Father’s Day eve was a dishwater gray day, all day. In truth, I don’t mind a drizzly day once in awhile. There’s less pressure to wring every ounce from the day. I take it as a personal invitation to slow down. Mow the lawn tomorrow. Maybe read a book. Definitely take a nap.
These hard-earned nuggets of fatherly wisdom are, of course, lost on my children. They just want me to stop talking in front of the TV and maybe, could you hurry up toasting those Pop-tarts?
What other indignities did I endure yesterday? Let’s find out….
I am officially adding a decent pub to burritos and good pizza on the list of things that are difficult to find when moving out to the suburbs. For the last two weeks of these constant slate colored days both of us have been wishing for warm comfort food and dark beer. The kind of place that smells gently of bitters and fry oil with fogged windows that shield you from thinking of what’s outside.
Or, basically nothing we could find within a 20 mile radius of our house.
There are certainly places to drink out in the ‘burbs, but most are faux-authentic chains trying so, so hard or dark paneled Legion halls steeped in the smoke of unfiltered Winstons. Not places you want to bring the kids or kick back and finish the crossword puzzle that the fish and chips came wrapped in.