It’s wonderful to see pandemic world sprouting in more ways than one this spring. I’m not sure what the future holds, but it sure does feel like society turned a corner.
In my own village, here’s what I’m excited about right now: Continue reading…
It’s wonderful to see pandemic world sprouting in more ways than one this spring. I’m not sure what the future holds, but it sure does feel like society turned a corner.
In my own village, here’s what I’m excited about right now: Continue reading…
Lindsey and I have been blessed with many genuine friends — ones that make us laugh, can celebrate our accomplishments, and extend considerate help.
This week, while visiting one such family, we discovered that they’ve been dealing with some “friends” that reputedly became envious and judgmental of our friends’ recent good fortune. This saddened me. Time is too precious to waste on such superficial friends.
With that in mind, here’s my proven guide to ditching and avoiding fake friends, so you can better enjoy your days in the sun. Continue reading…
When the world first starting shutting down amid the coronavirus outbreak, I was angry. Angry with how the situation was being handled and frustrated by how quickly everything changed.
After the second week of widespread restrictions, I was grieving. I missed the sudden loss of lifestyle, normal working conditions, family routines, and exciting plans—almost all of it cancelled.
In this third week of quarantine, however, I’ve learned three important lessons that have allowed me to appropriately adjust and make the most of an unprecedented situation. They are as follows: Continue reading…
Until I get around to writing a condensed, more interesting story, here’s a chronology of mostly personal events:
1979. Born in Moscow, Idaho to goodly parents named Brent and Cathy Snow as the fourth child of six and second son in the family. Moved to Oklahoma one month later.
1985. Started my formal education at Westwood Elementary School in Stillwater, Oklahoma while my father taught psychology at Oklahoma State University (Go Pokes!). Said formal schooling would last me 17 consecutive years (gulp) across three state programs.
1986. Exposed to my first home computer and modern video game console after my mother bought a colored IBM PCjr and some neighborhood friends scored a Nintendo Entertainment System. The love affair with technology, personal computers, and video games had begun.
Prior to graduating from college, I played drums in a trio band. We mostly played Killers, Interpol, Franz Ferdinand, and Led Zeppelin covers in our bassist’s basement. We maybe played once a week for a month or so and didn’t even have a proper name. But we still wanted to rock.
Anxious to play a live set, we caught wind of an “Acoustic Battle of the Bands” to be played at BYU’s 22,000 seat capacity Marriott Center. I remember thinking, “Who says we can’t rock that? It says ‘acoustic,’ not low energy or slow tempo.” So we traded our electric guitar for an acoustic/electric and proceeded to tryouts that were being held in some small theater room in the English building.
Upon arrival, we were clearly out of place. As we lugged our full drum kit, half stack bass rig, and guitar amp down the hall, dozens of Dave Mathew wannabes practiced three chord love songs in squeaky voices to admiring girlfriends. My opinion of humanity worsened a little that day. But I digress. Our name was called, we entered the room and setup stage.
Cathy and Brent Snow, as pictured in the mid ’70s with my older sisters Cami and Summer. Happy birthday, mom! You’re as beautiful today as you were then.
I forgot my Dad’s birthday yesterday. Maybe I should start consulting my calendar on weekends again. Or plan accordingly when something important doesn’t fall on a weekday.
In any case, here are 10 reasons I love my Dad. Yup, I said love. But I say that in a man-to-man sort of way. If that makes any sense. Which it doesn’t. So just read on. Continue reading…
Even if you think you’re honest person, your integrity will forever be challenged, usually when you least expect it.
I recently learned this lesson after a client tried to overpay me by $20,000 on two separate occasions. The first time they simply wired the money into my account without realizing I was already paid. “Either they sent duplicate payment or liked my work so much they gave me a huge bonus,” I thought to myself. I knew it was the former, but sat on the blunder for a few days before notifying the client.
The reason: The devil on my left shoulder made a convincing argument. “Blake,” he said, “maybe you didn’t invoice them the first time?” Nope, I checked my records. I’ve been paid in full. “Okay,” he went on, “but they’re a billion dollar company. They won’t even notice the misplaced $10,000.”
“I doubt it,” the angel on my right shoulder replied. “Imagine if someone got fired for this. Besides, you didn’t earn this money. It doesn’t matter if you omit or commit theft—stealing is wrong. You’re better than this.” Continue reading…
The world is full of qualitative statements. Exaggerations. Subjectiveness that cannot be measured. The people that make such statements are easily forgotten.
Quantitative statements, on the other hand, leave an impression. They measure your place in life. My father taught me this at an early age.
When I was nine years old, I ran a fast 400 meter dash, which is no easy feat. The thing about the 400 is not a lot of people run it. It’s difficult, because it’s not quite a sprint and not quite a distance race. As such, few amateurs compete in it. At least that was the case when I ran it.
So my father encouraged me to run the 400. I did. All the way to the ’88 state finals. Here’s how it happened: Continue reading…
I recently sampled a book in which the author said such-and-such was the “second most enchanting thing” he’d ever seen, save only seeing his wife for the first time. The line made me reflect upon the first time I met my wife:
In a hot tub. Continue reading…
ANAHEIM, Ca.—Comedian Jim Gaffigan once joked, “My favorite ride at Disney was the air conditioned bus back to the airport.” When asked why he paid so much money to wait in long lines for underwhelming rides, he replied, “Because I love my children.”
I love my children, too. But unlike Gaffigan, I’ve been unwilling to visit Disney until recently because I viewed it as a rip-off, an unneeded parental sacrifice, and not nearly as rewarding as natural wonder. Although I have fond memories of visiting Disneyland with my family as an eight year old boy, I have fonder memories of visiting the nearby Laguna Beach that same week. “So I’ll take my kids to more majestic, less expensive places instead,” I’ve told myself ever since.
Deep down, however, I wanted to know: Could so many people be wrong? Why do over 70 million folks visit one of Disney’s templated parks each year, making it the third most-visited tourist attraction on Earth, according to Travel and Leisure? Can a place that averages 4.5 out of 5 visitor stars really be an overpriced tourist trap?
To find out, I caved recently and booked my family for two-day passes to Disneyland. Tickets cost $100 each per day; children were $5 off (that’s it?!). In fact, admittance to the park totaled more than the combined airfare and four-day stay we paid for a well-rated hotel across the street, not to mention the expensive dining we were sure to encounter inside the park.
Upon realizing that, I had buyer’s remorse. Had I make a mistake? Was I turning into sheep? Maybe. But I was determined to find out for myself, if not for humanity’s sake. Continue reading…
Thanks to genetics, I inherited two bad discs in my back, the neurologist told me. (Sorry kids, you’re next.)
For no particular reason, the first one broke six years ago. It laid me up for six straight weeks, forcing me to work lying down for a month and a half. After surgery, I could thankfully sit, run, and walk again with a normal gait.
I was also given a clean bill of health. “Blake, I’ve had patients scale Mount Everest and play two hours of basketball every morning for the rest of their lives after similar surgery,” the doctor told me. “Except for moving refrigerators and pianos, you have my blessing to do whatever physically adventurous things you want.”
I took his counsel to heart, got fit, ate more plants, and experienced a renaissance of outdoor exploits and saw a lot of wonderful things since then. In a way, breaking my back was the best thing to happen to me since marrying Lindsey, fathering children, and being awesome.
Now I get to do it all over. Last week, I broke my back again. Continue reading…
Last month, my eight year-old daughter subdued me in a remarkable way.
Our dog Harley had just disobeyed orders. As I confronted him, he urinated on our floor for the umpteenth time.
Now, there are a lot of things I dislike about Harley. He pees like a girl. Recoils from house flies. And his nervous system is a little too nervous. But my least favorite thing about Harley is his knack for urinating a few teaspoons at times when I—the perceived “leader” of the pack—order or reprimand him.
It’s called submissive urination and it’s downright annoying for two reasons. First, I’ve had to clean up dog urine, several times a day, even though he’s been house trained for months. Second, I have no idea when to expect it, even though Harley is normally an obedient dog. Continue reading…
My stomach turns anytime I witness waste, lavishness, or squandering. I smile whenever I see thrift, frugality, or resourcefulness. (See also: The difference between cheap and frugal)
In fact, the latter is a life-long pursuit of mine: To be resourceful in everything I do, including my personal and business endeavorers.
Excepting more embarrassing personal stuff, here are the changes I hope to make next year:
That said, I don’t fully buy the whitening bit. If Reach is saying the brush is capable of removing more external gunk than other brushes thanks to the above, then fine. But if they’re claiming it whitens like my bleech trays, I’ll call their bluff. After all, they’re whitening claim is asterisked by “lab tests,” aka “clinically proven,” aka “this doesn’t really do what we claim, but we’d like to think it does.”
Secondly, at $3.50 a pop, the brush is 3X the price of average brushes. Regardless, I’ll never buy another toothbrush. It’s that good.
(For what it’s worth, here is the toothpaste I use. Also awesome.)
Originally published March 2011
I’m a cheese lover. I’ve sampled some of the finest from three different continents. In fact, I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like, except for Colby. (Yuck!)
My absolute favorite varient of cheese, however, is Cabot’s Seriously Sharp Cheddar. It comes from grass-fed cows in Vermont that sleep on warm blankets and are often whispered words of encouragement by loving humans. It’s gluten-free, low-carb, 100% organic, and makes your bowel movements smell like cinnamon. It’s aged for 24 hours, helps save the planet, and will even impress your sycophant friends.
Not really. But Seriously Sharp is the most pungent and satisfying cheese I’ve ever tasted. It’s perfectly textured—slightly crumbly without being overly dry. Dense and mouthwatering. It’s so delectable, I often sink in my chair after savoring the final slice.
Goes well with red grapes, almonds, crackers, french bread and salami, strawberries, cantaloup, and white sauces. I buy it at Walmart right after doorbell ditching struggling mom-and-pop grocers.
My wife looked at me with bright amber eyes the other day and laughed in my face. “Is no hobby off limits for you?” she mused.
We were cleaning our attic and going through an old box of mine. It was a veritable time capsule of previous hobbies I once held dear. The one that made Lindsey laugh most were my magic tricks.
“How much did you spend on these?” she asked. “A few hundred,” I responded. “Let me guess, you only played with them for a few weeks,” she countered.
You see, I lose interest in hobbies as quickly as I discover them. I do have lifelong passions—music and sports chief among them. But most of my hobbies are fleeting. I get what I need and then move on to new hobbies. The old ones remain as slice of my former self; a talking point with anyone who has shared my enthusiasm for x, y, or z.
But it’s not out of boredom that I lose interest in hobbies. It’s out of a desire to experience as many things as I can. Someday I’ll list a comprehensive set of passions that I chased in this life. But for now, here are personal hobbies I’m particularly keen on at the moment: Continue reading…
As a newly wed, this used to drive my wife crazy. And since her good habits have rubbed off on me, now it would drive me crazy.
If you’re happy with your health, nutrition and self-image, skip to the next post. If not, read on.
In nine years of marriage, Lindsey and I have never owned a weight scale. Not one.
Why? Because they’re superficial, largely meaningless, and a lousy motivator of long-term health. Continue reading…
It gets everything right except feet. That’s at least a moderate scrub.
As an independent contractor, I get asked a lot on how I make a living. The easiest answer is “I work from home.” If that doesn’t satisfy the interviewer, however, I’ll usually say “I’m a writer,” which is only partly true.
In many ways, I’m a jack of all trades. Writing and developing content for others is my forte. But I also enjoy critiquing software and games, moonlighting in online advertising, content marketing, and one-off projects that present a unique but hard-to-screw up challenge.
That said, I never over promise. I’m quick to tell a potential client or existing client “I don’t do that” when asked about other disciplines and send them on their way—mostly because I do crappy work when I’m not passionate about it. That and I refuse to engage in work I don’t like doing, regardless of how well it pays.
(Seriously, doing stuff you don’t enjoy solely for money or status is the epitome of living a lie. I realize some people have no choice in the short-term and often have to take one for the team to make ends me. But EVERYONE has a choice in the long term. It just takes planning, sacrifice, and guts.)
Anways, long story short, here’s how I became a thousandaire last year: Continue reading…
Saying “I love you” for the first time is always a crap shoot.
It’s easier to do when the other one says it first. Difficult to do when you’re the emotional, head-over-heals, and “want to lay it on the line” type like me.
That was the case when I first expressed my love to Lindsey. If I remember right, the conversation went something like this (probably after one of our legendary make-out sessions):
Me: “I love you.”
Lindsey: “Thank you.”
Crash and burn.
Not to worry, though. I was flying high again a few months later, after hot stuff reciprocated. And we lived happily ever after.
Thank you, Lindsey.
My dad won’t like me for repeating this on the intertubes, but it’s too good not to.
Growing up, my old man would regularly sneak off to his tiny toilet room to get away from his loud wife and six, know-it-all children. It was one of those “bathroom within a bathroom” type deals where the toilet had its own lockable door—you know, for added privacy and to keep the fumes from offending a significant other using the sinks, bath, or shower.
Funny thing is, that toilet room would have been claustrophobic for an undersized gnome. While sitting on the toilet, small children could have (and regularly did) touch opposing side walls with ease. It couldn’t have been longer than six feet.
Nevertheless, my dad would retreat there for what seemed like hours, reading Rand-McNally maps or whatever almanac or resource books he left in there. It was his sole sanctuary, that is until he took over the entire second floor after the kids left home.
As a stunning teenager, I remember thinking something like this: “Dude bought this big ole house and everything in it, and yet the only space he has to himself is a 6×3′ toilet room.”
Now, as the children have begun overrunning my own house, I have found myself in similar situations. Granted, I have it better than he did. I enjoy a private home office that is only occasionally open to the kids for impromptu dance sessions (since my desktop doubles as the house’s best hi-fi). And my “toilet room” is much larger than his.
But I still stay in the bathroom longer than I should. The only difference is instead of Rand-McNallys, an iPad comes with me.
(Note: I defer all flagging concerns to George Costanza)
I wish I could have seen my Dad play basketball.
My uncle tells me he was a phenomenal shooter, regularly putting up 30+ points a night against amateur competition. My old man reputedly scored 50 points in a single half of intramural college ball once (!).
More impressive from a precision standpoint, he shot 50 consecutive free throws at my neighbor’s house when I was a boy. He stopped before missing his first shot so he could get home “for supper,” he says. Talk about ending on a high note.
Marveling at other great shooters this year, including Jimmer Fredette, whom I’ve watched at close range, I asked my Dad what it takes to be a great percentage shooter. His reply:
“It is a combination of natural and great physical skill, thousands of hours of practice and playing, and the ability after reaching a certain point of physical excellence to take your mind out of shooting and letting your body do it! That’s the groove that is spoken of. Not very many reach the ‘groove’ consistently. When it happens, it is like heaven on earth.”
High five, pops!
Seriously folks, I had it all.
To all you freshmen out there: This too shall pass.
In addition to this recent discovery, the following have been in heavy rotation on my iTunes lately:
Honorable mention: Gregory Brothers, if only for their sweet auto-tune remix skills.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CjedB9d2v8k[/youtube]Now can someone lend me a few thousand dollars so I can take up the hobby full time? Either that or let me impose on your Cape Cod, Maine, or Southern Florida timeshare?
Seriously though, Lindsey and I had a wonderful time and plan to go again sooon. It’s a perfect way to slow down your life.
Thanks, Bonneville Sailing.
While considering a TV upgrade, Lindsey and I were price checking a nearby retailer yesterday. Thankfully for us, the outfit was showing a kids movie, so parents could shop around.
Lindsey and I didn’t wait to take advantage. After a few minutes, I glanced towards the girls to find my four year-old looking the opposite direction, peeking through tiny fingers, and squirming in her skin as she watched a sci-fi movie on a different TV. I then rushed over to rescue her from the gnarly Alien surgery taking place on screen.
She was pretty upset. And I’m sad to say I didn’t notice the movie beforehand. (Was neck deep in materialism—not parenting— at the time, okay?) She cried when we got home. Her mother wisely recommended prayer. I offered. It helped.
This morning, it was Sadie’s turn to pray. “Please help me forget scary movies,” she supplicated.
Cutest. Prayer. Ever.
Like her daddy, I recently learned that my two-year old has a fetish for really good blues rock.
While listening to Band of Skulls on the way to St. George this weekend, Lindsey and Sadie weren’t as excited to hear the band. Meanwhile, I caught Maddie in a self-taught and deliberate headbang—she enjoyed it so much.
If there’s one thing this world isn’t short on, it’s attractive women. Seriously, mature females are the most aesthetically pleasing things to look at. Heck, even girls can’t keep their eyes of each other.
But there’s a big difference between appreciating beauty and lusting after it. Which is why some dudes are unfriending attractive females on Facebook, in an effort to stay Marriedbook (crash cymbal please).
“I deleted an old high-school girlfriend,” a colleague told me recently. “She was posting some pretty racy photos of hereself, and I realized I didn’t need to be seeing that as a married man.”
In similar shoes, I felt empowered upon hearing this. Indeed, before quitting Facebook, I had to remove a couple of contacts from my account for similar reasons. But it’s encouraging to hear other married men fighting to stay happily married. It gives me hope.
On that note, do you have any electronic relationships that need deleting?
I snore—loudly, I’m told. My wife knows this. Anyone who has ever roomed with me knows this. This is my story.
I like running.
I normally run continuously for 45 minutes to an hour. On occasion, two hours—whatever I feel like really. I don’t time myself or track miles—an act that makes running feel like work—I just run.
Two weeks ago, I was feeling especially light on my feet. When I left the house on an empty stomach that Saturday, I didn’t plan on running for three plus hours, but I did. I also didn’t take water or food with me, and nearly put myself in the hospital as a result.
It’s called Flight Control. You can download it on either iPhone or Nintendo DSi. And it’s awesome. My current high is 58.
True to chain letter form, Lindsey emailed me the following “friend survey” today. With exception to nos. 23 and 41, her responses made me proud to call her my wife—especially with Valentine’s around the corner. They also make me look chivalrous, which is always a good thing.
Warning: some of her answers are a little sappy. But this is my blog—not yours. You can get lost if you have a problem with that! Continue reading…
I’m not the kind of person to relate my past dreams to others. In fact, I never do. They’re usually boring, meaningless, and nonsensical—merely the brain recalling past memories or feelings as it tries to get some shut eye. So I only share the following dream because it’s pathetic and telling:
Since my two-year old drinks milk like nobody’s business, I go to the grocer to buy some more. Unsure if we have any remaining at home, I purchase four gallons. Upon my return, I notice there was a full gallon discreetly placed in the fridge door. Gasp! I’m now sitting on five gallons of milk and freakin’ out. “What are we going to do with five gallons!?” I ask my wife. “How are we going to drink all this milk before it expires!!??”
That’s the dream. My worst nightmare: too much milk. Doubting reality, I drank an extra tall glass of the good stuff this morning just to be sure.
OREM, Utah — After four convenient but usually bad-habit forming years, I canceled my Blackberry email/data plan with T-Mobile last week. To my surprise, I was amazed that my email would actually wait for me on the computer, as opposed to following me around wherever I went. Now, if I’m away from my desk, my email will tell me how many unread messages I have upon my return, so as not to overlook anything. (Some fancy email programs even support audible alerts, such as “You’ve got mail!” Really neat stuff.)
In a flurry of discovery, and in search of more answers, I asked a representative of ARPANET, the inventor of email, for comment. “The great thing about email is that it’s free, provided you don’t give money to your cell phone provider for the same service,” the spokesman said. “And unlike the Post Office, you don’t have to put a hold on your mail if you’re away, say on nights and weekends. If it fits, it ships—which is all the time.”
I heard Rudy Ruettiger speak this month as a guest at a neighboring university. Not only does he have a great story, he’s a great motivational speaker. Admittedly, I went because I love his movie—the greatest sports film ever made. But I stayed for his choice commentary on life, guts, and optimism. These are the nine ideas that most inspired me: Continue reading…
Five years ago, I could concentrate on a single deadline for a solid 4-6 hours per session without breaking. Nowadays its feels like my attention span has dropped to 2-3 hours on average, sometimes minutes! Some observations at to why: Continue reading…
I had a bit of a senior moment this morning. While crossing over a contoured section of the sidewalk, I tripped over my toes, lunged forward, and overturned the jogging stroller. I landed in someone’s flower bed. The girls landed in the gutter—on their heads!
Moments before, a lady in her forties was approaching us. Being the gentleman that I am, I crossed onto the street to let her pass. I don’t know about other runners, but it takes my legs a good five minutes to warm in the morning. So at the time of the accident, I was dragging my feet a little. Hence, the stumble when crossing back over to the sidewalk.
Outside of insecurity and one hurt ego, everybody was fine. But I’ll be using that wrist strap religiously froim now on, so as not to send the girls rolling into the road the next time I trip.
MSNBC published a story yesterday that confirms what many of us already know: The almighty dollar is a lot more elusive these days, as Americans are working harder for less money. That’s been my experience, as I have to scrap a lot more now to make deals happen. Thankfully, there are still deals. For that I’m grateful. But my Mom put it best when she said, “They party’s over!” It sure is, Mom. It sure is. The upside: I got complacent at the party. So the down economy has been just the kick in the pants I’ve needed to double my creative efforts. The paper chase lives on!
The girls and I just got back from a sweet vacation to Teton, Yellowstone, and Montana. It was one of the best vacations I’ve ever had, given all the sights and activities we were able to participate in. One of the coolest “features” of the trip: no cell reception, internet, or TV at our cabin. We were utterly disconnected, which allowed us to be completely present in the moment. “It totally changes the dynamic of the group,” my wife told me yesterday. It sure did, for the better. Can’t wait to go even longer without a connection next time.
Be back in a bit