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.
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.
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.
Would it shock you to hear that even though my blog has collected moss like a molasses-slow manatee, I feel more on top of my game than ever? I feel a better grip on my carry-on? I do.
I have faith that this wresting back of control will lead me to hit the publish button soon, and often.
I have ideas – with no expiration dates, thankfully. I still want to write about elephants. I have a Go Ask Daddy thisclose to finished. The six words express steams on. I’m in talks with fantastic writers about guest posts.
She justified the purchase – and also a llama keychain made from real llama fur and a tiny Peruvian blanket – as good investments, the kind of thing she could pass down to her kids someday. (I love this idea.)
One thing I need to pass down to my own kids: A plan for cyber security, not just for the content she can access, but to protect her accounts online.
That’s where Cassie comes in. She writes for a website called Secure Thoughts. No, this isn’t a site that safeguards my dreams of pizza buffets with Katlyn Carlson. It’s Internet security for everyday people. You know, like you and me.
In all of the uniform fitting nights for all of the soccer clubs in America … she walked into the uniform fitting for the soccer club I’d been coaching for.
She’s Dana Mather, Crossfit trainer. That night, though, she was Dana Mather, matchmaker. As her sons tried on the club’s new kits, we talked soccer. Pay attention, and you can learn volumes about someone in a single, initial conversation.
My impression of Dana: Optimistic, energetic, in all the way in all she did.
Dana carries a quiet confidence that falls short of swagger, mostly because of her humility. A mom, wife, and athlete, Dana surprised me by asking lots of questions about my own coaching. That night, my coaching future was uncertain.
First, I’m a little late to this party, I admit. If you could see my inbox, you’d understand. I also could use a haircut. But who am I telling? This letter, though, has little to do with my hair and unanswered emails.
It has everything to do with the movement you’ve begun, by kneeling during the National Anthem before kickoff.
I happen to be a minority here in the USA. I’m the people you’re doing this for. First, I kind of appreciate that, Colin. There’s lots of hashtags out there for minorities, but generally, the ones for my people mostly have to do with #CincoDeMayo.
Passport awareness to me means knowing where the dreaded thing is.
It’s a viable fear, losing my passport in another country. Not that I jet-set. Were it not for Red Ventures’ annual company trip, the extent of my worldly travel could be summed up in a drive down Charlotte’s Central Avenue, with its Mexican bakeries and Mediterranean restaurants.
I compile a monthly post called “6 Words.”
Ernest Hemingway inspired it when he said any story can be told in six words. I ask bloggers, friends, strangers, and a few strange blogger friends to respond to a prompt. September was National Passport Awareness Month.