It is time, finally, for the never-ending war to end.

Every morning, I stop at Starbucks on my way to work. I order the same thing. A venti skim latte (certainly a masculine sounding drink if ever there was one) and a multi-grain bagel. The exchange with the person taking my order is always exactly the same:

“A venti skim latte and a multi-grain bagel, please.”
“Do you want that toasted?”
“No, just plain.”
“Do you want cream cheese or butter on it?”
“No, just plain.”
“So not toasted, nothing on it, just plain?”
“Yes, plain.”

I need every Blogenberg reader to tell their local Starbucks that Blogenberg wants his multi-grain bagel plain, damn’t. Plain, Plain, Plain, Plain! No cream cheese. No damn butter. No toasting. Plain! Because one of these mornings I’m going to ask for the cream cheese and throw it at the smiling person taking my order who can’t seem to understand that I want my bagel PLAIN!
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Some days, I think Blogenberg is channeling Frank Sinatra.

I walk into a steakhouse, alone, in New Jersey. Standing, left of the entrance, is an attractive, much younger woman.

The restaurant owner looks at us. “Two for dinner?” he asks.

“No,” I say, without missing a beat, “I’m not that lucky.”

How smooth is Blogenberg?

There are few things more adorable, I think, than a couple with a strong connection getting older together. That’s happening with us.

My dog, while still very healthy, is getting older. Occasionally, now, she urinates on the carpet because she just can’t wait for somebody to come home and let her outside.

Last night I stepped on a spot on the carpet wet with urine. I growled, and cleaned it up. Then I went downstairs to the guest bedroom, where I keep my clothes, to pick out what I was going to wear today. I noted that I left a wet towel on the floor, so I picked it up and tossed it in the laundry room. I immediately came back to the guest bedroom and stepped on a wet spot on the carpet. I growled louder, frustrated that my dog urinated there, as well. Then I remembered that, not more than 30-seconds earlier, I had picked up a wet towel from that very spot.

It is so cute that my dog and me are getting old together.

First of all, Blogenberg apologizes to the legions of Blogenberg regulars out there. I have been doing a poor job of posting. Don’t worry, things are going well. But I’ve just been so worn out that writing has not come easy.
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I’ve posted before about fathers who are too involved in their children’s sports, how I understand the temptation, and how I work hard to remember it’s not me on the field. My 16-year-old son is now being recruited by colleges to play lacrosse, which means visits to schools and meetings with coaches. It’s never been clearer to me why it’s so important for the parents of a student-athlete, at any level, to be quiet and stay out of the way.

Whenever a coach gives us a campus tour, like today, as we visited a major northeast university, I walk a step behind and let my son interact with the coach. Whenever we meet with the head coach in his office, I make sure my son does most of the talking, with me playing second fiddle.

Lacrosse is America’s fastest growing sport. As a result, there’s a lot more talented players than there are spots on Divsion 1 college teams. Invariably, we hear that a coach is considering two, three, or four high school players for the position my son plays, which is goalie, and that’s it’s really intangibles that will lead the coaching staff to decide which player to offer a spot to. The coach today noted that one of those intangibles is the parents, that he’s not interested in a player who brings overbearing parents or parents who scream at refs during games. He noted that when he goes to tournaments to watch players, he’s also keeping an eye on parents. Of course, I immediately told this coach that I am a saint.