Bees in My Bonnet

It's a buzz phrase these days: Intentional .  It sounds so...purposeful, determined, self-directed, controlled. Sounds almost too good to be true. Let me just put this out there.  I am intentional about a very few things in my life. And the rest, well, I like to leave the door wide open for the spontaneous.  Don't get me wrong - this can be problematic too.  Because I want to allow room for people who come along who weren't on my to-do list (if I really had one, which I don't usually). I'd like to be intentional about so much, but I just don't seem to have that gift .  I do think it must be a gift.  It is a gift given to the driven, type A - and well, I'm just a type B, or C or maybe a Q or X or Z.  Haven't figured that out yet, and being a non-type A, I may just never get around to typing myself into a category.  Which is really okay, because who has time to stare inward - navel-gazing, I call it - ad nauseum figuring out where I really ...

So I have this big thing against complaining.  I feel justified in my anti-complaining stance - after all, God isn't fond of it either, and since we are to imitate Him, well, you draw your own conclusion! The thing that gets me about complaining is that at the heart of it it smacks of discontent and ingratitude.  I know a few particular people who have a big thing against ingratitude, and if you know any, you will know how easy it is to raise their ire.  Just don't thank them.  Enough.  Or sincerely enough.  Or at all.  Or act entitled.  The offense this causes is my reaction to complaining.  My children know it.  My husband knows it.  Complaining is simply off limits in my house. In fact, it is so off limits, that I even react when it is subtle.  Or not so subtle since you'd have to be a genius to slip complaining by me in any form and have it go unnoticed.  I may be kind and ignore it.  Or I may just call you o...