I adore coffee.

Try to control your shock.

My husband thinks it’s gross. (Now you can be shocked.) He doesn’t even like the smell of it.

It’s funny to me, having grown up in a house of non-coffee-drinkers that I would be so delighted by it. The smell of the beans, the sound of it brewing. It makes me smile before I’ve even had a sip. What first drew me to the bold, potent concoction?

Maybe it reminds me of my grandparents, the first coffee-drinkers in my life.

Or maybe it was Calculus. (Didn’t see that coming, did ya?)

I tried my first fancy coffee drink when I was doing Precal homework my junior year in high school. Here’s a shocker: I never enjoyed math. Don’t get me wrong, there was something oddly comforting about algebra–follow these steps and everything will work out fine. But Precal and I were frenemies from day one. Oh, I pretended to be cordial. But the moment her back was turned, I was pleading with my friends to help me deal with her. Because that girl had issues. Dra.Ma.

But my real friends were there for me. Throughout Precal and Calculus (Precal’s snotty older sister), three of us met at a coffee shop to study for tests, and that was where I discovered fancy coffee drinks. A mocha was my gateway drug. And then came college when I got to experiment: white mocha, caramel macchiato, hazelnut latte. Oh the options! Coffeemakers were naturally forbidden in on-campus housing but that didn’t stop me or my roommate. Rebels, we were. (Plus, it had an auto-off function. We were cautious, responsible rebels.)

I never really had a type, though. No specific blend that was my regular. I liked variety.

But one day, I discovered Sumatra. A dark, rich, smooth roast. It’s everything I love about coffee in one incredible cup.

And appropriately, my discovery of my signature brew landed right around the same time I started to accept myself as a writer. It’s funny, isn’t it, how many things you realize about yourself when you take the time to listen.

I’m Sumatra. That doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally like a cup of hazelnut coffee or French roast. (And when I get in a Starbucks, who knows!) But at my core and in my home, I’ll always be Sumatra.

I’m purple chucks. That doesn’t mean I don’t wear (and adore) other shoes. But at my core, at my soul, I’m just a colorful pair of chucks trying to stand out from the crowd and dance my way through the world. Savoring my Sumatra as I go.

rock & drive

I have a confession to make: I’m a car-dancer.


I dance sitting in my car. I can’t help myself. I can’t drive without music. And when I hear music, I have to move. When I hear great music, I have to move even more. And it looks ridiculous. At least I assume. I can’t actually see myself.

So I quite often find myself at a stoplight doing a fist pump that turns into an “oh I was just playing with my hair” move when I realize I’m level with the car beside me. Or a shoulder groove that turns into “just stretching out my sore muscles.”

But then I remember:

I don’t know these people.

That’s one good thing about the traffic in this area. Although I’m surrounded by other cars, I’ll probably never see those drivers ever again. So does it matter if they think I’m strange?

No. No it does not. Because the truth is, I am strange. (I know. Try to control your utter shock.) And it always makes me smile to see other strange people doing fabulously strange things.

So why not? Maybe a weird car-dancing girl in the car next to someone will make their day. You just never know. (Although the fist-pumping could be a little alarming so that one I might still keep in check. But the rest? Oh, it’s on.)

Confession: I’m going to keep car-dancing. And you can’t stop me. But you’re welcome to join me.