It happened in an unexpected way.

Several years ago, we rushed to find a new home after selling ours quicker than expected. With a list of neighborhoods in hand, we decided to rent while hunting for the perfect place.

But things didn’t go as planned. Every promising rental denied us for one specific reason:

Carolina. Our one-year-old golden retriever, full of fluff and love.

The landlords saw only a pet policy violation, and rejections rolled in. Out of options, we finally found a listing thirty minutes away in Williamsburg. And thankfully, this owner allowed pets. We loved the property and signed the lease immediately.

Seven years later, we're still here. After renting for a while, we bought the home. And we never would have chosen this neighborhood or this chapter of life without paw prints leading the way.

Carolina passed away a year later from kidney issues, but her mission was complete. Her presence set our family on a fresh path in a different city.

Funny how life pivots on something as random as a landlord policy — and a furry four-legger. That thought hit me today while reading about the process of choosing the next pope.

Cardinals lock themselves in the Sistine Chapel without electronic devices. Vowed to secrecy, they vote by handwritten ballots, and after each round, the papers are burned. Black smoke means no decision, while white smoke signals a successful election.

Transitions come in all forms.

Cardinals have their fancy conclave. But us? We just had a dog.

I wore that videotape out.

Back in the ‘80s, VCRs hit the mainstream. Renting movies turned into a weekend ritual, and popular releases became instant VHS gifts.

One movie dominated my rewinds. I’ve probably seen it 30 times, with about 28 of those times as a teenager.

What film is it?

A few hints:

• You can see a cobra’s reflection in safety glass during a close-up

• R2-D2 and C-3PO are engraved into an ancient wall carving

• A fly climbs into an actor’s mouth mid-line, but he keeps going

• An iconic scene was completely improvised due to food poisoning

Answer? Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Now, though, it’s hard to sit through. After all those viewings, nostalgia outweighs the entertainment.

This evening, Indy came to mind while reading about Marvel Studios. The success of their Iron Man and Avengers franchises fueled endless sequels and streaming shows. But along the way, fans got overwhelmed and confused.

The result? Audience fatigue. Even some diehards stopped showing up. The latest release, Thunderbolts, just hit theaters. Time will tell if it’s a comeback or another costly flop.

Turns out, too much of a good thing can sometimes be bad. Still better than swallowing a fly, though.

Until recently, I didn’t get it.

Expensive watches never appealed to me. Sure, I admire the beauty and craftsmanship. But dropping serious cash on a luxury timepiece like a Rolex? No way.

Why spend thousands on something my phone does for free? The idea seemed absurd, and no argument could’ve changed my mind.

Then my son, Luke, switched my perspective.

He explained a Rolex isn’t just a flashy accessory. It’s an investment. An heirloom to be passed down.

Luke shared a story about retired NFL star Shannon Sharpe. When someone asked why he wore such pricey wristwear, he replied, “You wear your watch to tell time. I wear mine to tell you how valuable my time is.”

Well, okay.

Earlier today, Luke, Jessica and I drove home from a wedding in Greenville, SC. We listened to a podcast all about the Rolex brand — the design, the mystique, the staying power.

Turns out, even James Bond wore one. So who knows? One day, my wrist might sport a Daytona.

I’ll just need Shannon Sharpe’s salary first.

He walked down the aisle ahead of us.

Nearly 28 years ago on our big day, we had a young ring bearer: Jessica’s first cousin, Jake.

He was about five. Sharp and handsome, he rocked a tiny black suit like a kindergartner on a Paris runway.

And he performed his role flawlessly.

Whatever happened to that little guy? Jake grew into a standout baseball player, eventually drafted by the Chicago White Sox.

Today brought a full-circle moment: I had the honor of officiating his wedding. He's come a long way, from ring bearer to ring giver. And he hit a grand slam with an amazing bride.

Congrats, Jake and Kacey.

The place to be.

Growing up, Holly Hill Mall anchored our social lives.

Aladdin’s Castle buzzed with games. The music shop promoted new albums. Big department chains lured shoppers in. But the best part? Running into friends and sipping lemonade at Chick-fil-A.

Now, the shopping center stands hollow, a skeleton of its former self. Retailers vanished and left behind only the memories.

Today, during a road trip, we stopped at a South Carolina outlet complex for lunch and a quick stretch.

Instead, we stepped into a ghost town. The stores were open but with no energy. Just a hush over the whole property.

Sure, Friday afternoon isn’t peak shopping time. But still… creepy. An endless parking lot stretched before us. Even the zombies ditched this place.

I guess Holly Hill wasn’t the only one left behind.

Total letdown.

When the kids were little, I introduced them to two of my favorite childhood movies: E.T. and The Princess Bride.

Years had passed since my last viewing, but the nostalgia held strong. I hyped them up, prepped some popcorn, and settled on the couch with high hopes.

Their review of both films? A big Meh.

Sitting beside them, even I felt the magic slipping. The charm remained, but the sparkle had dulled. Time had changed things.

Flash forward to this evening. While traveling through North Carolina, I took my dad to a restaurant he had never tried. I talked it up and promised a great experience. The place? Chipotle.

We walked in and found chaos. A long line. Trash on the floor and no forks or napkins. Disgruntled employees.

I guess some legends don’t age well. Turns out, my kids weren’t the only ones unimpressed by my picks.

Gone without a trace.

Several days ago, someone asked if we’d received a valuable package from them. A UPS-mailed gift card.

“When did you send it?” we asked.

“Back in November.”

November?

We checked with our carrier and searched through drawers. Nothing... the mystery lingers.

But a lost present hardly tops the list of delivery disasters. This week, I read about a family mailing their mother-in-law’s ashes via USPS. The container disappeared. Imagine that customer service call.

Turns out, this isn't uncommon. A 2023 postal report cited 452 undelivered remains. Geez.

Thankfully, after relentless tracking, the family reclaimed their loved one. Our gift card? No such luck.

Maybe it's gone to a higher place.

I remember where I was standing.

Some moments strike without warning. Quiet, sudden jolts knocking the wind from your chest.

More than a decade ago, I flipped through the mail in our kitchen. A quarterly magazine from my college had arrived, and the pages always listed alumni updates: weddings, new babies, career milestones.

To my surprise, a photo of a good friend — my grad school roommate for several years — stared back at me. We still connected every few months, despite living states apart.

Above his image, two words: “In Memoriam.”

Time stopped.

The article explained his unexpected death. A medical issue no one saw coming, taking him in his sleep. I hadn’t even heard about the funeral. This was before the constant drip of social media posts, when news traveled much slower.

I glared at the page, struggling to process the loss. How could this be?

Today brought a similar blow. At lunch, I got word another college friend had passed. We had worked several summers together and clicked instantly. Just last week, I’d seen Facebook photos of her smiling with her family, celebrating her granddaughter’s first birthday.

Now she's gone, too.

These moments hit hard. They remind me how life is fragile, and to be grateful for the people beside me, for the ordinary days, for the bonds that outlast geography and time.

Dave… Angie…

Always with me. Thanks for the special memories.

The nerves kicked in.

Before starting middle school, I was worried. The enormous building dwarfed my cozy elementary school. My biggest fear? Getting lost. Middle school meant racing from class to class, room to room.

Luckily, an older friend had already mastered the maze. He sketched a detailed map of the entire structure, and I memorized every corner like my life depended on it.

And my plan worked. On day one, I strutted through those hallways with confidence. Classmates looked on in awe. For that first week, I ruled the sixth graders.

But not all maps work so well.

Yesterday, we picked a new trail at a nearby park. The website advertised an “easy circular path,” roughly a mile long. Sounded perfect.

Except it wasn’t.

Steep inclines never ended, and after 1.5 miles with no loop in sight, we checked Google Maps. The promised circle became a straight line into nowhere.

So we turned around and trudged back the way we came. Another 30 minutes on tired legs. Whoever wrote those directions clearly had some issues.

Next time, I’m bringing my middle school map guy.

1977.

My neighbor, a little older, invited me to a movie at the theater. Just us, no grown-ups.

At seven years old, this was a big deal. And after begging my parents, they finally said yes. I didn’t know much about the film — something called Star Wars.

His family drove and dropped us off. And… WOW.

For a kid, it was overwhelming. I still remember being whisked away by Luke, R2, Han, the spaceships, the Stormtroopers, and especially Darth Vader.

So, tonight felt full-circle.

Luke, home from Boston, mentioned that Revenge of the Sith — one of the Star Wars prequels — had returned to theaters for its 20th anniversary. Without hesitation, we grabbed tickets.

Sitting in the cinema with my grown son, watching the Jedi fight the Empire, took me back to the ‘70s when I first lost myself in popcorn and light sabers.

Turns out, the Force really does run in the family.

Uh-oh, here comes a dog.

When my daughter was little, she had an extreme fear of dogs. Even the sight of one nearby made her jump into my arms with a death squeeze.

We never understood what caused this anxiety and tried everything to help. But nothing worked.

Then her grandmother got a puppy. A dachshund with brown eyes and floppy ears.

She called her, “Winnie McKenzie Grey,” placing her granddaughter’s name right in the middle. She believed naming the phobia — and giving it a sweet face — might bring a breakthrough.

Gradually, a miracle unfolded. That small weiner pup changed McKenzie.

At first, when Winnie walked close, my daughter sat stiffly. But as time passed, the ice melted. One day she nervously reached out to rub the silky fur, and eventually… there was no more fear. Just love.

Fast forward to the present, and our family has owned a couple of dogs. McKenzie is now one of the biggest pet lovers you’ll ever meet, pouring her affection into our Golden Retriever.

I thought about that experience recently while watching the show, The Last of Us. There’s a line where a character utters, “You can’t heal something unless you’re brave enough to say it out loud.”

For McKenzie, bravery came in the form of a tender brown dog who carried her name.

Three weeks ago, we had to say goodbye to Winnie, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge after a long and loving life. She touched so many people, especially one little girl, who’s now all grown up.

And somewhere, I imagine Winnie McKenzie's tiny tail is still wagging at her handiwork.

Folks love to complain.

My hometown has a famous hot dog joint. They serve yummy food, but several years ago, some customers couldn’t get past how the dawgs were made.

The cook lined up buns on his forearm — sometimes five or more at once — and slathered on the toppings. While efficient, the technique probably broke every health code in existence.

But this was the ‘70s and ‘80s. If you ignored the risk of rogue arm hair, you got rewarded with a top-tier weenie experience.

Over time, the arm routine faded away. And the restaurant — which opened in the 1920s — still goes strong today.

The Swissport Lounge at Chicago O’Hare’s Terminal 5 also has a reputation.

What makes it so bad? Guests gripe about the windowless space and the old furniture. And they really despise the sad trombone snack spread.

The funniest review: “It’s like hanging out in the early '90s at your friend’s basement in the house his divorced dad just rented.”

However, the spot has perks. There's complimentary wine and beer — yes, an open bar — plus unlimited munchies and a quiet break from the chaos.

Yet, people still grumble.

I’m a sucker for the weird spots because they’re not so corporate. They have character and stories. And a little grit. Honestly, I hope the Swissport stays the same.

After surviving forearm hot dogs, an outdated lounge feels like a day spa.

Some places are better when they don’t try too hard.

Four months of waiting came down to last night.

About 9:30 p.m., I hopped in the car and started the hour-long trip to the airport. But halfway there, everything ground to a halt. Traffic completely stopped.

A massive construction project turned the highway into a parking lot, adding another sixty minutes.

But the frustration vanished when I finally pulled into Richmond International around 11:30.

Luke (my oldest son) stood by the curb, fresh from Boston. We hadn’t seen each other since Christmas… and absolutely nothing in the world compares to that first hug after months apart.

We arrived home at 12:30 this morning, tired but content. One of my birds was back in the nest.

There’s something sacred about reunions.

Reminds me of a sign in our vet’s office: “Heaven is a place where all the dogs you ever loved run to greet you.” I believe eternity overflows with these long-awaited embraces, reconnecting us with the people and pets we’ve missed for ages.

Maybe airport pickups offer a preview of what's to come.

I spent hours with pen and paper.

Growing up, I wanted to be a cartoonist. And my heart was set on working for Disney (spoiler: Mickey never called).

I took art classes after school and had a knack for doodling just about anything. Teachers noticed, and I became that go-to kid for decorating classroom bulletin boards. Later, I designed t-shirts for clubs and summer camps.

Drawing also earned me my college nickname: “Bif.” During move-in, I taped a sketch to my closet and signed it with my initials, BF.

My new roommate walked in, glanced at the illustration, then asked, “Bif? Who’s Bif?”

It stuck. By the end of the week, even the RA called me that. Pretty sure half the campus never learned my actual name.

Today, I read how Starbucks encourages employees to write personal messages on their cups. Some go further by scribbling smiley faces, hearts, animals, and crazy characters. The coffee chain had to rein it in with guidelines.

I say let them draw. There’s magic in unexpected artwork.

If Starbucks ever needs a Chief Doodle Officer, Bif’s available.

Doing this changed everything.

For years, I told Jessica I wanted to write a book. Soon. Eventually. Probably next week. But with young kids and the usual swirl of everyday life, I had a go-to excuse: There just isn’t time.

After hearing that on repeat, Jess finally looked at me and said, “If it really matters to you, why don’t you write early in the morning?”

I didn’t love the advice. First, because it made too much sense. Second, because it yanked my excuse away. And third, early morning?

Still, I set my wake-up call for 5:17AM — weirdly specific, I know (that’s another story). Enough time to roll out of bed, brush my teeth, and flop onto the couch with a laptop by 5:30.

Day after day, I got up. Sometimes groggy, sometimes motivated. But often staring at the blinking cursor with a blank mind. Some mornings proved productive, others were duds. But I kept showing up.

Since that first alarm, I’ve written five books and four short stories. Usually before breakfast. Now, whenever a project feels big or impossible, I go back to that habit. The “517 Rule.” There’s just something about a quiet morning and a snuggly Golden Retriever who thinks she’s my co-writer.

This week, I remembered a great thought: “Habits shape your life, not motivation.”

My habit started with a buzzing clock. And yes, I’m still ticked Jess was right.