View my new blog, People Who Quit

Ironic, isn’t it? Just as I quit this blog I begin another one–a blog about People Who Quit. Judging from the title you may surmise I’m going to blog about folks who quit smoking. Well, no that’s not it. Or you may think I’m going to blog about delinquents, losers, and other unsavory society. Not true either. In fact, very opposite from the truth.

I’ve had more than one discussion with friends and family about people who pursue their passion and make a lucrative career of it. Or, at least they make a fulfilling, purpose driven career of their passion. Whenever I discuss this I find myself as well as others lamenting our own jobs. You see we’re not ungrateful, we just lack true passion for what we do. That doesn’t make us bad at our current job but we can’t help but wonder what it would be like to seek, find and pursue our passion(s) within a career.

Finally, instead of just guessing what  makes fabulous risk takers different than people like me I decided to start a project. I’ll start by seeking an interview with them then blogging about it. Pretty simple, right?

The main purpose of the blog will be to seek truth and hopefully learn from it. But, you know I can’t change my ways. I’ll still be blogging about life events, food, projects and providing examples of misguided creativity. Really, I can’t help myself.

Please, check out my new blog, People Who Quit and subscribe if you’d like. I invite and appreciate your comments.

Oh, and thanks for reading this blog. It was random, it was fun and I appreciate you checking it out.

Tell me, show me, hug me, give me, spend time with me.

Communicating love for my favorite artist, Ben Harper.

You’ve most likely heard of love languages. They are the method you use (probably unconciously) to receive and give love. It’s your natural instinct telling you to hug your friend (physical touch), give encouragement (words of affirmation), visit a family member (quality time), give a meaningful gift (receiving gifts) or serve someone (acts of service). Love language, just as it sounds, is the way in which you communicate love. We all use a combination of the aforementioned but what do we rely on primarily to show love?

Typically, I think it’s easier to identify what someone else’s love language is than to identify your own. For example, my husband and mother are servants. They would do anything for you, even help you clean your house (yuck). Others of us love to just hang. We’re quality timers and this group includes myself.

As my years of life drift from few to many it becomes a bit more challenging to communicate love. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’m busier. Or because I don’t want to exchange a mushy, hokey moment. Perhaps I’m worried about rejection…I’m not really sure.

What I do know is, uncomfortable or not, inconvenient or not, we must tell/show our friends and family we love them. It’s required stuff. Jesus did it so it’s probably about as good for us as brussell sprouts, maybe better.

Showing and receiving love is easier when you know the language. Answer the question via this link to understand how you communicate. Then, ask your spouse, a best friend or family member if that love language sounds legit for you. Their feedback will help you determine not only how you’re perceived but also whether you’ve communicated a healthy dose of l-o-v-e.

Wow, did you just ask me that?

Pregnancy allows me to recognize yet another thing we have in common as humans. We ask really inappropriate questions during inopportune times. During my pregnancy (I kid you not), I’ve heard all of the following:

• “So, how much weight have you gained?”
• “You’re getting Bi-Ig!” (for some reason people feel the need to sing the last word)
• From a co-worker (not friend): “Are you coming back to work?”
• Again, from a co-worker screaming across a cubicle: “Did you pass your glucose exam?”
• More than one complete stranger on the elevator ride to work: “So, when are you due?”

Aside from the occassional verbal assault I’ve also taken note of non-verbal behaviors such as co-workers passing me and saying hello all the while staring straight at my rotund baby belly (eh-hem, mountain). I imagine they’re thinking one of the following phrases: “Wow she’s getting bi-Ig” or “Getting close” or worse, “Is her water going to break at work? Would I have to clean that up?”

Other non-verbal observations include the anxiety a round belly causes some folks. They have a case of Butterfly McQueen’s sentiment in Gone with the Wind–”I ain’t never birthed no babies!”

I get it, I get it, in your eyes I’m a ticking time bomb. When my water breaks, I’ll try to keep myself from aiming at your shoes.

Allergic to Athletic

I’m not sure when or why it began. From the start, my aversion to all things sports seems to be a defining part of my personality. My parents, doing their parental due diligence, put me in soccer when I was knee high to something. As expected, I was that kid playing on the side line, distracted by flowers and such. I’m pretty sure I lack the inherent competitive streak required of all true athletes.

To give a complete picture of my athletic prowess, I’ll tell the story where I asked the question “Are the Celtics in the World Cup?” ending in thunderous laughter. Oh. Wait. I pretty much blew the punch line. Regardless, you get the idea. I’m not exactly the “sporty” type.

As a result, it’s funny to hear family and friends interject their speculations of who our little Reed (33 weeks tomorrow) will be. Will he be athletic? Will he be creative? Intelligent or average? Sweet or naughty? Just as we possess little understanding of God’s character or why Sonic ice cream doesn’t melt it’s difficult to forecast who your child will be. He could have any, all or none of the aforementioned characteristics. Maybe he’ll be an off-the-wall nut forging his own path. There’s no way to be certain and this brings me pleasure. As a future parent I’m excited to nurture his strengths, shepherd his weaknesses and take oh-so-much joy in discovering who God created our little one to be.  

But, if he is athletic by some random act of God, I’ll know he doesn’t get that from his mother. Of that, I’m certain.

Motherhood and traveling pants

The phrase “pants on the ground” takes on new meaning in maternity. Early on, when Reed’s baby bump was just that–a bump, I wore the belly band to keep my regular pants from exposing my crack or allowing my pants to fall to my ankles during a meeting at work. Though the belly band is raved about among maternity circles I must say it’s not a perfect solution. During my day, the band and pants would separate so that under my shirt I resembled a white trash pregnant chick sporting a tube top.

Eventually, once the Reed bump developed in to a small mountain I graduated to full fledged maternity pants. I wish I could sing the various praises of the exalted maternity pant. Alas, I cannot. As with stilettos and the strapless bra, I am convinced these banded pants were created by a man. I find myself constantly pulling them up and wishing for old man suspenders. It’s much like the discomfort most women feel wearing tight undergarments except these are your pants. If they fall, humiliation, degradation will ensue. Keeping them on ensures you still have a shred of dignity in spite of your co-worker constantly asking how much weight you’ve gained and whether you’ve taken the glucose tolerance test yet. As long as you can still hold on to your pants, you’re still somewhat human.

All in all traveling pants and shaky pride are a small price to pay. Of course, if Reed ever asks I’ll tell him I just don’t know how I survived the months of pants wrestling and a big, fat belly. (I won’t have to mention the part where I actually enjoyed it.)

Food: A pregnant gal’s best friend

I just polished off an insane amount of Dreyer’s Nestle Drumstick ice cream. That’s right. A delicious combination of vanilla ice cream, caramel swirl, peanuts and chocolate covered cone chunks passed happily through my belly, telling baby “hello” on its sojourn through my tummy. Yum. I love food.

As previously confessed, I’ve always loved food. But there are certain things, as a pregnant gal, I find especially appealing. This list includes and is not limited to: All things vitamin Cish including lemons, oranges, lemonade/limeade, etc. Multiple lemons in ice water is a nice treat or orange juice with breakfast (or dinner).

My cousin turned me on to Carnation Instant Breakfast where I discovered a healthier, more baby friendly version of the milk shake. In a blender, you place the chocolate powder (I use two packets), 1/2 cup of ice, 3/4 cup of milk and half a frozen banana. Ever since I began drinking these, at approximately 2 in the afternoon, I begin to crave one. Last night, I passed on the salmon Austin was cooking for a big, fat shake. They are delicious (and nutritious).

Other cravings are pretty regular for me. Sweets remain a staple. Right now, with all the delectable Easter goods I find myself gourging on Reese’s pieces eggs or Cadbury creme eggs. The creme eggs have always been a favorite of mine.

So, for all the friends out there reading my blog, please know you haven’t been permanently replaced. Currently, food is my best friend. However, I predict a fair weather romance. After the baby makes an appearance and the realization that food left me with a wider behind and bigger thighs, I’ll renew my vows to all the homegirls who satisfy my craving for friendship, sans calories.

Searching for Gumption

Initiative, aggressiveness, resourcefulness, courage, spunk, guts, common sense and shrewdness. All of these words describe “gumption”. I wish I had more. I need more.

Tomorrow, I will attend yet another continuing education writing course. I have no idea what to expect. The only requirement is to bring your favorite novel with you. Unfortunately, though I would very much like to write fiction, I rarely read it. My favorite novel, which will accompany me to class tomorrow, is simply the latest novel I’ve read: The Help. It was a cute book but having taken a course at Rice University before, I know the intellectual types inevitably attending the class. While I bring a recent best seller they will bring classic novels. Books I haven’t read. Authors I’ve never heard of. Writing I may not understand or even like.

So, now what? Should I hide and run? Part of me would really like to. But, the course is paid for. Instead of true gumption I have frugality, a pragmatic nature and just a tiny bit of pride.

I’ll go to the course and hope for the best. Wish me luck.

A Friday Confession

Cheeseballs were my first food love. A gourmet from the beginning, there are several pictures of a very fat baby me with cheeto-like substance smeared across a big grin. My mother was such an enabler, she left me a can of cheeseballs in a cabinet I could get to easily in the kitchen. In her defense, she also made my baby food from scratch and my typical diet consisted mostly of green things and liver (yuck).

Fastforward to today. I still love eating. Cheese balls still hold some appeal, although I never buy them. And here’s my Friday confession: I’m sure I love eating; what I’m not sure about is whether I love cooking. This may bother a few people since I received more than one really great cookbook this Christmas and another for my birthday (thank you). I’m discovering that, compared to those who really love cooking and consider it a challenge, what I mostly love is consuming. Consuming is wonderful and gratifying and delicious. Cooking on the other hand is time consuming and involves me lifting a finger after work when I’m tired. Cooking also requires chopping things (which I hate) and planning ahead (which I’m not great at).

When Austin and I first married, I cooked a good bit. He went through an MBA program a year after our marriage and it was mostly up to me to put the literal bacon on the table. This was a really fun time and I discovered lots of fun recipes from various cooking shows, on-line sources and cookbooks. But, now that we’ve been married nearly six years, the thrill is gone.

Maybe the cookbook library I’ve acquired will serve as inspiration on a delectable platter. Perhaps, as I peel back each page, I’ll discover a world of food I thought possible only in restaurants. Then, I’ll whip up a cooking fury with these new recipes inviting friends and the homeless to enjoy a meal together. I’ll save the world from my kitchen with my chopping knife and perishable goods. Yeah, we’ll see…

Today, I turn thirty.

Thirty years ago today my parents rushed to a hospital in Amory, Mississippi. I’m told it was snowing. This was their first child and I can imagine their great anxiety during their forty or so minute drive. Being told they were to have a boy, they came prepared with a boy name (Barentine, called “Barry”) and blue baby stuff. That was their first parental lesson. Always be prepared. A little girl, named Eleanor on a whim after her maternal grandmother, was born.

Turning thirty, or any momentous age, requires you have a reflective moment. So, here’s mine: I think back and the best thing I can say is that I like myself better today than ten or twenty years ago. If perfection is bowling a 300 then I’m a 100, with lots of room to grow. However, compared to the person I was in college or soon after, I’m much more secure, thankful and peaceful. Much of this is attributed to God and my faith in Him. He’s brought me through some tough stuff. Much of this is also thanks to a few people, like my family and husband and close friends, who really love me. What an awesome birthday gift, just right for any age.

Much like “the great Tim McGraw”, I’ve considered some things I want to do in my next thirty years. Learn an instrument (hopefully the mouth harp), become a country western group dancer like those older couples who tour around to festivals, continue to travel and get involved in some kind of service are all on the list. Somehow I know the next thirty years will be even better than the last and I’m really looking forward to them.

“In my next thirty years” by Tim McGraw:

My next thirty years will be the best of my life

Raise a little family and hang out with my wife

Spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear

Make up for lost time here, in my next thirty years

Book Burn

Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring, Lenin, Stalin and Hitler: The Age of Social Catastrophe and Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. What do all of these book titles have in common? Aside from making me sound way smarter than I actually am, they are all titles which gave me book burn. Book burn is the term I’ve coined for situations when I pick up a book, begin to read and lose interest/get bored/get distracted/ETC.

Here’s how it works: You find a book which entices you. Looking at the description you think “I’ve always wanted to know this” or “this sounds really entertaining”. Your pulse kicks it up a notch and hands sweat as you punch the “BUY” button on Amazon or Kindle or hand a sweaty wad of cash to the register guy at Barnes and Nobles or Half Price. Taking the book home, you delve in to it. And, rather than hanging on to every word as you imagined previously, you begin to stall. Things happen like a Law and Order marathon comes on TV and even though you’ve seen every episode you think “what they hey” and get sucked in. Outside your window, birds begin to have personalities, talking in thick New York, Jewish accents, and you imagine their conversations: “Larry, I told you to get the juicy worm this time. How many times do we have to go through this?” What’s happened here is book burn.

Book burn is the psychological state of losing interest in your previously beloved book. I’ve spoken with friends who are avid readers and noticed we all deal differently with this. My friend, Janice, gives the book 100 pages to redeem itself. After that, she gives up, believing life’s too short. Oopsiehubby, Austin, tries to make it through the book come hell or high water. He has principles. And, me? Well, I have no principles. I allow myself to be carried away by bird conversations and TV marathons until the guilt of leaving yet another book to the dust subsides. Then, I pick up my next victim.