Not only was it Monday.
But a Monday after a holiday.
During a winter storm.
And I don’t have proper winter shoes.
I’m in a new position at work, one I’ve held for three months, in an area where I have no experience. I’m trying to learn everything I can, but sometimes, or most of the time, I’m at a rodeo holding onto the bull and sometimes I’m getting my teeth knocked out.
I came home today with a pile of file folders in case the weather gets worse.
My teen daughter had painted more of the living room, did a bunch of chores of the variety I know she doesn’t like, and then, knowing my spirits were crushed, she made me dinner.
And asked her father to bring me a bottle of whiskey.
We had Pillsbury cinnamon buns and Jim Beam Honey for dessert.
I felt like it was 1952 and I was coming home from my fancy career. My daughter was my cute little 1950s housewife pouring me a drink.
Of course if I were keeping up with the analogy, we’d need two kids, a picket fence and a dog.
If you know my daughter, you know the thing she wants most in the world is a dog.
She’s so close and yet so far.