About Me

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I'm 30 years old and, even though some people hate the idea of leaving their 20s, I embrace getting older (I like to think I get better with age!). My entire world revolves around my two amazing, full-of-life, little boys- Jake and Eli; I never believed in love at first sight until I held those beautiful boys in my arms. I'm a passionate person and give 100% in everything I do, whether it's parenting, my job, or my relationships. I am extremely competitive, driven, and motivated... I really, really hate to lose. I love my God, my family, and my country. Enjoy cooking, writing, reading, and baseball- especially the Texas Rangers. I'm extremely interested in getting to know people/people development and ask daily questions on Twitter to aid in this endeavor. I'm constantly trying to better myself; I never want to stop growing as a person. I'm terrified of complacency, but have an ability to find happiness in any situation. Bloom where you're planted. I love life and believe in experiencing it to the fullest. I'm learning as I go and definitely having a ton of fun along the way!

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Wolf in Businessman’s Clothing: How Stereotypes Lead to a False Sense of (In)Security





In my line of work, I spend a great majority of time in Wal-Marts and convenience stores.  As my manager explained in my interview, these aren’t the Race Tracs or Quick Trips where you might stop to buy a gallon of milk or pull over during a road trip knowing, with confidence, that you would find a tolerably clean restroom – I’m talking about the kind of C-Store where you drive up, take one look, and hit the gas without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror.  Fortunately, I’ve been blessed with a more “posh” territory (although all of that changes in March), so I haven’t had to deal with the cliental that most of my coworkers encounter.  Despite this great fortune, I do occasionally find myself in rather uncomfortable situations.  
                Take, for example, a day last summer when I was working in Denton with my manager.  I was standing in the gum/candy section, working on my computer and minding my own business when a man approached me.  He obviously assumed that I worked there at the Shell station – a common misconception – because he immediately started to complain.  Now, had he expressed concern about cleanliness of the store or the price of gas this wouldn’t be a story worth telling.  But no, he complained about product selection: more specifically the lack of variety in the condom section.   He went on… and on… and on about how they didn’t sell condoms large enough for “his needs.”  Embarrassed though I was, my poor, poor manager turned bright red, not knowing whether to step in or step outside.  I tried to interrupt the gentleman (using that term pretty loosely here, huh?) to tell him that other than suggesting a flavor of gum, I really couldn’t be of much help.  I finally raised my voice enough that I caught his attention.  I explained that I really, REALLY couldn’t be of assistance and that if he had any complaints or suggestions he could certainly approach the man at the counter.  I can’t say whether or not he talked to the store manager or not – I walked away as soon as I could.
That scenario is a pretty good snapshot of the routine encounters I have on a day-to-day basis.  Generally, the worst thing that happens is that I get a “hey baby” or a whistle, nothing too threatening – more annoying, and depending on the circumstances, comical, than anything, but there have been situations where I did feel a little freaked out, a little unsafe. 
                Early in my Wrigley career, a homeless man stood directly next to me in my store for a full 45 minutes, then followed me outside to tell me that my hair “smelled wonderful.”  I offered to buy him something to eat, but he seemed far more interested in entering my personal bubble (he was literally only a couple of inches away from my face) and making me feel extremely uncomfortable than getting a free bite to eat.  There was also the time a very drunk man – at 9:00 a.m., mind you – kept telling me I was beautiful, would speak some unintelligible Spanish (I don’t speak a second language, let alone inebriated Espanol) and then put his arm around me.  Before I could tell him to back off, the store manager was grabbing him by the collar and escorting him outside.
                Once I purposely, by instinct more than courage, put myself in what could have been a compromising position.  I was standing by my van when I saw a man harassing a teenage girl while she was filling up her car.  He kept asking her for change, she kept telling him no.  She finally nudged her way into her car while the tank continued to fill, obviously hoping the man would leave.  He didn’t.  I watched from a distance at first, optimistic that the man had taken the hint and was getting ready to give up.  A few minutes passed and I realized that the pump had stopped, but the girl was too nervous to get out of her car and remove the nozzle so she could go about her business. 
I couldn’t take it anymore.  I walked up over to the car and asked the girl if the man was bothering her.  She didn’t say a word.  I looked at him and asked if I could help him with something.  Immediately defensive, he started to explain that he wasn’t bothering her; he was just looking for change.  I told him that if he would follow me inside the convenience store I would be more than happy to help him out.  He refused.  Fortunately, during this time the girl had time to get out of her car and replace the nozzle, and was driving off before the man realized that she was gone.  He looked at me for a while, then walked over to his car, and drove away. 
Now, when I presented this story to my colleagues, I failed to mention one minor detail… I gave an accurate description of the events, but omitted the fact that I was knees-shaking, heart-pounding, digging-deep-for-air-to-breathe terrified.   Something about the man, not his appearance so much, but his presence, was intimidating – he just seemed “off.”
I walked back into my C-Store and ran into the manager who was walking out as I was walking in.  He asked if I was OK and said that he had caught the tail-end of the incident and was coming outside to check things out.  I explained what had happened, and assured him that I was OK, finished the call, and went back on my way.  Fortunately, this was my next to the last stop for the day.  My last call was a hurried one where I spent a majority of my time watching the door, afraid the change-seeking man had followed me across the street when I’d left.
Most recently, just Tuesday of last week, I encountered a completely different situation than I am accustomed.  While I was gathering product at my van, I heard a man’s voice from a couple of feet away say, “You’re way too cute to be stocking shelves.”  My knee-jerk reaction was to turn around and say something to the effect of “A.) I attended a private university, have a pretty solid education, and DO NOT stock shelves,  thank you very much; B.) I’m “too cute to ‘stock shelves?’”  Then what, prey tell, am I cute enough to do?; C.) I’m a married mother of two and, therefore, am not AT ALL interested.”
I turned to face the mystery voice, expecting to see the usual suspect, but instead saw a very handsome, very distinguished man with peppered black hair – probably in his early 40s – in a business suit climbing into his luxury SUV.  I instantly felt more at ease.  Not threatened at all.  Flattered?  Meh, not really, but I didn’t want to throw up in my mouth like I normally do, so that was a plus. 
Surprised, I was almost at a loss for words but quickly mustered up a smile and an “Oh, thank you?”  It was definitely more of a question than a token of appreciation.  But I didn’t roll my eyes and I didn’t feel like I needed to watch my back.  I just went on my way.  No harm done. 
I let my guard down.  And why?  Because the man who “complimented” me was dressed nicely, seemed successful, and drove a nice car?  Sadly, yes.  Looking back, though, the guy could have been a serial killer.  Adversely, the drunk man who put his arm around me may have been a perfectly harmless, albeit, misguided man. 
You grow up hearing clichés like “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” but it’s easy to forget that along the way.  We’ve all been caught off guard and found that looks can be deceiving and, likely, have all fallen victim to stereotyping of some sort.  I remember many occasions in my last job that people immediately assumed I didn’t know what I was talking about because I am a female.  When I was an intern in D.C., some of the women I worked with treated me like a child because I was still In school.  And, my freshman year of college, I was placed with suitemates who told me up front that they didn’t “like white girls.”  Awesome.
I say all of that to say this… to say that we don’t stereotype is naïve, ideal, yes, but definitely naïve.  We’ve all done it.  The trick is learning to accept the fact that it happens, but just as quickly accept that in many situations there is no merit to the preconceived ideas.  We have to hold our opinions until we can get to know someone, when conditions permit us to do so, of course; when we aren’t granted that luxury, we have to go off of instinct and the circumstances that surround us.  And even though I generally tend to be a bit naïve and very likely too trusting, it’s probably best to ere on the side of caution – even if the subject in question is wearing a suit.

Dear Pinterest...

Dear Pinterest,

I wanted to take a moment to tell you just how much you mean to me...

For years I have resorted to Google for things like recipes, crafts, and other general hobby needs.  But there's just so much to sort through on there; it can seem cluttered, overwhelming.  But with you, things are different.  I type in a key word and almost instantly in view are pictures of your brilliant suggestions from people of all ages and races and backgrounds.  You, my dear Pinterest, are everything a social sharing website should be.  You have the resourcefulness of Google without all the muddle; the interaction of Facebook without all of the stalking; the real-time information of Twitter without the word limits and hash-tags. Fun. Interactive.  Resourceful. Informative...Magical... 

You have introduced me to some of our family's new favorite foods- Greek-Style Pork Chops, Skinny Italian Turkey Meatballs, and Oreo-Stuffed Chocolate Chip Cookies, just to name a few.  You have helped me channel my inner-artist (slight exaggeration, but you HAVE reminded me that I do, in fact, have a creative side), brought out the chef I've always longed to be, and have helped me in my unending endeavor to become supermom - I know I'm not even close, but just this evening Jake referred to my apron as a "cape," that's got to mean something, right?  For these things and so many more, I am eternally grateful.  

The following pictures are my tribute to you...






I guess what I'm trying to say is... Thank You.  I look forward to a long relationship and to spending what is probably TOO much time together in the future.


With Love, your friend and faithful follower,



Amanda


P.S.  Google, if you're reading this, please don't feel betrayed.  You're still my go-to guy for news stories, symptom checkers, and other important info.  In fact, you're still my homepage.  No hard feelings? 










Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Why I Drink Iced Coffee




Last week, on a warm winter morning at 5:30 a.m., I walked into one of dozens of local Starbucks for an early morning pick-me-up.  I’m not a daily visitor by any stretch of the imagination, but I do frequent this one particular location enough that the women who work the opening shift know who I am.  Unlike the sentiment expressed in the famous theme song from “Cheers,” no one here knows my name, but they DO know my coffee. 
Since it first launched in the Fall, I’ve been in love with the Salted Caramel Mocha Frapaccinno Light- I add an extra shot for a little more oomph and I prefer the smoother consistency.  The sweet and salty flavor is just the contrast that I crave and is almost guaranteed to get my morning off on the right foot.  This one morning, though, I threw the girls for a loop when I ordered a Grande, one-Splenda, Skinny Peppermint Mocha (the one Splenda is a MUST when ordering “Skinny." Ordering as-is usually results in a caffeinated concoction that's a little to boring for my liking). 
“I just assumed you didn’t like hot coffee,” the older of the two baristas commented, almost confused, as she re-entered my order into the register, having assumed I would order the usual.  I paused, then explained that I felt some sort of strange obligation to savor the seasonal peppermint offering while I can- it’s the whole “Girl Scout” cookie phenomenon- get them before they’re gone!
The ladies and I chit-chatted as the younger of the two created my delicious, over-priced, cup of caffeine-induced kick in the pants.  Once I had my coffee in hand, we all said our farewells and I was on my way.  Driving in the dark along Highway 75, I turned down the music and found myself revisiting the barista’s comment.  Although simple, it really resonated. 
Honestly, I LOVE, hot coffee, especially when it’s cold out, but even on the chilliest of days I stick with whatever Frapaccinno is currently on my radar. Why is that, I wondered.  After (over)-analyzing the question, I figured it out and in doing so, pinpointed what I consider my biggest personality flaw. 
I drink iced coffee because I don’t have to wait.  I want a drink – I sip with no threat of scalding my tongue or burning the roof of my mouth.  I don’t have to remove the lid, blow into the cup and then cautiously touch my lips to the caffeine nectar as a precaution to smoldering my taste buds; I just drink to my little heart’s content.
Such a revealing thought.  Oddly enough, I really don’t consider myself impatient – I’m a mother for crying out loud, I have no choice but to have a great deal of patience – but my incessant need for instant gratification sometimes seems insurmountable. 
Now looking at this from a coffee cup “half full” perspective (Lame, I know, forgive me.  It’s late.), I would have to say that there’s a part of me that’s glad I’m wired this way.  When I see something I want, I go for it without hesitation and am all-in… no looking back, no regrets, just an eye-on-the-prize mentality that motivates me to push through obstacles, exhaustion, you name it, to ultimately get what I want.  And while I wouldn’t want to lose my passion, my drive, I could certainly and should definitely strive for a “patience is a virtue” state of mind.
There's so much irony in this blog, based primarily on the fact that as a student at Baylor, I wrote an article for the Belton Journal in which I expressed disappointment in my generation’s need for the now.  I wrote of how our upbringing in a world of fast lanes and fast food has caused us to live with unrealistic expectations on how to set, follow, and accept timelines.  I also talked about going for evening runs on the “Bear Trail” and how I made a conscious decision every day to stop on the University Parks Drive bridge to watch the sunset.  I never stopped running, I didn’t want to lose my momentum, but just ran in place, sweaty and heart-racing, watching God’s work of art on a timeline perfected by the Creator.
Now, with deadlines and schedules and goals and a desire to be the best mom, best employee, and most well-rounded person I can, I sometimes forget to enjoy the simpler, slower things.  I want to remember the sweet satisfaction of wanting something so badly and how great it feels to see the fruits of your labor after days, months, or even years of wishful waiting. 
In the meantime, I'm really going to try to make an effort to savor the simpler things in hopes that doing so will remind me to enjoy life as it happens, when it happens.  And while I no longer have time to go on daily runs and can’t always set aside time to “stop and smell the roses” I would love to occasionally make time to catch a sunset, take a scenic route, or sip a cup of hot coffee.  After all, you've got to start somewhere.  Change is a process, and I'm in no hurry...

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Ooohhh, Jake: How I'm Paying for my Raising and Why I'm Choosing to Laugh About it NOW


             When I discuss my childhood with my family, several words generally come up in the conversation: precocious, stubborn, strong-willed, energetic, smart… TROUBLE.  It’s no news to me that I was a little hard to handle; I remember all-to-well the antics of my childhood.  One situation in particular comes to mind… 
I remember having spent an inordinate amount of time in the corner of Quitman’s finest (perhaps, at the time, only) daycare, Clown Town.  Though I can’t remember the specifics that led to my punishment that day, I do remember my dear teacher Ms. Tammy approaching my sad little stool in the corner and asking me if I was ready to “be good.”  If I was, she persuaded, I could go play with my friends.  Most kids would have jumped at the chance to get out of trouble and into some fun.  Not me.  I smiled at her and said, “Nope.”  This was typical Amanda behavior.
With this in mind, I feel compelled to share the latest happenings with my (ahem) darling  3-year-old, angel-baby Jake.  Jake, God love him, is definitely, 100% without question MY child.  He looks like me, acts like me, everything- a little male me.
The past two weeks at his daycare have been especially difficult.  Complaints from the director have ranged from inability to listen to refusal to keep hands to himself.  Now, I’ve never been thrilled with these conversations, but I also never thought that these actions were completely uncharacteristic of a 3-year-old boy.  The director evidently disagreed.  Seriously, imagine my surprise on Wednesday when the director, we’ll call her Ms. Jane, calls and tells me that they can “no longer control” Jake and they have made the decision to “dismiss” him from their daycare.
MY THREE YEAR OLD WAS KICKED OUT OF SCHOOL?!?!?! ?  Was she serious?  The only thought that crossed my mind was, “You can’t control a three-year-old???  How can you NOT control a THREE-YEAR-OLD???”  Ugh!  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m the first to admit that my little Cobra, as I call him, can drive me N-U-T-S, nuts, but he is rarely uncontrollable at home.  Generally he listens.  If he doesn’t, he’s punished.  Simple, right?
It goes without saying I was a little, what’s the kindest way to say this… frustrated… when I arrived at the boys’ school to pick them up later that day.  I have a seriously long fuse, but once I’m mad, watch out – there are few natural disasters more severe than Hurricane Amanda and as several teachers witnessed, an unseasonable storm rushed through daycare on a suspiciously sunny and beautiful Wednesday afternoon.
Now, before I go on, it’s important that I note that my frustration wasn’t solely reserved for the daycare.  I was EXTREMELY, repeat EXTREMELY upset with Jake.  He knows how to act, he knows how to mind, and the fact that he opted to do neither of these has infuriated me beyond belief.  But, to kick a 3-year-old out of school simply seems to send the wrong message.  I’m constantly encouraging Jake that he’s not a “bad boy;" he’s a good boy who sometimes makes bad decisions.  The last thing I want is for my little boy to think he’s bad.  I believe in the power of persuasion and often think back to The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian where Trumpkin says, “You get treated like a dumb animal long enough, that’s what you become.”  I don’t want my children to ever feel as though they have a reputation, especially a negative one, they have to uphold.
The next day, after having a little time to cool down, I called Ms. Jane.  I apologized for not being my normal friendly self, but was also quick to point out that I felt completely justified in my frustration, I didn’t agree with the decision, and was disappointed in the way everything was handled.  At this point, Ms. Jane started to cry and said that they’ve had to dismiss children before, but this was the first time they’d dismissed a child who wasn’t mean-spirited.  She said that Jake is funny, energetic, silly-hearted, and doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.   BUT, she continued, he talks a lot, often provokes, and is always at the center of attention.  My response?  Silence.  There’s not a word of this that I can argue.
I discussed this conversation with my mom who reminded me that I’ll look back on this and laugh someday.  While Jules is often right, I have to say that on this issue, she was dead wrong.  If I wait until he’s older to laugh about his mistakes, I’ll miss out on the opportunity to appreciate the “now.”  Childhood is so precious, so fleeting, I never want to miss out on breathing in and retaining as much of my boys’ childhoods as I can, for as long as I can.  That is why I’m going to do my best to laugh about this and other adventures NOW.
And, quite frankly, I’m laughing now because I’m not worried about the kid (again, definitely frustrated and he has lost a ton of privileges and spent an excessive amount of time alone in his room this week).  However, as a former troublemaker, I have a strong understanding of the often-squandered potential that is buried inside a less-than-perfect child.
Here’s what I know:  a child who is an “instigator” can become a leader, a motivator.  The “class clown” becomes the friend who can make you laugh when all you want to do is cry.  The kid who is always at the “center of attention” develops poise and confidence and isn’t afraid or ashamed of who he is.  The “chatter-box” somehow always knows the right thing to say.  The “wild child” with too much energy learns to channel that vigor into something he is passionate about.  I look at all of the things that an outsider could frown upon and see how those imperfections are shaping my wonderful little boy into someone I know will someday become an amazing man.
Is Jake perfect?  No.  Do we have things to work on?  Of course and we certainly will.  But I refuse to lose sight of the fact that my little boy is going to be just fine, and even if he isn’t, I’m going to love that guy all the same.  His quirks, even the ones that drive me insane, are the things that make him who he is and I wouldn’t change him for the world.