And by a minute, I mean a month. Holy hell – how did April get outta here so fast? Everyone’s wrapped up their #AtoZChallenge, and I’m still stretching my hamstrings. Yes, I’m on the letter F. And there’s plenty to post about.
I have a guest post from Madison, even, that she sent me as a PDF and why do post-millennials do things so differently than we do?
I also have a guest post from Lauren Mayhew that you’re going to love. And the rest of my posts about looking for my next job. I got plenty of words: What I don’t have is plenty of space in the day to write such things.
I’ve tried to tie my weekly Go Ask Daddy posts to the Friday gratitude attitude going around the blogging world. The combination ranks higher than, say, those KFC-Taco Bell duos you find sometimes out and about.
It’s been a while since I’ve sat down to jot the good stuff in my notebook, though.
I’ve been thankful for, you know, a job that offers benefits and enough dough to get my kids off free lunch. This feels like the American dream to me. But I want to make this list not just about that because I’m almost kind of tired of writing about it.
I am hoping just as hard as I do about the Colorado Rockies or free pizza or running into Hope Solo in the self-checkout at the Harris-Teeter in South Park. (I will come up with something witty to say. I just know it.)
I’m grateful for the chance to interview at this awesome company and I have some good news to share soon about it.
After my 10 things to be grateful for, I’ll answer some of my daughters’ random questions. Three deal with sports, which is a monumental surprise. One could have been a blog post on its own, and the last one is one of those, “huh, so that’s why” sort of deals.
It was opening weekend of the NFL playoffs. A Saturday devoted to watching the Titans vs. Chiefs, then the Falcons vs. Rams turned into a day of peek-ins to each game whenever we could. Soccer matches and toting kids about cut into viewing time.
Sunday felt much the same – only the games had changed.
And by the time I’d finished a themed dinner for the main event of the day – the hometown Carolina Panthers matchup against hated rival New Orleans Saints – both games were in the books. And it wasn’t a good look for the home team.
Like, my mouth and enchiladas, for instance. (Why must it always be about food?) Every Friday, I write the Go Ask Daddy post. It’s five questions, picked at random, from a list of nearly 300 that my girls ask through the course of a day.
Lots of my blog friends write their gratitude posts on Fridays.
I’m grateful, too. Just because I spend the day answering questions about Jimmy Hendrix, finances and firefighters, it doesn’t mean I’m not eternally grateful for lots of stuff. In fact, I’ve started a gratitude journal, and it’s got stuff in it.
It doesn’t happen often. But when it does … I mean, it’s lowkey. Well, okay. Not lowkey. But not extra, as the kids would say. Somewhere between lowkey and extra. Yes, it’s come to this. (But definitely closer to lowkey than extra.)
The funny thing – and it wasn’t really funny at the time – was that it all happened because of juicy Lucy cheeseburgers.
Juicy Lucies are Minnesota delights. Manna of Heaven. They’re huge burgers with a treasure trove of cheese inside. I made one for everyone, the biggest – the juiciest, cooked a beautiful shade of medium rare – for myself. So go the benefits of a dad with a skillet.
I can see a number on a back and think immediately and randomly of favorite players, from teams I’ve loved or coached or both, who wore that number. It’s especially common when the Denver Broncos wear their orange jerseys.
I see 80 and think of Haven Moses, of Joe Dudek when I see 32 and, at seeing 43, remember Steve Foley.
Those who wear a number belong to the team in the moment. There were 33s, 29s, and 5s before them, and after they’re gone, someone else will suit up in that number. While you’re in our colors you’re loved; after you’ve moved on, you’re remembered.
The place I usually play disc golf is the place I used to run.
Running has been the struggle I’ve kept returning to grapple with. (That, and sugar cookies.) I’ll download Pandora on my app-strapped phone, jot down the intervals on a piece of paper, and hit the trail at Veterans Park in Mint Hill.
I’ve jogged and huffed and warmed up and cooled down for laps and laps there.
The figure-eight loop I’d run engulfs two soccer pitches. One is the place a middle-school girls team I coached years ago called home, shabby grounds that were mostly dirt and pebbles when we played there. A rival once scoffed at it before a game.