Favorite Sayings

I recently joined a group, and was asked about my favorite quote. I’m surprised they let me in. I don’t know where these quotes came from originally, but I love them anyway.

- The people you love are gone too soon; the less important ones never go away.

- I can’t make you love me, but I can stalk you until you panic and give  in.

- Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.

- Ex’s are like fungus; they keep coming back.

- I don’t suffer from insanity; I enjoy it.

On a different note, I promise to update my other pages soon, especially Reel Talk and Cleveland Eating. I have been to so many movies lately, and seen a bunch on DVD. I’ve also been to a bunch of restaurants. My goal is to add something to the pages at least once a day. You and the rest of the world should know exactly how I’m feeling, all the time. Au Revoir.

6 June 08 @1239

In defense of free lemonade

During an attack of insomnia, I trolled some bloggers and ended up reading a one-year-old blog that my BFF since first grade had written. I laughed until my side hurt as she described dinner faux pas’ like not tipping properly. It was funny until she talked about people who asked the waitress for water with lemon, and then proceeded to add sugar from the table to it to make lemonade. I summoned up a conversation she and I’d had before, when she was horrified that a couple she’d gone out with both made their own lemonade at Chi Chi’s restaurant. I didn’t admit it then, but as a member of the free lemonade club, I asked Hubby if he knew this was improper. He said yes, and that he died a little every time I did it in a restaurant. I asked him why he never told me, and he said he figured I wouldn’t stop doing it so he didn’t bother. I proceeded to call BFF since eighth grade to ask her if she knew that making my own lemonade was in poor taste. She said that she did know, and that on our trip to New York a few months prior, she had told me on more that one occasion that she was embarrassed to be seen with me making lemonade at the table. I guess Hubby was right. I don’t listen. In defense of my free lemonade, though, I have to say that it never occurred to me that it was wrong or embarrassing. I have always ordered water with lemon at meals because although I am not generally thought to be a cheap person, buying soft drinks in a restaurant is a racquet. I hate to pay $2+ for a glass of something that I can find on sale for $ .99 (and a 2 liter at that). I recognize that refills are usually free, but I don’t drink more than a glass, so that is no consolation. Since water with lemon is proper, I did not know that a few sugar packets could make or break the day. Apparently, the sugar matters. Since knowing that I have shamed the names of some very good people, I have never made my own lemonade again. I still don’t purchase nonalcoholic beverages with my meals, but I stick to water with lemon. To my BFsF and Hubby I say this: It could be worse! BFF since first grade knows a couple who steals restaurant plates with interesting patterns until they have a collection of four or six. I know a lady who asks for (free) hot water, then uses sugar from the table and a tea bag from her purse to make hot tea. I also know a different lady who never tips more than $2, even if her bill is $70. I know yet another lady who orders each item, asks the wait staff for a price even though it’s on the menu, and then exclaims each time, “Ooh, that’s too high,” then repeats this several times before making a selection for $8.99. All things considered, I think my free lemonade wasn’t so bad. Nonetheless, I pride myself on good manners. Like another blogger I came across, I, too, am considered a black snob. The name used to offend. Now I wear it proudly. In order to keep my nose above the rest, I gave up free lemonade, albeit unwillingly. My advice to you folks who know members of the free lemonade club, is that you tell them in plain English and make them look you in the eye and respond. They might not stop, but you will have done your civic duty. Stopping a dinner injustice anywhere, is a step in the right direction everywhere. Did Martin Luther King Jr. say that? Maybe not, but I believe he would agree. 

31 May 2008 @1535

Join a bookclub

I have an eternal, burning desire to read anything, except most science fiction. I was interested in joining a bookclub, but you’d think Cleveland was Compton - people on the East side hate to travel west, and vice versa. Since there wasn’t an appealling book club on the West side, I started my own. That’s my way. If I can’t find what I want, I create it. The goal of the book club is that every participant gets a chance to choose a book, no matter the genre, of his or her liking. In turn, we each read the monthly selections even if we don’t love the book, author, genre, etc. Most of the time, we find that we are pleasantly surprised by the wonder of a novel that we wouldn’t have dared choose on our own. Book readers, to me, have four classifications. First, there is the necessity reader. Necessity readers don’t read anything not given as an assignment. Sure, they do their homework (and maybe their kids homework), but it wouldn’t occur to them to enter a bookstore or library just to browse because they won’t read anything they find anyway. Second, there is the light reader. Light readers feel obligated to keep up with current events, so they may read local newspapers. Light readers may also read the articles in entertainment or fashion magazines. beyond this. The light reader will profess a love of reading, but will not ever be seen reading a novel for the sheer enjoyment of it. He or she might buy Oprah’s cookbook, or browse a book with Donald Trump on the cover, though. Third, there is the avid reader. Avid readers usually like several kinds of novels, are usually book club members, and often recommend and borrow texts from other readers. Avid readers take their latest paperback finds everywhere. They can be seen reading poolside, at a doctor’s appoint, or in a bathroom stall at work if the book is good enough. Finally, there is me - the hard core reader. I will read anything. Anytime. Anywhere. I also possess the qualifications of the avid reader, but an avid reader might put down a book he or she finds dull or offensive. Hard core readers finish what they start. Always. Sometimes we get angry, sad, or underwhelmed so we take a hiatus for one or two days, but we come back. We think we’re going to miss something that would’ve ultimately changed our minds. I don’t prefer sci-fi but I will read it upon recommendation, and no matter how incredulous and outlandish the tales, I can’t turn my back on a text once I’ve read page one. I might remind you that my undergraduate and graduate degrees are in English and communications, so I’m sure that helps. or maybe I chose those majors because I’m a hard core reader. Who knows? Who cares? What I do know is that if you enjoy reading at all, join a book club. Since the inception of my book club 18 months ago, I have read such a diverse collection of books. I can’t tell you how satisfying it is. To be honest, my nose is usually a little turned up when people give a brief synopsis of their choice. I finish everything I start, though, and 90 percent of the time it is worth it. I started the club with an open mind, and I invited others who I believed could do the same. There are other kinds of book clubs out there, though. Some clubs only read fiction by African American authors, or biographies (snooze), or romance (yuck), or mysteries (I’m a fan). Find something you love, then join it and read. My preference is classic literature like Beowulf, Jane Eyre, or Shakespeare (big surprise, no one in my group ever chooses those). I read books written in 2007 for them, they read books first published in the 1800s for me. We all win. Sort of. Seriously. Join a book club. Today.

29 May 2008 @2138  

Make new friends, Keep the old

When I got married eight years ago, I made the permanent 90-minute move from Youngstown to Cleveland. Boy, just about everyone I knew acted like I was moving to Tokyo. Before the beauty of free long distance calling, my phone bills were outrageous because I spoke to my two best friends almost every day, to my mother every day, and to my sister and other relatives very frequently. Although I traveled to Youngstown a lot, almost no one returned the favor. After all, I was the one who moved all the way to Cleveland. Now, gas prices or cars in disrepair are usually the reasons/excuses I don’t get many visits. I try not to be “bitter” about adults with so much financial distress. Personally, I couldn’t live having to count my pennies that way, but I am blessed with financial security. The good news is that I don’t rush home every time someone asks me. I used to feel obligated. Now, I feel like I should go when I want, and I don’t ever feel guilty about refusing. I still have very close ties to my family and friends in Y-Town. In fact, almost every Clevelander has heard me say that I only have two friends. I met one when I was skipped a grade and put into her first grade classroom. The other was an eighth-grader who began coming to my high schol when I was in ninth grade, for majorette tryouts. You don’t even want to know the dirt I’ve done with those two. Actually, you do want to know, but I don’t know the statute of limitations on everything, so my lips are sealed. Despite my proclamation that I’ve only ever had two friends, however, I realized this past weekend that some of these gosh-darned Clevelanders have snuck onto my friends list. No, we don’t have the history that I have with my original best friends, but that will come if I quit resisting. The truth is, I am having fun. I’ve made friends with a young, Mexican woman who will country line dance with me whenever I want. I’ve made friends with a mom who randomly drives my son to school and baseball games, just because she’s a homemaker and doesn’t see a reason not to. I’ve made friends with women in a book club who I’ve seen once a month for the past 18 months. Some of those same book club friends are also in my dance group, wine tasting group, and couples group, so I actually see them several times a month. Like it or not, I have friends. I actually think, unbeknownst to myself, I have (somewhat) gotten over my antisocial behaviors and allowed some people in. It’s not painful. It’s been fun. I will always have the friends that I grew up with. My family isn’t going anywhere, either. I have made room in my life for other people who are also worthy of my time and, man, I am having a blast.   

 20 May 2008 @1301

Sorry, Size MATTERS

I have no problem admitting that I am a fan of the gigantic. I have a beautiful 62″ TV. I traded my old Cavalier in for a new Saturn Vue. Next year, I plan to trade my Vue in for a Hummer, a Suburban, or - dare I wish it - a Denali. I carry large designer bags, only a queen-size bed would fit up the staircase in my condo, but I don’t rent hotel rooms that don’t have suites with a king-sized bed. I gave birth to a 12 1/2 pound baby, which should come as no shock since I’m a big girl, with an even bigger husband. It is my wish for you, Dear Reader, that you should someday know the joy of a man who is 6′4″ and 310 pounds. What would I do without those size 14 feet, size 13 ring fingers, and the huge …? Okay, I stopped myself, that thought was just vulgar. You get it, right? I love it large. That is why I am so confused when others claim they don’t. You, personally, might not care for bags. You might not have room in your home, or the inclination to spend 3 grand, to buy a large TV. The 70″ was way out of my budget, but if I could’ve afforded it, I would have purchased it instead. That’s me. You can’t, however, really believe that a 5 1/2″ penis is going to do much for the average person. Call me a wanton, ex-slut if you want, but Ms. Pretty would crack up laughing at something that little. I was embarrassed, but once she shouted, “Where’s the beef?” It wasn’t PC, but it came out before I could stop her. I recently heard a conversation in which two women were claiming that size didn’t matter. Translation: Our men have little d!(&$. Poor girls. To be all-honest, I once met 13″. Ms. Pretty hated him. She said he was a battering-ram. He hurt her. So 13″ might be unneccessary, but a good 9″-10″ is ideal. The 9″-10″ inches says, “I won’t remove your entire uterus when I withdraw, but you’ll definitely know I was there, Baby.” Since I’m queen-sized, and the Queen of Size, please follow my advice below. You have to know what you should do with what you have.

12″ or above - it doesn’t matter what you do, soon you’ll hemorrhage to death

9″ to 11″ - if he’s got a job that pays even one cent better than minimum wage, and he doesn’t hit you, keep him

8″ - if he makes more than $65,000 and has good technique, he stays, too

7″ - he needs to earn at least a 6-figure salary, have good technique, be willing to suck the toes AND toss the salad, treat you like you are royalty, and buy the best jewelry he can find, in order to stay around 

6″ or less - kill yourself, no - it’s not your fault - kill him and his parents, then find someone who fits the 7″ to 11″ criteria

Over 24-years-old and Purposely Abstaining? - okay, you’re just stupid and you should kill yourself; it was nice not knowing you

Don’t like my advice? Go to hell. Someday I’ll see you there.

Legally High

I was introduced to blogging by a friend I call Green (long story). Green’s love of blogging got me interested in writing my own blog on a more regular basis. Thanks to this blog, however, I am never going to be able to run for political office. I share way too much in these web logs, and today’s post is no different. You know, when I was dating, I’d go out with anybody once. It didn’t matter what race or religion he was. As long as he was, in fact, a he, I’d let anybody buy me dinner. The exception was drug dealers. I had no desire to be rolled up on during my calamari and blasted to smithereens by other drug dealers. I wasn’t about to do the Baby’s Mama Drama that usually comes with dating street pharmacists, and I am way too pretty to go to prison for merely riding in a vehicle that contained drugs having nothing to do with me. I successfully managed to avoid the drug scene - until now. I had a baby in November by C-Section (I’m also too pretty to be contorting my face through the process of pushing a human being out of my loins), I had an emergency appendectomy in December, then I had surgery again 13 days ago. Basically, this means that for the last four months I’ve been high as a kite. Then it occurred to me that I’ve actually had 10 surgeries in the last nine years. Good Lord, I’ve really been high for a decade. My body laughs at OTC drugs like Tylenol and Ibuprofen, so the pain of cramps or the flu usually isn’t helped with anything less than Vicodin. Vicodin doesn’t dull my pain, but it relaxes me enough that I can fall asleep and snooze through some of it. For my life outside of the hospital, after foot surgery, wrist surgery, GYN surgery and the like, I get my beloved Percocet. Taking 2 Percocet is like drinking a few glasses of wine, and settling into a hot tub with a good book. For about 90 minutes, nothing matters but those moments. My pain isn’t gone, but I simply could care less about it. I find myself smiling for no good reason. I answer yes to anything the hubby and kids ask. And I literally drift off to sleep drooling, and dreaming of shoe shopping sprees and chocolate fudge cake. I have developed a post-surgical tolerance to morphine (meaning it doesn’t work), but some wonderful, awful, person invented Dilaudid. I have honestly never tried street drugs, but the feeling you get from Dilaudid is why I assume people get hooked on crack or heroine. Literally, you could care less about everything in the world. It is the one drug that actually erases my pain, but it erases EVERYTHING ELSE  as well. I am willing to bet that on Dilaudid, I can’t spell my own name, or recite my children’s birthdays. Some doctors actually write prescriptions for the home use of Dilaudid. Thank heavens, none of my docs are that irresponsible. Growing up in the inner city, you see a lot of people addicted to a lot of things. They usually do a lot of awful things to get the drugs of their choice. Those things are usually illegal, so they are in and out of jail due to addiction. Here in the suburbs, people also get addicted to a lot of things. Some of those things just happen to be legal, and all we have to do for it is whine to a doctor. While I make light of my prescriptions, I have a health care team that communicates with each other. I happen to have enough common sense (and too many kids that need me to care for them) to ask for narcotics when I don’t need them.  But some people don’t have my common sense. And some doctors don’t care. If you know or suspect someone you love of being addicted to painkillers, talk to them. Try everything you can to get them to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. They’ll need your support. As for me, I think I feel a back spasm or a shoulder ache coming on. Excuse me while I go take a Percocet and a Vicodin. I have to cover all my bases.

Grrr, huh?

Marriage is hard work. It doesn’t help that I was born into a long line of d0-it-yourself single mothers who didn’t take crap - or direction - from anyone. The message was: if the man doesn’t turn out to be what you wanted, dump his ass and move on. Until meeting my husband nine years ago, that was exactly the attitude I had. After having my first son, and leaving his father in the dust, I realized that there was nothing glamorous about single parenthood. I vowed that I would never do it again. I wanted to show my son a more picturesque idea of family, and, selfishly, motherhood has too many facets for me to be interested in doing most of those chores alone. For those reasons, I didn’t have more children until my son was 10, I was married, and had a bachelor’s degree. But, as I’ve said, marriage is hard. My husband is a wonderfully hard-working man who has provided for every single need I’ve had, and the vast majority of my wants. Still, there is a lot of compromise that has gone into our marriage. I’m a city girl. We live in the suburbs. I’m a spendthrift. He insists we maintain a savings account. I prefer to vacation four times a year. We take one long vacation alone, and one short one with the children. I like spontaneity. You could set your watch by my husband. After all I’ve given up, I sometimes ask myself why I stay. The honest answer is in a scene in Waiting to Exhale. You know the one where Lionel spends about 10 minutes grooming himself in the mirror, then climbs on top of Savannah without so much as a flicker of her nipple and begins his one-minute sex act during which time he has the nerve to growl with ecstacy. Lionel: Grrr…; Savannah: Grrr?; Lionel: Grrr…; Savannah: Grrr, huh? After Lionel quickly climaxes Savannah thinks: So now I’m a keeper at the damn zoo. Savannah got a big fat zero from that sexual encounter. More often than not I hear women complaining about all sorts of ills happening in their love lives. Men who don’t engage in foreplay. Men who are done too quickly. Men who are decent in bed, but bad everywhere else. Old man sex. The list goes on. And while I am aware that sex is not everything in a relationship, it is a very important part of it. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that my favorite part of being married is the on demand sex tailored to fit my needs. If I had to start dating and having sex again, who knows how long it would be, or how many partners I’d have to go through, to get the sex I’m already getting now. I am truly grateful to be done with the guys who want you to give their strange penises a blow job. And what about the ones always begging you to let them put their strange penises into your virgin backside? Worse are the ones who act like their penises slipped close by your butt on accident, bringing the sex to a screeching halt. There are the ones who have finished sex in five minutes flat then refuse to consider Viagra because they claim it’s all your fault they came too quickly. While I do like a few surprises, bad sex is one I can definitely live without. There are no more Lionel’s for me. From now on, when I want to pack my bags and run for the hills because my husband says, “No more Blahnik’s,” or forgets to take out the trash, or uses one of my spices and then doesn’t file it back alphabetically, I’m going to remember what I do have. I’ll thank goodness for a man who loves me, pays the bills on time, and doesn’t growl 30 seconds into bad sex. It might not be much, but it’s what I’ve got. Grrreat, huh?

An Unlikely Pair

Watching America’s Next Top Model is one of my many guilty pleasures. I do not, however, watch the Tyra Banks talk show. To my surprise, though, I fell asleep on the couch the other night and woke up to Tyra interviewing Hillary Clinton. I’ve heard about Tyra stripping down to her underwear on her show to prove that tabloids are wrong about her being fat. I’ve heard that she’s done this more than once. I figured it was a ploy for ratings. Imagine my surprise to find the shameless model face-to-face with one of my heroes. Hillary, to me, is a hero. This posting is not about my respect for Mrs. Clinton (I’ll write that one later). It is, however, about my respect for Tyra, and the producers of her show. I have to say that Tyra handled the interview extremely well. Because of her own celebrity, it didn’t occur to me that she would be daunted by Hillary. I just wouldn’t have thought she’s be quite so up for the challenge. From time to time I am wrong (shh - don’t tell anyone). Tyra’s interview was a perfect combination of serious politics and humor. Hilary’s answers were the perfect package of lightheartedness and decorum. Especially, I liked their conversation on how a black woman, like myself, should choose between her race and her gender in the upcoming election. Hillary’s response was to suggest that black women don’t use either attribute to choose. Instead, she opined that we simply listen to all the facts and decide who we think will be the best new president. For my money, I think Clinton and Obama should have run on the same ticket. Again, that’s a different subject for a different day. Tyra mentioned that in her world travels, she is often reminded of how Americans are hated by many nations. Hillary admitted knowing that this is true, and insisted that she has a plan to show other countries the best of America - dispelling the myths that we are selfish warmongers. Hillary also spoke candidly about how she (like many politicians) are often misunderstood. In a vulnerable moment, she spoke of the damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don’t phenomenon when making public statements of any kind. As a reporter, I know that position all too well. I’d only seen Tyra’s talk show once prior to the Hillary episode. I wasn’t impressed. Tyra spent most of the show over-talking her guest, as if what she had to say wasn’t important. Hopefully, that’s not her usual style, but it certainly turned me off. After interviewing Hillary Clinton, I was impressed with Tyra. I was impressed with them both. What an unlikely pair to bring out such good qualities in one another.

Undignified - Dogs and Babies

The general public might be a little pissed at me for comparing infants to canines, but, hell, what can anyone do to me? I want to tell you that I consider myself a dignified person, especially in public. I cross my legs at the ankle, I never leave the house in pajamas, and I comb my hair and brush my teeth to walk out of the house, even if I’m certain no one will see me. Recently, I was having right-sided abdominal pain that I was sure was appendicitis. I knew I had to get to the ER, but not before I showered, brushed my teeth, and put on clean clothes. That was 2 AM and by 4 AM I was being wheeled into an emergency appendectomy. Wasn’t I glad I was wearing clean panties? With all of my “dignity rituals,” which are far too many to be named here, I can’t imagine how I became the mother of three when having babies is a completely undignified experience. To start, being pregnant is disgusting. For most women it entails huge weight gains, swollen ankles, and uncontrollable flatulence (you know, farting). Labor consists of water breaking, which is a lot like the most massive pee you’ll ever dump all over yourself, and/or contractions - cramps so severe you’ll call your partner names that his parents will never forgive you for. Vaginal birth consists of strange doctors and nurses shoving theirs hands up your “pretty” at regular intervals to see if you are ready to push. Pushing is the time when you poop yourself as blood and a baby come out of the vagina - a muscle that is forever damaged after all that. The C-Section isn’t so bad, until afterward when your partner may be required to wipe your butt because your middle is stapled together like a stack of papers, and you just can’t reach it. Fast forward to bringing home your supposed bundle of joy. OOOH, they are so cute to look at while sleeping, but, alas, they do wake up. When they do, they will pee on you (a baby boy might get you right in the face), they will poop on you, and perhaps giggle while they do it, and they will, inevitably, vomit on you - and you’ll go to work at least once with throw up on your shirt or in your hair. The funny thing is, you’ll suffer through it all with the hope that they’ll grow up, graduate college, become rich, and thank you on national TV. If it works out that way for you, great. Everyone has to have a dream. More undignified than babies, though, are dogs. Will they ever say thanks? How desperate for affection and attention do you have to be to allow something hairier than a husband lick you in the face? Have you nothing better to do than trot after a four legged mongrel and stop when it wants to so you can pick up its poop. Are you kidding me? You aren’t its master, it is yours! My mother was recently visiting a friend of mine. This friend has only one teenaged daughter, yet my friend had been to the store to purchase a bag of diapers because one of the two dogs was in heat and on her “period.” Shortly thereafter,  this friend yelled at the two dogs for “humping on her.” She told them they could hump anywhere in the house, just not, literally, on her. OK. One can’t have an ounce of dignity when choosing to clean up pet period. And the day I pick up pet poop, clean up pet period, or sleep with an animal that is so incapable of respect that it would have sex on top of me (gosh, I wonder if she’s ever been violated in her sleep), is the day I promise to slit my wrists. Then I don’t have to worry about my dignity rituals, because I’ll be dead (and probably asking God why sweet death didn’t come before the pet-scapades).

What I’ve Learned

I’ve been reflecting. Yes, I know that is scary, nonetheless I have been thinking a lot about where my life has been and, more importantly, where my life is going. In May, when I was finishing the campus requirements for my MA degree, I was so sure I would wake up any day and know exactly what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. It still hasn’t happened. In fact, I seem to have backslid. I only have one thing left to do to have my degree in hand, but I haven’t put forth any effort in doing it. Why? It recently came to me that I had to sit down and be honest with myself about all my life’s choices, not just the career related ones. I’m glad I followed my instincts and completed this self imposed exercise. It’s awesome, try it. See if you’ve grown into the person you wanted to be. As for me, I was happy to discover what I’ve learned: As a Christian, I’ve learned not to be a hypocrite. Why go to church, of all places, and sit around passing judgment on people? Aren’t most of us in service to become better soldiers for God? For the few who have an alternate, less well-meaning agenda, I have to trust that the Lord will work it out. As a mother, I’ve learned to strive for that extra modicum of patience. I wasn’t a perfect child, and I am not a perfect adult; therefore, how can I expect my children to always get it right? As a wife, I’ve learned to let another person share my burdens. I don’t have to do everything my way, or by myself. This was probably the hardest lesson of all. As a sister, I’ve learned to listen. Usually, my siblings and I couldn’t be more different. Still there are times when they need a shoulder that doesn’t come with criticism. As a sister-in-law, I’ve learned that you can speak your mind without being rude. But I also learned that in some cases, nothing short of clipped candor will get your point across. As a daughter-in-law, I’ve learned tolerance. So what if it’s not exactly the way mom would do it.  Change is part of the American spirit. As a friend, I’ve learned that you can, and should, love your cronies even when they make decisions contrary to the ones you would’ve made. Everyone deserves to be supported by the people who claim to really love them. Everyone needs to know that if they fall down, their true friends will be there to pick them back up no matter what. As a teacher, I learned to live by the old cliche, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I’ve met students who, on day one, seem to spell trouble, and I’ve met students who, on day one, convinced me it would be a joy. I learned that my job was not to care about day one, but, instead, help each student to realize his or her potential. I get the greatest pleasure in seeing a student who initially struggled, make it to the end successfully. As a writer, I learned that nothing is worth sacrificing your reputation. Sometimes you get only one shot. Thank God, this isn’t a lesson I had to learn the hard way. As an employee, I learned that you don’t always have to agree with the boss, but you should try to respect the fact that he or she is your boss, and probably for a good reason. As an employer, I learned that while I prefer to be feared than liked, the only ways to ensure that people are going to give you 100% is for you to show that you are willing to work just as hard as they do, and to make them feel valued. As a neighbor, I’ve learned to smile and wave. I don’t have to like or be friends with someone to be cordial. All of my self-reflection has helped. I know who I am, and I know what I want to be. I want to be a writer. I want to be a blogger, I want to be a reporter, and, one day, I want to be a novelist. I pray every day that I reach my goals. No matter where I land, however, I am, at the very least, a good person. I am also going to be a great new employee - considering what I’ve learned.