My Little Victory Garden: Salsa Like Wine

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When Rejection Feels Like a Warm Blanket: How Pixar Let Me Down Oh-So Gently

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follow url I decided Katherine Sarafian was the bees knees after watching a film clip of how she guided the historical and topographical research for her Pixar project, “Brave.”

Buy Clonazepam Online Overnight “If anyone would understand my book, Georgie the Giant,” I thought, “it would be her.” Go big or go home, right?

go here So I reviewed the Pixar website prior to sending her my book. Warnings and kind messages about “not accepting unsolicited materials” were in several places. So I ignored them.

Instead, I did more research, then I wrote this letter:

0109_001By the way, on the other side of the letter, I simply wrote: “I do hope so. Sincerely, Kelly Roberts”

I then lovingly packaged up a copy of Georgie after writing a “fan-note” to Ms. Sarafian on the inside cover, slid my letter into the bundle and headed to the post office.

[Flash Forward Two Weeks] Continue reading When Rejection Feels Like a Warm Blanket: How Pixar Let Me Down Oh-So Gently

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My Kitchen Utensils Deserve a Service Award

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This past weekend I was preparing pan fried okra.  I gently lifted one of my range fed eggs from its nest in the carton. My left hand opened the refrigerator, grabbed the milk, and closed the door in one fluid sequence. My fingers slid over the smooth chrome edge as I choose the proper sized mixing bowl.  I instinctively pivoted and opened my kitchen utensil drawer and lowered my hand to grab my Kitchen Aid medium sized whisk.  The muscle memory in my hand was already preparing for the size of its handle and the weight distribution of its shape.

And then my brain jolted.  I stopped my “cooking dance” and pulled the drawer open further.  Where was my whisk?  I searched back, back, back…and…oh.  We had a potluck dinner at work and I had taken it with me to prep the Caprese salad dressing right before serving time.

Bummer.

I poked around in the drawer here and there, dissatisfied.  But then I spied my mother’s old spiral, or spring, whisk.  She had given it to Rylee, and it was back in my drawer now that Ry was living with us for a while.

My best guess was that my mother had received it as a wedding shower gift.  It had certainly been in the family for as long as I could remember.

“Okay,” I thought.  “I’ll give it a whirl.” And then I giggled because I had just made a pun.

About eight seconds later I was looking at a perfectly mixed egg and milk batter with beautiful, frothy bubbles floating on top.

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“Wow! So much for my whining,” I thought to myself.  “Good for you, old spiral whisk.  You’ve still got it in you.”

It’s possible that whisk is fifty years old.  How may meals has it served our family?  How many meals have we served because the whisk served its purpose for us?

I finished my okra, then respectfully washed the whisk and picked up a tea towel to finish the job.  Walking back to my utensil drawer, I decided that the whisk needed a more respectful place and so I rearranged just a bit before closing the drawer again.

Yeah, I’ll give a whirl again.  Very soon.

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Volunteers for Jesus

I re-read the writing prompt for today’s NaBloPoMo post: “Do you enjoy doing volunteer work? Is there anywhere you volunteer right now?”

My gut reactions to these questions were, “I’m not sure” and “Is there anywhere I https://oregonsurgicalwellness.com/lymphedema-prevention/ don’t volunteer right now?” When I’m stressed, I regress. I could tell by the instinctual rolling of my eyes and my gut reaction to these questions that it was 8:18 on Labor Day morning and I was already becoming stressed by innocent writing prompts.

Volunteerism was ingrained by every social element of my childhood. Volunteerism has been encouraged by the church to which I belong for the last thirty years. I have served on professional organization or non-profit boards for the past twelve years, and I was even elected the “Service Learning Faculty of the Year” at Oklahoma State University in 2009. The elements of my volunteerism have become so numerous that when I try to tease them apart with mental tweezers, it’s as if my volunteerism timeline jumps back together into one, sticky, hypermagnatized blob.

And that blob invades my life. And my husband’s life…and my children’s.

Mick mows the yard for neighbors and family when they’re on vacation. My children volunteered for clean-up work after the recent tornado hit Moore, Oklahoma. I continue to provide therapy to at least one client weekly at free or reduced costs, and have for the past ten years. I still volunteer to provide services to low-income or vulnerable population couples at marriage enrichment retreats. I still volunteer to play the piano in our church praise band when I’m able.

“Do you enjoy doing volunteer work?”

Yes. Usually. But the enjoyment generally comes after the work commences. I wrestle with my choices to be at a certain place of responsibility until the moment I begin the work. But then my mind quits struggling with the “whether or nots”, or that particular work-of-the-day and engages with the opportunity, the people, the hope that my efforts and the efforts of those around me make a difference.

“Is there anywhere you volunteer right now?”

Yes. There are places I volunteer right now. And there will always be places I volunteer until I die. And, that sentence I just wrote was not hyperbole, it’s really true.

How can I be so certain? I know this because my family has prepared me for volunteerism, and still does, since I was born and will until they die.

Case in point: Last week my husband was mowing my parents lawn because they are on an extended vacation. So, while he was working I went over to check on my grandmother who had evidently been cooking for a while. As I walked in the door I smelled fried okra, pork chops and gravy. I also spied tomatoes, fresh zuchinni bread, and tea.

“Wow,” I thought. “She’s 92 and she’s just whipped out a full dinner in not a whole lot of time. Cripes!” Continue reading Volunteers for Jesus

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Serving is Not My Love Language

“Five more minutes, everyone.  Will that be good enough to wrap up your work?”

General agreement murmured across the classroom by way of a visual cue from approximately twenty percent of my graduate students. Looking up from their group work, they made eye contact with me and affirmatively nodded.

I had been asked by a friend to teach “Family and Developmental Theories” because at the last minute the instructor had to resign.  And when she asked, it was the last-last minute.  Four days before the class began I was running from building to building across campus: checking out room keys from security, filling out a stack of paper for human resources, and furiously absorbing the previous instructor’s syllabus because there was no time to build my own.

So there we were, two weeks into the class and the stranger’s syllabus had scheduled a “Movie Night” wherein my students were to take all their previous knowledge and analyze the movie we watched in class…

All their previous knowledge?  Wait, what?  For some students this was their first graduate course.  Others had graduated in business or other bachelor’s degree areas having nothing to do with the social sciences.  Their brows were furrowed and they were searching through the introductory section of Chapter 1 trying to take any concept they had absorbed and apply it to an interaction they’d just witnessed.

When the final call came, chairs turned toward the class, the group re-settled, and a quiet came over the class.  Once again, I assured them that ‘I understood if they had no previous family or developmental theory education, and that we would take this slowly.’

“So, who would like to go first?”

After three or four seconds passed, an older student in the front of the class raised her hand, “I guess we will…”

“Great,” I replied.  “What would you like to share?”

“Well, we didn’t know any theory, but all four of our group members have learned about Gary Chapman’s Love Languages, so we analyzed the following scenes using them.  First, we noticed that the mother must have ‘Acts of Service’ as her primary Love Language based upon the scene where she was fixing the dishwasher, refereeing the children, talking with her husband on the phone, and cooking dinner…”

The group identified each of the main characters, hypothesized which of the Love Languages might be their primary focus, and backed it up with the “why” analysis that graduate lecturer’s love.

Love…did I just write that?  Yes, I did.  I LOVE that the students were trying to stretch their scholarly wings by spending time in thought as well as time in discussion with our class. Why?  Because Gifts of TIME is my love language…not Acts of Service.

All six groups presented in six different ways, but they all performed higher than the bar their facial expressions had set prior to the assignment time. Continue reading Serving is Not My Love Language

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