I got it back in 2006.

A license that never expires — and no, it’s not a special driving permit or a 007 license to kill. But I do have the authority to create something incredible, which I've done countless times.

The credential is easy to get, though most folks never bother. There are no required exams or internships. Only a little paperwork and POOF! All official.

Some people turn the skill into a side hustle while others build a career around it. Me? I save mine for friends. And when done right, they respond with pure gratitude.

What is this mysterious qualification? It’s being able to… officiate weddings.

I performed my most recent one a few days ago. Then this week I read about another, more intense certification.

In Japan, there’s a culinary license for preparing fugu, a famous fish delicacy. But to earn it, chefs train for several years, apprenticing under a master.

Why the lengthy process? Because one mistake, and the fish kills. The toxins are 1,200 times more lethal than cyanide, and no antidote exists.

Prepared properly, though, and the result is elegant.

Much like a wedding. Except with less poison.

As a kid, it felt like visiting Disney World.

My grandparents lived in the countryside of Gibsonville, NC, where tractors rolled past open fields and the sky stretched wide. Long rows of crops created the perfect hide-and-seek playground.

And out there in the sticks is where I mastered two forgotten arts: snapping green “string” beans and shucking corn.

For the beans, a pop signaled a clean break, stripping away the stringy bits before storing in mason jars. Meanwhile, the corn husks hid golden treasures beneath layers of silk. We worked on the screened porch, swapping stories between snaps and tugs. A southern tradition.

Fast forward to today when we celebrated Mother’s Day out in the boonies at Indian Fields Tavern. This restored farmhouse, flanked by cornfields and century-old farmland, features a unique restaurant.

Next door at their brewery, we ordered food from a repurposed shipping container. Beside us stood grain silos, along with barrels and rusted farm equipment, while a musician played on a stage.

With my daughters and son-in-law by my side, we toasted the day and honored the special lady in our presence. This time, the only “snapping” came from our phones, capturing lots of photos.

Happy Mother’s Day, Jess. Country looks good on you.

10,000 steps per day, the experts say.

For most folks, that’s about four to five miles of movement. Many people use this measurement as a goal, and though not highly scientific, it's easy to remember.

Today, after hours of yard work, I checked my step count and blinked at the screen:

17,000.

By bedtime, the total reached 24,000. To be clear, not normal for me. My all-time high came from strolling around New York City — 30,000 in a single day. And yeah, I slept like a log that night.

My neighbor likes to say, “Motion is the best lotion.” So true.

All this step-talk got me curious about extreme feats. Jesse Castenda holds the Guinness World Record for walking 142 miles in 1976, totaling roughly 285,000 strides. Just typing that makes me tired.

Earlier this week, NBA commentator Paul Pierce made a bet. If the Celtics dropped Game 2 of the playoffs, he would walk to work. Barefoot and in a bathrobe.

The Celtics lost. And keeping his promise, Pierce set out on a 20-mile trek to the studio the next morning.

He livestreamed the whole thing on Instagram, engaging with fans and hecklers along the way. His journey took over eight hours. That’s a lot of mileage.

Well, I broke no records today, but I’m satisfied. And my reward? Grass clippings in my socks.

A storm barreled in early this morning.

At 3:30am, wind and rain lashed the windows before killing our power. Lights out. A/C dead. And a trembling Golden Retriever glued to my side.

Two hours later, electricity blinked back on, but the experience resurfaced a college memory.

Each week, our school held a chapel service. During my first year, they asked me to speak. I wanted to do something different: what’s called an “illustrated sermon.”

This required dressing like a biblical character to share a message from a unique point of view. To make it more authentic, I had to memorize the presentation. Tricky, but I embraced the challenge.

On that evening, students and professors packed the auditorium. I felt the pressure, with major nerves about forgetting my lines. As the band played, bad weather brewed outside.

Then, finally, the university president introduced me. One minute before I was supposed to go on, the power went out. Pitch black. Only the eerie glow of the EXIT signs remained.

Dr. Hopkins turned to me and asked, “Can you still speak?”

Normally, I would have needed notes, and light, but not this time. I stepped forward on the stage and delivered every word from memory. Somehow, I remembered it all.

Afterward, people told me the darkness amplified the talk. They said my shadowy costume made me look like some kind of ghostly prophet, an ancient figure appearing out of nowhere.

Later, we found out a nearby tornado had knocked out the power. I say that signs and wonders follow me when I speak.

But, no twister today. Just a sleepy guy and a Retriever who thinks thunder is the apocalypse.

The world belongs to the obsessed.

When committed, people go the extremes. I’ve seen it up close, watching my kids chase after pursuits they cared about:

• Sam got up for 6:30 a.m. soccer practice every day for several summers

• Kate mastered a city’s complex bus system, just to get to work and help cover college tuition

• Jake once drove hours through a snowstorm to rescue his stranded brother

• Luke packed up for Boston, chasing a summer internship in a city where he didn’t know a soul

• McKenzie, after a lifetime of homeschooling, entered public school in 10th grade

When determination takes over, humans accomplish surprising things. And while the power of focus often reveals our true character, without a moral compass the path can lead into dark territory.

Take “narco-subs,” for example.

I learned today that drug cartels are now building semi-submersibles deep in the jungle by hand. Why? To move massive quantities of cocaine.

Created for stealth, these vessels skim the waterline and slip through surveillance nets like ghosts. They're clever… and effective. Once loaded, these subs glide across the ocean to deliver their cargo.

Again, the extremes. But it shows what happens when excuses drop and action starts. Focused momentum carries power.

Compared to jungle-built cocaine submarines, emptying the dishwasher suddenly feels manageable.

This post proves I’m full of you-know-what.

So if you don’t appreciate juvenile, middle-school-level humor, just scroll on by. No judgment.

My freshman college roommate, Kedar, had a gift for comedy. This guy could easily connect with people, so we clicked right away and laughed a lot.

One of my favorite memories? His bathroom routine. I know, sounds weird… stay with me.

Kedar never snuck off quietly. When nature called, he announced it to the entire suite, especially if the occasion promised to be an extended engagement.

Then came the soundtrack, blasted on speakers, with his go-to restroom anthem: Robert Plant’s “Big Log.”

Yep.

That toilet flashback resurfaced this week when I stumbled across an article titled, “What’s Your Poop Personality?” Apparently, there are types.

Some fall into the Temporal Poopers camp. Highly predictable, clockwork-like in their timing, often responding to internal rhythms or meal cues.

Others are Locational Poopers. These folks simply cannot go unless they’re in a specific place, usually the safety and familiarity of home. This can stem from anxiety or fear of germs.

So… which one are you?

If you need a second, play “Big Log” while you think.

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.