those grapes,” that’s when it officially transitioned into a bad idea.

Now to really finish strong, here’s a bad pun.  “And it seemed like such a grape idea.” You’re welcome.