Three girls. A blog following. Up, kind of. I’ve grown a sometimes-unruly mop of hair, eyes on potatoes, and a ragtag soccer team or three. Growing, though, isn’t always a slam-dunk. I’ve grown restless, I’ve grown weary, I’ve also grown impatient now and again.
I’m talking about a beard, guys. A magic potion that will help me grow something rad, a face rug that extends ear to ear, a beard worthy of lumberjack status. At least of Kenny Loggins or Kenny Rogers but probably closer to Roger Rabbit.
You won’t believe me, given the playtime the Gastronomic Trinity – cheeseburgers, pizza and tacos – gets here. But I’ve eaten Indian food for the first time recently, thanks to my millennial/liberal friends. Took a break from the burger joint and everything.
(They can keep their sushi, though, actually.)
I love some Pad Thai, also. I hadn’t had it in my first 43 years on earth. Sometimes, the sense of adventure in food comes without me knowing it. I accidentally ate alligator once. I ordered fish on a stick in a rural north Florida town.
The universe sends some of us on quite the trip through life.
I’m not talking about Google Maps’ penchant for sending me into nice neighborhoods when traffic stacks up on Interstate 485. I’m talking about sharp, hairpin turns, the kind that you take on two wheels. The kind that could send you tumbling just as easily.
Today’s #GirlsRock entry will shock you.
It did me. I began this interview with burgers in mind. Sometimes, the best stories in life aren’t the ones you can predict at every turn. They’re richer than that, despite tragedy and comedy, deplorable twists and triumphant returns.
Not just me. The whole family gets involved. We brashly head to Wal-Mart in search of the cheapest cans we can get (because, budget), and go about our business, in broad daylight. They know we’re coming. Let them try to stop us.
How’s that for bad-ass?
I’ll do it twice more, this November and next, and nothing will happen to me. It’s not a gang logo on the side of a train car, actually. It’s the rock, at my kids’ school. I don’t get to help every year, but I love it when I get to.
I’ve sat on this one forever. Not an elephant. I have ridden one before. It was like being on a second-story leather couch. Kind of stinky. No, I’ve been sitting on this post, one I wanted to write about elephants – and not their couch-like qualities and aromas.
Months ago, I wanted to write about elephants and the lessons we could learn from them.
Life got in the way. Coaching, deadlines, commutes and being a dad. Time spent confused and busy and resentful for not being able to be here. Those days are gone for now, and even though I’m a day late on this post, it’s live, isn’t it? (Two days, technically.)
Note: The following is a sponsored post. I was compensated for posting it on my blog.
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Merchant Processing Provider
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Hello. Yes, it’s been a while. Not much. How ’bout you?
Soccer and work and sleep and talking to representatives in call centers about cable and credit cards have monopolized me. I dream of writing. Actually, I dream of pizza and Star Wars prequels even Jennifer Connelly still. I write, but only for those organizations that compensate me.
I wish that weren’t the case.
Not that I’d not get compensated. Writing here is dessert. I love me some other writing, and just finished my first fiction work of any consequence. The writing reps are there. This, though, writing here and connecting with you … that’s home cooking, you guys.
By chucker, I mean a fellow who partakes in the revered art of disc golf. Not art and hardly revered, it’s the sport of choice for us jesters in this world of kings. It works for us, though. Rena’s husband is a good man.
It’s a good thing – Rena’s a gem.
You might know her blog, The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver. It’s a life many of you know, and for Rena, it’s more than that. Her words provide guidance and hope to anyone finding themselves in the role of caregiver.
I’m just being real here. My luck, I’d become invisible and walk in front of a cement truck. Or a kale truck even. Wait, are there kale trucks? I’d think that’d be counterproductive to use fossil fuels to deliver y’all’s favorite lib snack.
I took to the web and asked strangers, friends, and strange blogger friends, as I’m wont to occasionally do, to answer a prompt, in six words. Who does that? Ernest Hemingway, for one.
Y’all, for 23,902. (Roughly.) If you could be invisible for a week, what would you do? That’s what I asked. The answers? They were out of sight.