My hair had grown bushy.  My hair had grown out of control.  My hair was in need of some serious help.  So at lunch, I snuck out of the office and headed straight for a stylist’s chair.  Yes, you heard me right, I was about to get some style.

Over the next thirty minutes, I was transformed.  Transformed from bushy headed boy into a fine looking man.  I was pleased.

Upon arriving back at the office a friend noted my new haircut, but also observed that the stylist had missed one. Missed one?  Yeah, right.  Tell me another story.  I went about my day.

Later on, as I washed my hands in the restroom, I glanced into the mirror.  Dear God, my friend was right.  The stylist had missed one.  One single hair.  One out of the One Hundred Thousand on my head.

It was a single grey hair.  Placed about a centimeter from my scalp, it appeared to have taken root, while I had my bushy hairdo.  A grey pioneer trying to reclaim long abandoned forehead.

I took hold and yanked the offender from its roots.  A receding hairline is no reason to cause shame and a rogue hair should receive no mercy.

The staff meeting was going fine.  I was dutifully taking notes on my laptop, when someone asked what program I was using.  Notepad.  Notepad?  Yep, Notepad.

Seeing the puzzled faces of my colleagues, as I happily typed away on the ancient computer program, I responded, “Hey, the Nineties were good to me.” Smiles all around.  Positive feedback.  This was nice.

Later in the meeting, we discussed plans for our department booth at the High School Career Fair.  When asked if I was fine taking my turn at the High School, I responded, “Sure, the late Eighties were good to me.” Hey, why not recycle a popular joke?

Problem was that this time the joke was met with looks of confusion, disappointment, and mild disgust.  More than a little confused myself, I tried to clarify.  “I went to High School in the late Eighties.  I enjoyed High School.  The late Eighties were good to me.”

A look of relief washed over the faces of my co-workers, as one explained, “We thought you said, ‘The ladies were good to me.'”

Um, awkward.  Kind of like the mid-Eighties.  The mid-Eighties were less good to me.

The other day, I celebrated my two year anniversary at work.  As I reflected upon this, my friend Lisa at work recognized that I have also been her cube neighbor for two years.  You see Lisa had the misfortune of starting the same day that I did and we were placed in side-by-side cubes.  For two years, she has suffered through my daily squirreliness, completely random stories, and antics with the patience of Job.  Impressive.  Very impressive.

Just as I was filling out the Employee Relation’s paperwork to recommend Lisa for Hazard Pay, I got to thinking, cubes are kind of the workplace equivalent to lockers in High School and in that respect there is only one all-time champion for Dave Neighborly Endurance, my friend Nichelle.  You see Nichelle had the misfortune of having a last name next to mine in alphabetical order.  Payne Paulsen.  Paulsen Payne.  No matter which way you sort it, side-by-side.  Alphabetical destiny.  High School locker neighborship was in our stars.

So Nichelle arrived at her locker the first day of Tenth Grade and found this…

I know!  Handsome, right?  Sure all that and extra squirrely, too.  Good Lord, I was extra amped up squirrely.  Plus, from what I had in my locker, I was no peach of a neighbor.  In fact, I was probably a health code violation and that’s just the stuff I remember.

Well, fortunately for Nichelle, she had a provision in her contract that gave her summers away from me.  Any who, she returned her Junior year and found this…

Yep, she had grown more beautiful and I had fully transformed into a ventriloquist’s dummy.  Needless to say, Nichelle needed extreme fortitude of the soul to make it to her Senior year,  In fact, by the time we separated for the summer, we referred to each other as “twin.” The yearbook editors however saw something more…

What?  This is how rumors get started.  Sure we were both irresistible.  We were still however completely platonic.  She probably remembered what I looked like the previous two years.  Damn!

We even spent the basketball season together on the Spirit Squad.  Yes, seven or eight locker visits a day and she still tolerated Friday nights with me.  There’s a special place in Heaven for people like that.  So on the Spirit Squad, I was great at yelling cheers, but a horrible dancer.  Still Nichelle forgave me.

Not only did she forgive me, but I graduated with my dear “twin” by my side.  Payne Paulsen.  Paulsen Payne.  Just the way it should be.

Postscript – Not only did my friend Nichelle manage three entire years with my hyped up teen self by her side, to this day she still responds to my cyber banter with the joy and beauty that has always lite her soul.  My dear twin Nichelle, you were a Hall of Famer from the day I met you to thirty plus years since.  Thank you for being you.  I am blessed to forever call you friend.

My son’s Third Grade basketball team was in overtime.  Only a few seconds remained.  They were set to in bound the ball.  They were down by two points.

Oh, I forgot to mention, they had lost nine straight games.  They had a chance to force a second overtime.  A chance at another chance to end the losing streak.  This was big time youth athletic stuff.  Forget the “Thrill of Victory,” they just wanted to avoid another “Agony of Defeat.”

I set my phone to record the moment.

What’s that?  I didn’t record it?  The shot of the floor as time expired didn’t tell you the whole story?  How about the garbled audio?

Yes, my career ambitions as an amateur young sports video taper guy appear to have failed.

What’s that?  The game?  Oh, the game.  Did they tie it up?

Well, as time expired, a shot went up…  it was good!  No, wait.  He traveled?!?  No!  No shot.  Time expired.  Game over.

Some things are just best left to rest without the film.  Let the mind process.  Let the mind begin to edit.  Let the visual memories form and fade.  Let the pain diminish, minus the play-by-play.

A reoccurring theme at the dinner table: playfully make fun of Dad’s disheveled hair.

Ah, the trend was repeating itself again.  Giggle, giggle, “Dad has bad hair.” Then I recalled something my son had once said.  When I sweat and push my hair back on the sides, my son observed that my hair looks sort of like Dr. Strange.  Yep, sometimes I have superhero hair.

Relaying this story as a defense, my wife replied, “Oh dear, you’re no Benedict Cumberbatch.”

A bit confused, I sought clarification.  “I didn’t think that you found Benedict Cumberbatch that attractive.”

Her response was all that was needed to finish the War of Words, “Yes, but he’s Hollywood.”

Sorry, bub.  No matter the style.  No matter the gel.  No matter the quality of barber.  You ain’t Hollywood.  You can roll that down the red carpet.

Here at www.CookiesbyDave.com we pride ourselves on supplying fresh cookies and fresh content.  Tonight however I am dishing out a classic post worthy of seconds.

You see, two years ago today, I ended my run as a Stay-at-Home Dad / Consultant Extraordinaire.  As you will read below, it was a beautiful run, while I watched my boys grow.  It was indeed time for a change and I made the right move, but sometimes it’s nice to look back and smile.  Smile, because those truly were special days.  Smile, because I am truly blessed.

So without further adieu, I present to you a www.CookiesbyDave.com classic from two years ago.  Enjoy, because sometimes leftovers are really good.

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Once upon a time, there was a lovely little family. They had a little boy, a neurotic dog, and a baby on the way.  Then something amazing and wonderful happened, they were called on an adventure.

The lovely little family.

This adventure would take them halfway across the country. Their second baby boy soon joined them.  The dad stayed home, worked part time, and savored every moment with the boys.  Backyard baseball, late mornings at the pool, and many a cookie baked.  The mom worked hard and was oh so good at her job.  They had another baby boy.  The house was full of love.  They up and moved again, this time up North.  The boys grew.  The dad stayed home, got another part time job, and continued to enjoy life.  Their furry friend grew old and died and God found them another furry friend (this one even more neurotic).  The mom continued to work super hard and was super good at what she did.  The boys grew some more.  They up and moved again.  Dreams had come true.  The lovely little family had grown.  Blessings had been granted beyond measure.

Three sons and their dad. Blessings that were once beyond imagination are now side-by-side.

Then the time came, time for a new chapter. It was time for the dad to go back to work.  Every moment had been savored.  Every blessing counted.  Every smile tucked away.

Sometimes dreams do come true. I’m living proof.

A wonderful new job and oh so many new adventures just ahead.

“Love Beyond Asparagus”

Asparagus, you are a nasty weed

My wife grills you

I pretend to somewhat like you

That’s how much I love her

I love her beyond my hate for you

That says a lot

I’m with you bedraggled snowmen.  It’s time.

Today, I came to a realization.  We don’t have to worry about Artificial Intelligence.  Well, at least not until Excel can generate a graph that isn’t the quality of warm spit.

“I’ll be back…  to spend the rest of the afternoon reformatting.”

Taking my turn as a parent volunteer at the basketball tournament, I had the closing shift.  First up, ticket sales for the final game.  All was going well.  Chat up the folks.  Little jokes here and there.  All repeatable jokes, since the line kept moving.  “Should be a great game.  You are really gonna get your money’s worth.” Add a quick smile and I was golden.

Golden until I was asked to do two digit subtraction.  Who knew that it could stump someone on the fly?  “Two adults and one senior.  That will be $16.” The guy handed me a $50 bill.  First off, where did he get a $50 bill?  Was it even real?  Unacceptable working conditions.  Thankfully, the game started and we were soon allowed to close the ticket sale window.  Whew!  Survived!  (Barely.)

Next up, concessions.  Help out for ten minutes before the booth closed or ran out of food, whichever came first.  Okay, status report?  A dozen hot dogs remaining.  No problem.  I got this.  Young child, maybe nine-years-old approaches clutching some crumpled dollar bills.  He asks, “Could I have a walking taco?” My response was swift and certain, “Sorry, we are all out of walking tacos, but I have heard that the hot dogs are really good.” Done, hot dog sold. “You know, a candy bar really goes well with a hot dog.” Done.  Sold.  Repeat a few times and shut down the booth.  Just do me a favor and keep an eye out for the dude with a wallet full of $50s.  He’s a stumper.