I am not very good at yoga.  I readily admit that I am not very good at yoga.  Plus, I am not very bendy, which doesn’t help with my unyoganess.  All that being said I do try.

Well, the other day, there I was trying yoga.  Stretching and twisting, this way and that.  Then as I was flat on my stomach, the instructor asked us to do the “Dirty Cobra.” “Dirty Cobra?,” I asked in bafflement, “What’s a Dirty Cobra?”

My classmates felt sorry for me and with a laugh explained that I was to do the Tiny Cobra, Baby Cobra, Small Cobra, or some such thing.  I had no clue and no idea what to do next.  Have I mentioned that I am not very bendy?

Well, the good thing is that “Dirty Cobra” sounds like it would be a fine drink, so I made one up.  Note, this bad boy stands tall and has a bite.  By the way, it is best enjoyed in yoga pants.

DIRTY COBRA

4 oz Ginger Beer

2 shots Gin

1 shot Tart Cherry Juice

Stir to combine and enjoy!

Now, downward that dog.

I’m not sure how the topic came up at work, but we were discussing the most common routes that folks take to www.CookiesbyDave.com.  Sure there’s Facebook and to a lesser degree Twitter, but how do folks stumble across my site?  Well, thankfully I have a limited amount Google data.

Usually, folks reach my site, when they Google somewhat exotic cookie recipes.  There’s my recipe for Flaky Flix.  There’s also Pizzelles and Krumkake.  Oh and then there’s the term, “Dad Sexy.”  Now, I would not recommend Googling the term “Dad Sexy,” but once I named a post “Dad Sexy” and for a while it ranked high on the Google ranking for the term (once again, I stress that I would not Google the term “Dad Sexy” yourself, because this is after all a family show).  I could only imagine how sad folks were to Google that term and find themselves landing on my site.

Since I had brought up the post, I figured I should refresh my memory.  Much to my delight, my “Dad Sexy” post was a pretty good one, but I had forgotten the content.  It was the end of 2016 and I made a New Year’s Resolution.  A resolution to become “Dad Sexy.”

The good news was that my resolution was a realistic goal.  To become “Dad Sexy,” I would need to attain “the kind of look (that) when springing from the bed in underwear and a single sock, people (would) say, ‘Oh, he looks okay, maybe even kind of cute. Plus, he is dependable and a good family man. Yes, he is all sorts of ‘Dad Sexy.””

Reading the post, I smiled.  You see, by working out like a fiend and limiting my gobble gobble tendencies, fifteen months later I have attained “Dad Sexy.”  Yes, I actually had a successful New Year’s Resolution and did not even realize it!

Proof?  Well, the proof is on my back.  You see, I actually mowed the lawn shirtless on Sunday.  Yes, me shirtless in the front lawn and no one even called the cops.  Sunshine on my back and the start of a Summer tan.  If your Google doesn’t say that a fit dad mowing a lawn shirtless isn’t “Dad Sexy,” you might as well just kiss the internet goodbye.

Walking through the mud room, I saw something disturbing.  There in the pouch of my son’s backpack was a carton of cigarettes.  I approached the backpack slowly.  Maybe he had found them.  Maybe they were the candy variety.  Maybe I would need to explain about addiction, lung cancer, and insurance rates.

I looked closer and I was shocked.  The carton that I was so sure was cigarettes was actually an oversized box of generic raisins.

Raisins?  Really?  I guess this should come as no surprise considering the aggressive marketing that Big Dried Fruit has used to target America’s youth.  I guess I never thought that it would have happen in my house.  I was wrong.  Wrong about the cigarettes.  My child appears to have a raisin problem.

When you wake up to find an empty Fig Newtons wrapper on the floor and some poop on the carpet, you begin to suspect that there was some sort of crazy dog party going on last night.

Just a hunch.

At work, our conversation took a long and winding road ending on the topic of claw machines.  Claw machines, those dastardly devices that suck up quarters, but for some reason cannot seem to grasp a stuffed animal tightly.

Since we were on the topic of claw machines, I had to mention my greatest claw machine score ever, a Harry Truman “stuffed animal.” That’s right, Harry Truman.  Well, naturally “The Buck Stopped Here” and I had to find a photo of the Harry Truman likeness.

Typing “Harry Truman Stuffed Animal Claw Machine” into Google, what appeared on my screen?  The number one search result for both “All” and “Images” was (drum roll, please) a link to www.CookiesbyDave.com!

That’s right, this very site!  In honor of this worldwide webbish accomplishment, here’s a link to the number one post, well, everywhere.  Enjoy!

The evil within (the claw game)

I’m thinking that fine tuning my little league pitching staff can wait until my players have memorized the difference between right and left field.

Coach Dave directing a player to the field, “You are in Right Field.”

Player asking in all honesty, “Where’s Right Field?”

Coach Dave pointing behind First Base, “Over there.”

Player suddenly sure of himself, “No, that’s Left Field.”

[Coach Dave thinking to himself, “No, that’s definitely Right Field.  Coach Dave has spent a lot of time in Right Field.  I know Right Field.” I knew that experience would come in handy some day.]

This “Baseball Truism” is brought to you by Dave Paulsen, Little League Coach.

“When you lose 16-2, no one player is to blame.”

Words of minimal comfort, but 100% true.

Picking my 9-year-old son Ben up from school, he proudly announced, “At recess, I did 76 chin-ups.”

I looked at him with suspicion and applied my doubt, “You did not.”

Ben still adamant, “Yes, I did.  Emily (his friend) was there counting and yelling at me.”

Well young Ben, sounds like you have this whole relationship thing figured out.  Carry on and keep that chin-up.

I must have had a sad look on my face, as I glanced outside.  It was raining and I needed to take my 11-year-old son Sam to baseball practice.

Seeing my look of sadness, Sam’s little brother Ben noted, “Dad, that’s why I like having you as a coach.  You cancel practices, when it rains.”

Thank you, son.  We may not win many championships with my approach, but we sure are gonna stay dry and there’s something really good about that.

My son Ben, high and dry.

The first pull, nothing.

Second pull, nothing.

Disconnect spark plug, blow air on the end.  It probably did nothing, but why not?

Pull, nothing.

Check gas and oil, because it seems like the right thing to do.

Pull, nothing.

Tilt mower to the side.  Perhaps gas will flow to previously unknown regions of the mower.

Pull, nothing.

Pull again, harder.  Nothing.

Again, again, again, again.  Nothing.

Flip over the mower.  Clean out some leaves.  Tug on some cords.

Pull, chug, cough, puff of white smoke.

What?!?  A sign of life?

Pull again, more chugs, lots more white smoke.

Progress.

Pull once more.  Steady engine.  White smoke less and less and no more.

Welcome back, old friend.  Let’s mow.