Organizing the Next Chapter

Posted on October 30, 2016 by KatieComeBack

After my dad’s funeral, I spent a few days at my mom’s house. (Mom’s house. Not “my folks’ house” anymore. Sigh.) Dad had been sick for a long time – nineteen months – and Mom had provided the bulk of his care throughout his illness. So once the funeral was over, she seemed to be adjusting remarkably well – and was really, really ready to begin the work of downsizing.

Mom wasn’t necessarily looking to MOVE right away. It’s just that Dad had a lot of…stuff. He and Mom ran their own business for over fifty years, selling and repairing lawn mowers and weed whackers. Many years, it was more like what the IRS might define as a “hobby” (read: we were kinda broke.)

Add to this that Dad’s parents were in their prime during the Great Depression, and you have a formula that generates Mass Hoarders of All Potentially Useful Items. And by “Potentially Useful,” I mean “pretty much anything that can’t run away from you.” I’ve mentioned my grandmother before – she was the one who had an entire bedroom of her house filled with three things: empty boxes, plastic bags, and clothespins. My dad was her only surviving heir, so all of that went to him when she passed – her house AND the barn filled with old farm equipment, big field tractors, and, oddly, more cardboard boxes. (Hmm. The hubs is ALSO a collector of cardboard. They say you look for a spouse that resembles your parents….)

Additionally, Dad had a “shop” where he ran the business, plus a ginormous metal shed out back, which held a lifetime of pieces and parts of engines, tractors, mowers, and some random other mechanical whatzits that he’d saved from the dumpster at work to repair later, or just to HAVE, in case, you know, one had a doohickey thingamabob that might be useful on another mystery object.

So, to summarize – by the time Dad passed, he had filled three very large buildings with sundry metal objects. It was our personal tractor graveyard – three mausoleums, each filled to the brim, complete with wildflowers (okay, weeds) growing up around the rusty metal skeletons that spilled out into yard and the driveway.

And we can’t forget that Mom and Dad also had a four-bedroom house where every closet and basement corner was a veritable time capsule, filled and sealed off to the human eye once no additional objects could be crammed inside.

After over fifty years of this, Mom was ready to rumble.

We had started some of the excavating while Dad was still alive. But we had to be sneaky about it, moving items out of the house while Dad was asleep, and only the stuff he couldn’t see was missing if he’d had a good day and chanced to look out the window. (Because Mom didn’t want to upset him, ya know. A few weeks earlier, the priest had come by to visit, and, noticing the reduced clutter, said to my mom, “It’s looking really good out there!” The Look of Death that Dad shot to both of them permanently seared their souls. The priest was still rattled about that at Dad’s funeral – enough so that he apologized to my mother more than once for the egregious security breech.)

But Dad had been largely bedridden towards the end, so we managed to have one solid work day a couple of months ago. After hauling away three pickup-truckloads full of scrap metal, and leaving a couple large “free at the curb” piles for drive-by pickers, my siblings and I managed to clear out roughly half of the basement. Half. Almost.

Now that Dad was gone, it was time to start the heavier-duty purging. So Mom and I dug in. I had a few days off from work, so I wanted to plow through as much as I could before I had to return. And we were extremely productive: In two days’ time, we’d managed to clean out nearly every closet in the house. We took an entire car full of cans and bottles to the recycling center, and my “intermediate” rental was stuffed full (front seat, back seat, and trunk) of clothes to donate.

Look, here’s me dropping off the load. Check out my mad parking skillz:

Can’t say I parked too far from the curb…

…or too close to the car behind me.

We might have gotten more done, but Mom has these grand plans to have a huge freaking yard sale one of these days. So a lot of what didn’t get donated or trashed is now neatly organized in boxes that say “Yard Sale.” (Hey. It’s still a start.)

Going through parts of the house that hadn’t been disturbed in over thirty years yielded some interesting finds….

* My brother’s model car collection:

I can still smell the glue….

* My dad’s hunting outfit – and his hunting license. From 1968. Which was probably the first, last, and only time he hunted.

* Four bottles of liquor that were actually old enough to have gone bad. (Yeah, that’s actually a thing. Not that I’m a champagne expert, but I don’t think there are supposed to be flakes of what appears to be fish food in the bottle…which we THOUGHT was brown, but after dumping out the booze, was found to be, in fact, clear. EEEEWWWW.)

* VHS tapes. NINETY-FOUR OF THEM. #useless

* Six of those huge, Victorian-looking flocked photo albums, along with several boxes full of old pictures. None of which, unfortunately, were labeled, so we have absolutely zero idea who these people might be. History, lost. Document, people!

* Roughly four dozen carousels for slides. Remember slides? If not, we can send you some, because there’s probably eleventy billion boxes around here yet.

Source: Video2DigitalTransfer

* My mom’s childhood doll. Her name is Ann. Isn’t she adorable?

Even more disturbing: her arm is stuck that way.

My daughter was horrified that Ann was meant to be a child’s plaything. When she unearthed it, she came out of the attic, eyes wide: “Mom. That doll is freaking TERRIFYING.” Because I possess superior parenting skills, I decided to embark on a desensitization experiment with her, placing it next to her while she slept:

The next morning, after she awoke, she quietly and calmly approached me. In a very even, controlled tone, she said: “I know where you sleep, too…” and walked away.

And then texted me this picture done on the Face Swap app:

<shudder>

Anyway. Ann belongs to Mom, so she got to stay.

In addition to getting crap out of the house, we also tried to tackle other annoying projects that needed doing. The hubs has been really good about exercising his handyman skills when we’re visiting, and heartily tackles projects like replacing faucets, installing a wireless router, and fixing toilets while we’re there. (Admittedly, that’s probably way more interesting than sorting the aforementioned eighteen bazillion carousels of your wife’s dead grandmother’s vacation slides, right?)

I know how much Mom appreciated this. I wanted to help, too, but I don’t really have mechanical skills. However, I am pretty good at sorting and organizing, which is actually kind of ironic, because when I was a kid, I had The Messiest Room Ever. (You thought YOU did? Nope, sorry, that award’s been spoken for. It was so bad, my father actually agreed to quit smoking if I’d only clean my room. Now, Dad didn’t smoke a lot. (Thankfully.) He only puffed on the occasional cigar outside while he was repairing tractors – he claimed it “kept the bugs away.” Not loving the smell, I retorted that it kept the whole FAMILY away, and eagerly jumped on the deal. We shook on it, and while Dad kept his word and never bought another cigar…I never actually did clean my room. Well, not until now. (Apparently, I didn’t hold the title for Daughter of the Year. Meh. Can’t win ’em all.)

One of the things that was bugging Mom was her broken apple-shaped soap dispenser. Mom’s kitchen has an apple theme; she has an apple cookie jar, apple wallpaper, an apple clock…. The soap dispenser wasn’t expensive, but a quick Google search came up largely empty – most of what was online was definitively not cheap, and the apple shapes and colors available just weren’t quite right. But the pump on hers had crumbled with age; while you could sort of get soap out of it if you held the spout just right, the top kept tumbling off into the sink, diving precariously towards the drain.

I decided to head over to the local K-Mart (which the hubs calls K-MaPart, making me giggle every single time) to see if they sold soap dispenser pump thingies. The trip did not start out too promising:

Random, but creepy. Candy? No thank you.

After wandering about Housewares for awhile, and having no luck finding replacement apple soap pumps (go figure!) I ventured into cleaning supplies, where it occurred to me (duh) that I could probably just buy a new bottle of liquid soap and screw the new lid onto the apple dispenser. 99 cents and a slight trim to the straw part, and VOILA! We be fixed.

And the day before I left, Mom’s internet up and died. All the spouses, who fluently speak computer, had left a few days ago. Of course. But, since I wanted to help, I thought back to the many IT help tickets I’d filed in my lifetime, and all the frantic calls I’d made to Technical Services, and remembered the First Rule of IT Repair: try turning it off and back on again.

Hmm. Can’t hurt, right?

And that is where I discovered the problem: the router wasn’t getting any actual power. It was plugged into…well…this:

I’m fairly certain that this was one of the many items repurposed from Dad’s day job. In, like, 1972 or something. You can see that someone very helpfully supplied a job aid by taping over the non-working component. We added the now-dysfunctional power strip to the ever-growing trash pile and plugged everything into the actual wall. (Which took some maneuvering, because there was some seriously shady daisy-chaining going on behind Mom’s desk. I am just thankful the “power” strip didn’t go kamikaze on us and burn the house down on its way to that big dumpster in the sky.)

I powered everything down, waited exactly thirty seconds, and rebooted….SUCCESS! I AM AN IT GODDESS.

Anyway. At this point, I’d had several days of sorting, dumping, recycling, cleaning, and firmly persuading others to discard stuff. (I believe the term my brother used was “bossy.”) After nearly a week of this – not to mention the emotional upheaval of the actual viewing and funeral – I was pretty wrung out. I don’t normally sleep too well when I travel, and when you add that to the stress of the whole burying-your-dad dealio, it takes a toll.

The night before I left to return home was no different. It was stupid hot; I had a window open and a fan blowing on me, and my mind was racing and stuttering. After tossing and turning for a couple hours, I finally, eventually, drifted off to sleep.

A couple hours later, I found myself half-awake. Stress will do that to you. Stress at 95 degrees will do it to you harder.

Lying there, hoping for sleep to come back, I noticed the sound of the papers gently rustling on the memo board over my head.

<flutter rustle flutter>

I laid there for a few minutes, eyes closed. Tried to relax.

Focus on breathing. Think nothing.

<flutter thwap flutter flutter rustle thwap thwap>

Wait a second. Those papers are kind of…marching in step here.

<thwap thwap thwap thwap>

I freeze.

Kate. It’s the oscillation of the fan moving the papers. Go back to sleep.

<thwap thwap thwapTHWAP thwap flutter>

….

What….

…uh…

…is that…?

<flutter thwapTHWAPthwap flutter rustle thwap thwap thwap>

Maaaaaaybe I’ll just turn the light on for a second. I mean, I KNOW it’s just paper. But if I LOOK at the papers, and SEE that it’s just papers, I can go back to sleep.

I put on my glasses, and reach over to the light.

It HAS to be paper.

Just paper.

I take a deep breath.

I flip the switch.

<click>

To be continued….

Dipping into Fall and Falling into Dip

Posted on October 16, 2016 by KatieComeBack

So I’ve been tooling along, happily enjoying summer (and being warm instead of ABSOLUTELY FREEZING COLD every second of the day) when I noticed that somehow, somewhere, things had changed. At some point, the foliage had surreptitiously begun to autumnize – the leaves had started to blush as they helped the trees disrobe, and I couldn’t enjoy the show without throwing on a jacket.

Apparently, fall is here.

And while I’m not entirely jazzed about the weather getting colder, or Nature’s naughty children leaving huge piles in the yard for me to rake up, there are some good things about autumn:

Football (GO EAGLES!)

Boots. New season, new shoes, yo:

Available on amazon.com

Also on amazon.com

Winter squash. Yes, I know it’s kind of odd to be excited about a vegetable. But squash is a side dish of convenience. Unlike its more delicate summer cousins, who shrivel up about fifteen minutes after you get them home from the farmer’s market, winter squash will politely sit on a shelf and wait until you’re ready to give it the Gremlin Spa Treatment with a knife, a microwave, and perhaps a bit of curry*.

Thicker sweaters, which oh-so-kindly cover the lumps and bumps of summer’s ice cream obsession and, paired with long pants (read: no need to shave) and boots, drastically cut down on your required morning hygiene time. (Unless you’re into open-toed boots. Which, frankly, are stupid. The ENTIRE POINT of boots is to forgo the pedicure, people. And to keep the snow off your foot. Neither of which is achieved when you hack a big hole in the front of an otherwise perfectly good boot. Weirdos.)

It’s also the time of year for the second-biggest commercial holiday in the United States – Halloween.

Now historically, I haven’t been a huge participant in the costume-and-candy cattle call. Don’t get me wrong – it’s super cute to see all the children in their little character impersonations, and I love the neighborhood camaraderie when everyone is walking around knocking on doors begging for treats. (Which, interestingly, we parents caution against for the other 364 days a year. Don’t take candy from strangers, kids, unless you’re dressed up as your favorite Disney character and all the other kids are doing it, too. Have fun running around in the dark with all the masked miscreants covered in fake blood!)

The problem (in addition to the blatantly mixed parenting message) is the requirement to stockpile big bags of candy in anticipation of this event.

Candy simply cannot live in my house. It’s not safe. I will eat it. All of it. Well, except these:

Ah, Necco. Disappointing children of all ages since 1847.

So my choices are either to hand out the sort of candy that moves your house right to the top of the egg-and-TP hit list, or to shut off the porch lights and hide in the basement. Since the only candy I won’t eat does the former, I’ll be lurking in the dark.

The neighbors, however, do this time of year up right. Here’s their spooky display, currently under construction:

Before the big day, they’ll add a few more ghosts, lights, a fog machine, sound effects….clearly, they’re the cool parents on the block. I bet they hand out full-sized candy bars, too. (And yes, they’re both marathon-runner thin, and if they weren’t so nice I might hate them a little.)

So let’s revisit costumes for a bit. This is the fun part of Halloween. For one day, you can shed all the expectations society has for you and be someone else entirely. It doesn’t have to be something attainable or realistic – you can be anything that you invent in your mind. Astronaut mermaid princess? Yes please.

Halloween is an opportunity to “try on” the thing you want to be…and a chance to disguise what you don’t want others to see. You literally put a mask on all that and just enjoy stepping into the role.

And speaking of disguises…don’t forget to put a costume on your food.

We’re getting ready to kick off the holiday season, folks – and that means we’re about to be surrounded by food. You know how this goes: It starts with the aforementioned candy, rolls into stuffing and potatoes with gravy, and the next thing you know, the cookies and treats have piled up faster than the snow at the end of the driveway. And the duration of the frenzied feast is punctuated with eggnog at cocktail parties and the beer, nachos, and wings that show up at your tailgate.

Since it’s not entirely practical to spend the next three months incognito in your basement, you might want to find a way to navigate the holiday spread…before YOU spread for the holidays.

My go-to? Dip.

But…wait a second. Dip is sour cream, cheese, and mayo, loaded onto delicious, carby, crunchy things. How exactly is this helping the annual belt-busting here?

Shh…it’s a disguise.

We’re pretending we’re indulging in fatty food when we’re actually not.

Let’s start with WHAT we dip. Sure, you can use chips…but since this is a costume party, let’s do something a little more dolled-up and dress it like a rainbow. Just look at this gorgeous plate that Chobani assembled:

meze_dips_pinterest_diphealthierv3_hires

OK, maybe eggplant is a stretch, but LOOK AT THE PRETTY.

Now it’s time to trick out your dip.

We want something smooth and creamy to fool our palate into thinking we’re eating something decadent. There are lots of options here, and if you have a halfway-decent food processor, you can make a decent dip out of chickpeas, avocado, or beans.

But if you’re looking to cut calories, there’s really no better base than fat-free Greek yogurt. It’s high in protein, tastes a lot like sour cream (especially when you add other dip flavors like caramelized onions or roasted red peppers) and you can eat quite a lot of it without blowing your calorie bank for the entire season.

And because we live in America, we don’t even have to get all fancy in the kitchen. We can head to our local Target and buy one of the concoctions dreamed up by the geniuses at Chobani. Take a look at these rich, creamy, delicious beauties:

I stumbled upon these yum cups a couple of months ago. Full disclosure: I was looking for binge food – a.k.a. something “bad.” And I walked away with the Roasted Red Pepper and the Smoked Onion and Parmesan.

ZOMG. Sooooooooooooooo good.

And the best part? Even if you just sit and eat the dip with a spoon (don’t judge, I REALLY need to buy groceries) the entire tub is only 250 calories.

By the way, this stuff also makes an amazing sandwich spread. Try the Roasted Red Pepper with some fabulous grilled chicken breast, the Chili Lime in tuna salad, or the Smoked Onion and Parmesan on a turkey burger. Adios, mayonnaise, I’m dating your hotter brother with the good hair and the washboard abs.

So while you’re strutting around in your goth-tooth fairy-unicorn getup, remember to reach for the Greek yogurt instead of the guilt and dip away, dip away, dip away all!**

What’s your costume this year? Do you “do up” Halloween? And what’s your favorite dip? Share in the comments!

__________________________________________

*Recipe time!

Stupid good squash: Nuke 1 acorn squash (or whatever you have. Squash can’t read, so feel free to use one of those baby pumpkin-looking ones) until tender. Scrape the flesh out of the skin and mash it in a bowl with 1/2 T garlic and ginger, 1/2 tsp coriander, and 1/4 tsp turmeric, cumin, and red pepper flakes. Stir in 1/2 non-fat plain Chobani Greek yogurt and chow down on your bowl of comfort-food goodness.

And while you’re staring down the squash guts, you might as well save the seeds. You can roast ’em just like you would pumpkin seeds. Rinse them well and let them dry (I just put them on a plate and stir daily until they dry completely, then transfer to an airtight container.) To roast, set your oven to 275F. Spray a sheet with cooking spray. Toss the dry seeds with a few good splashes of Frank’s Red Hot (trust me – they’ll be seasoned, but not unbearably spicy) and a sprinkle of salt. Bake them in a single layer for 10-15 minutes, and watch them disappear like peanut butter cups from your kid’s trick-or-treat stash.

__________________________________________

**Only 69 days until Christmas. Which means 75 days and 12 hours until your New Years’ diet resolution begins. Holly Jolly, my ever-spreading @$$.

Searching for Butterflies

Posted on September 17, 2016 by KatieComeBack

<clears throat, approaches microphone>

<tap tap tap>

Is this thing still on?

<jumps back as ear-splitting SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE builds to a rapid crescendo>

<hurriedly unplugs mic>

<turns speaker ten degrees to the right, reconnects wires>

Hello? Test test test.

OK. We’re back.

Hi, this is Kate. Remember me?

I’d throw up the usual, tired excuses about why I haven’t had time to write lately, but frankly, those are sounding pretty lame. Maybe I should make up something fantastical, like “the dog ate my laptop.” Not that I HAVE a dog, mind you, but all of my neighbors do, so that could totally happen. They’re humongous beasts that could easily take down a moose and run away with the carcass in their mouths, dragging the antlers on the ground. A laptop would be about as significant a meal as a Communion wafer.

Communion Wafer. Sacramental bread - Wikipedia:

Anyone else have fond memories of how well these stuck to the roof of your mouth? (Source: Wikipedia)

Or maybe something about aliens? THAT would be super cool. Once they landed, I’d totally take them over to the Mall of America and either we’d shop ’til we dropped, or they’d be so confused by the juxtaposition of an amusement park, several chapels, Hooters, Kate Spade, and giant Lego characters all under one roof that they’d immediately pull up their space wheels and make a beeline for the Galaxy Beyond. (And if MOA doesn’t chase ’em off, TV will. Just put on truTV or The Learning Channel for a day and they’ll declare our species hopeless and seek intelligent life elsewhere. And full disclosure here – I big-puffy-glitter-heart BOTH of these channels, so I suppose I’m part of the problem But where else can you sit in bed all day eating cheese popcorn and peanut butter cups in your pajamas and feel BETTER about your life choices? It’s a service to society, I tells ya, and I’m a better person for it. Or, at least, not THAT bad <gesturing towards reality trainwreck on Love at First Kiss> a person. Whatevs. When is that pizza getting here?)

OK. The truth is, I haven’t been writing, because by writing, I give my feelings words. And when I do that – once I’ve identified them with phylum, class, and species – I have to 1) acknowledge what I’m feeling and 2) attempt to deal with it.

And I don’t wanna deal with any of the feelings right now.

<stamps feet and waves fists>

I just don’t have the energy, ya know? Even though I know that I’ll feel better once I air out the mental bedsheets a bit, I’m resisting. I’d rather just pull a quilt over the whole mess and hope no one notices how badly it’s rumpled underneath.

I could blame some of this on my dad’s recent passing, but – again, being fully honest here – that was just a distraction from the shiz I REALLY need to handle. It’s not unlike a lit candle with a crack in the glass. As the candle burns, the voice in your head is nagging you:

“You know…you probably need to do something about that before it slowly drips wax all over the carpet, right? Right?!”

OK. <sigh> I’ll get to it.

“Um…Kate? Still dripping here.”

OKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYY. FINE!!!!

Resolutely, you grab some kerosene and a match and proceed to light the entire wall on fire. Because now, a little wax doesn’t quite matter so much, DOES IT??!

WAX THIS, MOFO.

Hey. Don’t be giving me the side-eye here. I KNOW you do this too. Think about it. $5 says you’ve got scorched curtains somewhere in that glass house of yours.

What I’ve been avoiding is a final verdict on my marriage. Specifically, the answer to “now what?”

I’ve been treading water in this relationship for a while now, kneading my arms back and forth in a sea of inertia. Generally, I can float here for days at a time: He’s kind. He takes out the trash and feeds the cats. He gives lots of hugs. He asks about my day. And he tells me all the time that he loves me and that he’ll never leave me.

So I start to relax. My head’s above water and my arms feel like they could do this all day. I can chill a bit. I take a deep breath. And then another. But then a sudden, angry wave slaps me in the face, robbing me of air. It might be a political news article. Or perhaps a TV character mentions prayer, or God, or faith…and he responds. Negatively. Cracks, criticisms, and cynical comments rush in, the roar making my ears uncomfortably full. And I sputter, gasping, as my arms cramp and my legs kick and my brain races, thinking, “dude, this is never gonna work” while I desperately look for a fallen tree or discarded, broken styrofoam cooler to cling to so I can get my bearings and find a shore to head toward.

Meanwhile, he’s chillaxin’ on a floating raft, ice-cold beer in hand, thinking everything is just dandy.

He tells me that he’s not worried about us. Sure, it’d do us some good to reconnect a bit, but he’s been down for a few weeks with the flu and bronchitis, and that hit right after my dad died, and the kids have JUST now gotten back to school and started a million activities ALL at different times and it’s my busy season at my job and his contract work’s just picked up but don’t worry, we’re fine, hon. Just give it time; we’ll get there.

But…

I don’t know if…

Wait.

What?

I don’t know…

…if I love you anymore.

This.

This is terrifying.

But…it’s honest.

When I started this post, I was thinking that Today was The Day that I was going to park my butt in my desk chair long enough to get SOMETHING baking in the now-cold blog oven. Today, finally, I’d get back to writing and quit finding other stuff to do instead. Like…cleaning out my basement. Yeah, I even did that, and yes, there was more freaking cardboard down there:

Piles and piles. <sobs quietly>

Seriously, people, I JUST DID THIS LAST DECEMBER. Curse you, Amazon, and your two-day quasi-instant gratification. And eBay? You can shove your “Buy it Now” button deep into the darkness of your “Everything Else” category.

When I sat down (after paying some bills, cleaning the litter box, backing up my iPhone, and downloading all my pictures from 2010 to present so I could free up enough storage for the new iOS upgrade, which, by the way, allows HANDWRITTEN TEXTS, meaning that my already frequently-undecipherable messages will be taken to a WHOLE NEW LEVEL, YO)

…

<cough>

(Let’s try this again.)

When I sat down today to write, I was cooking up a completely different post. But when I started beating the eggs and sifting the flour, I somehow ended up making peach cobbler instead of pie crust. (Neither of which actually have eggs in them. That might be part of the problem here. Maybe I was craving something more like custard.)

Anyway. I knew that I needed to get myself to making a decision on this whole mess, because having a massive life-direction sandbag of limbo swinging precariously over your head, waiting for you to decide whether (or when) to cut the rope, is no way to live.

So what did I decide to do?

Nothing.

For now, at least.

See, here’s the thing. I know we’ve had some serious challenges this year, what with his spiritual Shock and Awe campaign. Oh, and let’s not forget the Other Big Deal – it’s not like THAT goes away quietly just because you throw other problems into the mix.

But despite all that…he truly makes my life easier. He can lift heavy things, open stuck pickle jars, and change filter blades (or whatever the thing is you do on your car periodically. Tire ratchets? <rolls eyes and throws down Girl Card>) And he’s one of those rare males who doesn’t have to be ASKED to put the laundry away or empty the dishwasher – he does those things simply because he’s a grownup and recognizes that they need to be done.

In many ways, he’s simply a good man. And I genuinely like the guy. I really do. He’s super-smart, and witty, and can keep up with my butterfly-with-hiccups trains of thought without me needing to stop and explain, for example, why I start talking about black holes in the same sentence where I’ve outlined why most breakfast cereals are not, in fact, good for you.

He…gets me. Most of the time, anyway.

And that, along with nine years of marriage, is worth something.

Besides…I’ve been divorced. It’s exhausting. It’s like starting a bike ride at the bottom of the mountain; it’s tiring just leaving the bike in the house and staring up at the mound in front of you. Divorce is like trying to unbake a cake, meticulously and microscopically separating the batter of “ours” into the individual elements of “mine” and “yours.”

So I’m going to give this situation a valuable commodity: time. Two years, to be precise. My younger child has two years of high school left; when he graduates, I’ll have more resources – emotional energy, some financial flexibility, and some more vacation time. I won’t be tied to THIS job and THIS location. I’ll be free to stay, if I want…or free to wander and find my next adventure.

Free to choose what’s best for me.

For the first time in my life.

I’ll be free.

Just knowing that I’ll HAVE options makes things a little easier to bear.

Artist: Painted Stuf. I got this at our State Fair. Sent my sister one, too, so we both can remind each other what it says now and then.

In the meantime, I’ll do my best to work on the relationship, and we’ll see where that leads us.

For an initial effort, the hubs and I recently went on a date. Our last outing was underwhelming, but in the spirit of “trying again,” we visited the local conservatory where we got married.

(Side note: Pretty much all my kids remember about our wedding is this statue. Guess why.)

Statue’s got a crack in it….

The date started out a little rough when he went to spit out his gum, and….

Whoops.

Yes, he did dispose of it properly. Because he’s that kind of guy.

From there, though, it was a really, really nice day.

They look like bells!

A succulent….

…in Christmas colors…

…with an odd center.

Bonsai!

This one had a little surprise on its back:

ZOMG TINY FROGGIE

Yard onions?

Purple pineapples

This is one of the coolest things ever.

Seriously, look at that FACE!

Like dinner trays!

Also tres coolio.

This one had a guest….

Hi, honey.

And speaking of guests…we spent some time in the butterfly tent.

Yeah, technically, it’s a moth. Whatever. Still awesome.

How many can you find on this tree?

Stunning.

(insert butterfly porn music) Bow chica wow wow!

There is no better validation that someone is watching over you than to have a butterfly rest on you for awhile…and we both got a visit:

The hubs got one first…

…then this dude landed on my skirt. Front and center. We affectionately named him “Taco.” Then he tried to crawl up my shirt. Perv.

If we can have more days like this, we’ll be OK. What relationship couldn’t benefit from a booster shot of butterflies?

I know I won’t always be so fortunate as to have an entire tent of them nearby. Normally, it takes some effort to find them. Perhaps the hubs can spend the next two years bringing them to me.

I also know that I need to work on me. I need to be open to accepting whatever life grants me as the “new normal.” Whether it’s butterflies, flowers, or thunderstorms.

It may not be what I thought I wanted, and it’s certainly not unfolding the way I planned, but it still has the potential to be something beautiful.

I just have to keep looking for it.

Days of Wine and…Popcorn

Posted on August 24, 2016 by KatieComeBack

It’s been a rough couple of months here, folks. As you may recall, I’ve had a few things going on.

As I mentioned in my last post, we just finished a month-long stint with my Dad in hospice care, where he spent most of his days sleeping and we spent the bulk of ours checking our phones and emails constantly for updates while we waited for the inevitable. While we certainly knew what was coming, the anticipation of bad news wears on ya after awhile: Is today the day I put life on hold? The day I set everything aside? Will it be later today? Tomorrow? Next week? Month? It’s absolutely draining, and I didn’t appreciate HOW exhausting it was until it had raced past me, kicking dust and leaves into my sweaty, sticky face and leaving me coughing.

Meanwhile, life’s been hucking other curveballs at my face, too.

First up: We had a wedding anniversary a couple of weeks ago. We “celebrated” nine years of sometimes-blissful, lately-often-stressful marriage by attending the viewing of a friend who passed away suddenly. Ted was one of those genuinely terrific guys (insert obvious reference to the relevant Billy Joel tune here) -the world should be really sad to have lost him.

And it was one of those “died in his sleep for no discernible reason” deaths, which is typically code for…well, stuff no one wants to talk about. While I have my suspicions, we’ll never know for certain, and besides, it doesn’t MATTER what happened. It won’t change the fact that he’s gone. And he was a week YOUNGER than me, which makes it all the more…disquieting, ya know?

Stuff like that will cash your mortality check in a hurry. Plus, it sort of trumps any sort of anniversary celebration.

Second: the hubs finished his letter to me – the one where he planned to outline all the reasons that Religion is Bunk.

religion_is_bunk_bumper_sticker-r692e2b5ac9a54586b39e5e568e1b5614_v9wht_8byvr_630

This is still on his car. No, I haven’t said anything. Yet.

I haven’t read it yet…more on that later. But it’s there, lurking under the bed like the proverbial monster from when you were five, just waiting to grab your ankles if you DARE use the bathroom.

Suffice it to say that living day-to-day with this level of stress takes a toll – and it was manifestering (like that? I just made it up) as an escalation in my disordered eating habits. I’ve been running 16 miles a week on 1200(ish) calories a day (Okay…maybe 1100. Or 1000. Most days.)

Oh, and speaking of running, even my food/exercise-tracking app is out to get me. I use MyFitnessPal and sync it with MapMyFitness. Normally, these tools work GREAT. But recently, there was a software update…and now, my 4-mile run burns 65 fewer calories than it did before.

@#)$(@#%@%^£{£}*|€\€]^$^%$&@!!!WHYYYYY?!?

Did a lower weight finally sync up? Rectified math error? Dunno. But let’s break it down to what’s truly important here: with the new calculation, I have to run nearly SIXTEEN MILES to burn off ONE pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Sixteen f*%#!%@ miles.

That’s effing MADNESS.

Anyway, I decided I needed to circle my mental wagons around and work on ways to take better care of myself. Before I disappear completely. Or implode from stress overload. Or start randomly stabbing furniture.

So HOW do I nurture myself? While I’d prefer to be independently wealthy and retire to a warm, tropical location, I’m just a few ~~gazillion~~ dollars away from making that a reality. So here are some things that I know I can do:

Stand up for myself. Saying “no” can be tough. Why? Because we don’t want people to be mad at us? Because we’re afraid people won’t like us if we don’t cater to their beck and call? Or is it simply easier to cross favors off the list so we don’t have to think about them – and the potential fallout of saying “can’t today” – anymore?

Women tend to take on the overwhelming responsibility of ensuring the happiness of others. And we make this a priority, neglecting ourselves in the process. The results include exhaustion, frustration, and resentment. Who’s happy now, chica? Everyone but YOU.

So – repeat after me:

No, I can’t make that work right now.

No, I’m not available.

No, I don’t have the energy to address that at the moment.

No….Let’s discuss this at a later time. I’ll let you know what works for me.

I know the words initially feel foreign, but trust me, it DOES get easier. The world will not vote you off the island if you liberally apply these phrases, I promise.

Or so I’m told.

<ring ring> Is kettle there?

But in the spirit of “practice what you preach,” I’m doing this, too. Remember that letter I mentioned above? Given all the other white noise drowning out my mind, I actually stood up for myself – I told the hubs that now was not the time for his letter. I can deal with the relationship issues LATER – after the kids go back to school, the election is over, and future bacon sprouts wings and flies right past my window.

Eventually, I WILL have to address this. It’s hanging over my head like the proverbial mistletoe at Christmas, just dangling there cluttering up the aesthetics, waiting for me to unsuspectingly park there while some opportunistic slightly-greasy dude plants a wet, juicy smacker on my lips.

But it doesn’t have to be TODAY. Or tomorrow. I can rest and recharge, and cross that emotional gorge once I’ve cleaned off my windshield and am running on a full set of batteries.

Exercise. Yeah, I know. <blearghhhhhh> But regular exercise DOES help with stress. You can read the science here, or review Dr. Kate’s breakdown:

When you’re stressed, your body releases this stuff called cortisol – it’s your body’s reaction to that whole fight-or-flight thing – so if you’re surprised by, say, a hungry bear in the woods, you have a “burst” to help you run away – fast.

The problem is that our modern-day stress is generally less about things that require physical flight. It’s more along the lines of the annual tax bill, an unplanned job loss, or the unexpected arrival of swimsuit season. (Which, despite arriving at approximately the same time every year, I AM NEVER READY FOR.) We don’t have a physical need for this sudden storing of hormonal rocket fuel. But it’s there anyway – and cortisol kicks you in the knees by weakening your bones, lowering your immunity, and killing your sex drive. The more stress you have, the more cortisol spews out.

So how does exercise help? Exercise is controlled stress. You’re running/walking/Jazzercising/whatever, but there are no zombies waiting to sprinkle your backside with Frank’s Red Hot. So your body thinks, OK, we’ve got some cortisol in da house, and we be chillin’. We good. Since there’s no direct threat, your tolerance for cortisol increases, and it can’t cripple you as effectively as it did before. Essentially, your stress “muscles” are stronger, – you’re more resilient to stress , and it takes a bigger bucket of cortisol to knock you out.

Little Indulgences. Whether it’s a mani/pedi, a massage, or a fancy coffee at a frou-frou java house, there are lots of small treats to be had when you need a boost.

I tend to look at inexpensive retail therapy. You don’t have to spend a lot to get a lift – new earrings or socks can really cheer you up. Just take a look at, well, ANYTHING from Blue Q:

(Warning – adult language ahead. But these are kick@$$ socks):

Buy ’em at Blue Q

And speaking of wine…

Sometimes, there’s nothing like getting lost in your own sofa. I’m talking TV, people. And since we are an evolved, organized species, we can watch pretty much anything we want at any time of day. Thanks to Netflix, Amazon video, YouTube, and other avenues, we have a nearly endless buffet of programming to choose from. And, unlike the olden days when we had to actually dial our phones and GET UP <gasp> to change the channel, this is all available instantly. So if you need a quick mental break, it’s there for the taking. And it’s judgement-free, because no one can see you.

YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO WEAR PANTS. (Sign ME up.)

Whether you’re into drama, comedy, or somebody-else’s-reality TV, nothing goes better with electronic entertainment than a good glass of what makes you smile and a bowl of something that satisfies.

Don’t get me wrong here – I am NOT advocating eating or drowning your feelings. That just turns your current problem into a fat, bloated, belchy one. (Which is far less entertaining than it sounds.) But sometimes, you need to have a mini-getaway, and small, planned indulgences can make your couch more vacation-like, especially if you’re doing it in the spirit of nurturing your soul.

So here’s my recliner retreat checklist:

Entertainment: For me, nothing relaxes like mindless TRASH TV. Being an overworked intellectual (HAHAHAHA <snort>) I need a break from my exhaustive thinking, re-thinking, and over-thinking, so I amuse myself with the human freak-show circus.

From my recent queue (don’t judge):

Catfish (MTV)
Say Yes to the Dress (TLC)
Border Security: Canada’s Front Line (Season 1 on Netflix)
Impractical Jokers (truTV, Amazon)
Coupling (BBC, Hulu) <- one of the most hilarious shows EVAH. It’s like Friends meets Sex and the City. Your life is not complete until you have watched the first three seasons. Go watch it RIGHT NOW.

Beverage: Wine. (Duh.) Red, white, or pink – I’m equal-opportunity and all about embracing the diversity.

Pro tip: In some locations, there are “blue laws” and the liquor stores are closed on Sundays – so you might need to stock up on Saturday just to get through the weekend. Given my life as of late, I had the foresight to prepare. (again – don’t judge):

Note – all of the bottles in this cart were $8.99 and under. The Double Dog Dare reds were $2.99 each – and perfectly drinkable. (Then again, as you can see by my viewing choices, I may not have the most refined palate. But you do you.)

I also liked this one, for $6.99:

Because the label. So cute!

I’ve also been thoroughly enjoying mead lately. Generally, I prefer my drinks quite dry, and mead tends to be on the sticky side. But this brand from Nectar Creek fits the bill nicely:

Don’t fear the bee. Halfway through the bottle you’ll wanna give him a big ol’ hug.

Snacks: Since I spent way too much time obsessing over my weight, I don’t want to pick a noshable that fills me out even more. I mean, stressing over your de-stressor is like worrying about watermelon making you fat. WHICH AIN’T RIGHT.

So I gravitate towards volume-packed munchies that fill up a big bowl for not-too-many calories. The perfect choice for this, as we all know from years at the movie theater, is popcorn.

Ah, popcorn. How I love thee.

The beauty of popcorn is that it’s no longer the dull, dry, packaging-material flavor it was back in the day. Like TV programming, it’s evolved tremendously in sheer variety. There’s a concoction for every craving. Sweet? Salty? Spicy? Yes please. It’s out there, and in versions that will NOT make your butt look big.

Take a look at this snazzy infographic, courtesy of SkinnyPop:

Find out more at SkinnyPop.com

A couple of thoughts on the above:

1. I have had most of these flavors AND THEY ARE ALL DELICIOUS. Just the other day, I found the Jalapeño at Walgreens, of all places. It’s really flavorful with just a hint of kick . I was thinking it’d be perfect with a crisp white, and it looks like the peeps at SkinnyPop agree with me.

2. The only flavor I haven’t had is the Dusted Dark Chocolate, because I can’t for the life of me find it anywhere. This is Great Popcorn Sadness. This shiz needs to be in my life, like, immediately, but for some reason, it hasn’t surfaced in the hippie-dippie part of the Midwest I reside in.

I’ll keep looking.

3. You can’t really go wrong with wine – or mead, or beer, or ginger ale – and popcorn. So mix it up and have fun!

I just have to remember to park on the couch with a bowl and a glass, NOT the entire bag and a bottle…because, after all, chip clips are for quitters, yo. <burp>

How do you unwind? What’s your go-to for chillin’? Share your escapes in the comments!

Reblog: How to be Less of an A$$#ole in Life and Relationships

Posted on August 16, 2016 by KatieComeBack

This hits so close to home that my windows are rattling.

Must Be This Tall To Ride

you're an asshole Yes, even you. (Image/dailycal.org) Sometimes I’d walk into the living room tofind my wife watching 16 and Pregnantor some other TV show I thought was stupid or morally baseless.

I could have ignored it.

I could have sat with her to try to better understand the things she liked and why.

I could have suggested another activitythat didn’t involve TV or seem stupid to me.

But instead of those mature and relationship-nurturing alternatives, I usually acted like an asshole.

I think deep down in the furthest recesses of my heart and subconscious, I believed I was doing the right thing by reacting negatively.

Because I loved my wife and wanted her to be the best person she could be, I didn’t want her to enjoy watching things that were “beneath” her or “bad” for her.

Because I thought television programming like MTV’s 16 and Pregnantwas ultimately a bad…

View original post 922 more words

The Lessons of a Legacy

Posted on August 13, 2016 by KatieComeBack

What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others. ~Pericles

One week ago, I received the message I’d been anticipating and dreading for months. Dad passed away, peacefully and quietly, on August 3.

As you’d expect, we’ve spent the last several days with family and friends, making preparations and reminiscing over old photos. While there were certainly tears, it truly was a time of remembering and honoring the man my Dad was.

I am what survives of me. ~Erik Erikson

“Legacy” is a pretty hefty word, isn’t it?

It outlines your responsibility to pass on something of value to the next generation.

My dad was a hard-working, down-to-earth guy. Stable and solid. He led by example, not by force.

As a child – and later as a rebellious, moody teenager – I certainly didn’t appreciate much of what my parents did, nor who they were. But Dad just kept on being exactly who he was, because that was all he knew how to be.

And as it turns out, he ended up teaching us many, many lessons just by living his life. As the mourners came to the viewing, one by one they shared with us how much they appreciated Dad – his honesty, his spirit, his loyalty, his skill, his sense of fairness, and his willingness to help everyone.

Dad left us an admirable legacy. And as a tribute to my dad, I’d like to share this legacy with you.

Things My Dad Taught Me

1. Use the talents you have. You may be differently talented than the person next to you, but if you use your skills and work hard, you’ll be OK.

Dad was always working. He had a full-time job as an HVAC supervisor at a local hospital, and he had a lawn and garden tractor business at home. Mom ran the shop during the day, and Dad fixed mowers and weed whackers during the evenings and on weekends.

When he’d finished a repair, Dad would drive to customers’ houses to deliver the fixed tractors, and he’d often take me along (probably to give Mom a break from the frequent sibling spats.)

Once the restored equipment was off the trailer, he’d hang out for a while for some chit-chat. And often, he’d want to show off my skills: I learned to read at a really young age, so he’d hand me something to read aloud – a newspaper, an instruction manual – and stand there proudly as his four-year-old explained how to start the trimmer and revealed the day’s horoscope.

Dad didn’t read well, so he was especially proud of the grades his kids earned. I strongly suspect he was dyslexic to some degree, but back in the day, no one checked for that – they just whacked your knuckles with a ruler and told you to sit up straight. (Catholic school flashback, anyone?)

I distinctly remember one time where he went to get ice cream for us, and came back with a large tub:

Dad: <covering the flavor with his hand> Guess what kind I bought?

Kids: Chocolate? Rocky Road?

Dad: Peanut Butter! <reveals flavor>

Kids: Um…Dad…that says “Butter Pecan.”

Not wanting Dad to feel bad, we enthusiastically dug in to the Butter Pecan ice cream. (It WAS ice cream, after all.) But this memory still hurts my heart. Dad loved us and wanted to provide for us, and he worked incredibly hard to do so, despite these struggles.

How? Dad was an ace mechanic. He spoke the secret language of engines – if it had a motor, he could get it running.

I suspect I get my verbosity from Dad, too.

As a teenager, I didn’t really appreciate this talent. I had a conversation with my mom about this once: I noted that she was really intelligent, had graduated second in her class, after all, so why didn’t she marry someone smart, like a doctor? Couldn’t she have done…better? (Yeah, ouch.)

But Mom responded – undoubtedly more gracefully than I deserved – that Dad works really hard, he’s really handy around the house, and he faithfully comes home every night to spend time with his family. In other words, he possessed the qualities that mattered, and was a real catch that most women would be thrilled to have.

Dad worked two jobs for most of his life, and he raised three (mostly) decent human beings in a huge house. We had enough to wear, plenty to eat, and we were safe and loved.

I get it now, Mom. I truly do.

2. Not everything can be fixed. But most things can be if you take them apart and really look at them.

Like I said, Dad was a champion mechanic. There wasn’t a trimmer or tractor that could outsmart him. And this talent expanded to household appliances, too. Broken record player? (Kids, ask your grandparents.) Dad to the rescue! Fridge starting to sound like it’s attempting to contact an alien species? Drag it away from the wall and let Dad work his magic.

Because he could bring discarded, abandoned devices back to life, we had some unique appliances in the household. We were the first kids on the block to have a paper shredder, and the only ones I knew of who had a trash compactor. (And how much fun is that? Who needs cable TV when you can squish several takeout boxes into a cardboard pancake?)

Dad was the Engine Whisperer who revived many a mechanical Lazarus. Ya gotta respect those mad skills. Heck, he kept his own ticker going for over a year and a half, despite the puzzled wonder of several cardiologists.

There can be a lot of life left in things you think are broken. I’m trying to remember that with my marriage right now. We’re taking it apart, replacing the gaskets, and cleaning the little pieces in an attempt to put it all back together. Once we flush all the gunk out, it just might work.

It’s worth a shot.

3. It’s OK to cry if you’re sad.

Dad came from a family that didn’t talk much about feelings. But when we left home – for boot camp or college – he’d stand at the window, quietly watching the car pull away, a tear or two silently falling.

We’d witness this scene every time we came home for a visit. As soon as we packed up the car and left, we’d see him standing there, at the window or in the driveway, showing us without words how much we were loved.

4. Let your inner child come out and play once in a while. (Even in church sometimes.)

Dad had a bit of a mischievous streak. (I suppose I come by mine honestly.)

My cousin’s kids called Dad The Tickle Man, because at family gatherings, no child could walk past him without being grabbed for a tickle.

At Mass, we’d often be standing silently in prayer, hands folded serenely in front of us…when, without warning, he’d unclasp his hands, pull back his left arm, and gently shove his right fist backwards – smack into the elbow or ribs of whichever child was standing next to him. This inevitably resulted in a giggle, which snowballed into chuckles (from everyone except Mom, who shot us The Look. Lord help you if you dropped a hymnal.)

So, in Dad’s honor, here’s some wildly inappropriate funeral humor. (You’ve been warned.)

As we traveled to the funeral, my siblings and I were trying to make arrangements via text, picking out songs, Bible verses, flowers, and what shirt to bury Dad in.

Me: Oh, your uncle says that the grandkids need to provide a bouquet for the viewing.

Daughter: A bouquet? Like you do at weddings? Do we toss it at the end to see who’s next?

(She’s my kid, alright.)

Later, at the viewing:

Neighbor: <speaking to Mom> Dick was a great man with a great business. Now you should take his place.

Me: <eyeing casket, horrified> Uh…not right now!

We laughed until we cried. (The neighbor man was slightly mortified.)

And at the funeral service:

Priest: God loves us and wants us to be closer to Him. He wants us to be with Him. He wants you. <dramatic pause> And right now, God wants Dick.

My daughter snorted. Audibly. And the shoulder-shaking that followed was surely captured as an abnormality on the global seismic monitor.

Dad would heartily approve.

And, most importantly…last, but not least:

5. There’s always room for ice cream. (And you don’t always have to tell your mother.)

This one hardly needs explanation. Because ice cream.

I can’t stop for ice cream without thinking about Dad. Frequently, when we were out on a service call for the tractor shop, we’d sneak off to the local Quickie Mart for a small treat – a Scooter Crunch, Strawberry or Chocolate Eclair:

And, some evenings, the whole family would pile in the car and head to the ice cream shop just up the road. Dad would invariably get a soft-serve vanilla cone dipped in a chocolate concoction that hardened the instant it hit the ice cream. (This was back before Magic Shell was a thing you could buy in the store and have any time you wanted, like for breakfast or something.)

Covina Tasty - Covina, CA, United States. Vanilla Chocolate Dipped Cone

Source: Yelp

Source: This Tasty Life

Dad ordered this primarily so he could tease the wait staff while they dipped the cone – the ice cream had to be turned upside-down in order to be dipped, and once in a while, the entire wad would schplop right off into the vat of chocolate topping. This proved so tremendously amusing (even though it only actually happened twice that I can remember) that he ordered this – and we watched for the ice-cream avalanche – every single time.

Sadly, that shop closed long ago – but there are plenty of mom-and-pop ice cream stands between my childhood home and the airport where I could honor my dad appropriately.

My pick as a kid. Couldn’t take a picture until I had a lick.

And when I got home, I tried a new place here in the Midwest – you know, for Dad. Check out the size of this bad boy.

Nelson’s did not disappoint. Chocolate Peanut Butter Swirl on top; Monster on the bottom, jam-packed tightly into the cup.

I indulged without guilt, self-judgment, or fretting about how many marathons I’d have to run to burn that off. I ate enthusiastically, heartily, and with joy. And I almost finished it all. Even though I did leave just a little, I think Dad would be proud of my efforts:

I didn’t bother taking the rest home. <burp>

I love you, daddy, and I miss you already. Get some rest. Give Grandma a hug for me and save me a seat next to you on the organ bench. I’ll be ready to sing with you when I get there.

You can’t change your fingerprints. You have only ten of them. And you leave them on everything you touch; they are definitely not a secret. ~Al Franken

Analyzing the Angry

Posted on July 17, 2016 by KatieComeBack

Dear Family, Friends, Coworkers, and Random Drivers Going 58 in the F*(#!&@ Fast Lane:

I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge my state of mind this past week.

You’ve noticed that I’ve been on edge. Stressed out. Tense. I’ve given curt, overly blunt responses to innocent, honest questions. My personal volume’s been elevated by at least two clicks, and if I had this ability, there’s be a ton of ashes to scatter right now:

I’ve been…prickly? No. More like…stabby. Yeah. Slightly stabby. And while you may be feeling a bit put out by my abrasiveness, all the $#!ts I give about that are right here in this basket I’m not holding:

Side note: It’s not easy to take a picture of your own hands. Seriously – try it.

After much analysis – you know, dissecting those feelings, sitting with ’em, letting the thoughts marinate while I take long-distance bike rides and rip the life out of unwelcome weeds in my garden – I’ve identified what’s going on.

I’m angry.

So I’ve been working to understand WHY I’m feeling this way. Because if I have a REASON, I can FIX it, and subsequently feel better, right?

Generally, life has been good to me, I know. But there are a couple of things lately that are making me feel like a cat you’ve pet backwards from tail to head. And it’s not for things like Words with Friends disqualifying PERFECTLY LEGIT words (though admittedly, that’s mildly irritating):

George Lucas begs to differ.

No, there’s some marginally less superficial shiz going down here.

First, I was angry because we were at my in-laws last weekend. And while you should know that I love them dearly, visiting them is a challenge because of the massive amount of temptation everywhere. And by “temptation,” I mean FOOD. Cookies (three freshly-baked varieties) and rich desserts and meaty entrees. Nuts and chocolate in little jars on the table, out in the open for the taking at any time you just want a bite (yeah, right, one bite) of something salty or sweet. And, because the hubs and his entire family – his teenage boys and his mom and dad in their 70s – are tall and lean, they can all partake heartily in all of this delicious, glorious food, just because they want it.

And I was angry because EVERYONE GETS TO EAT ice cream cake and fried fish and buttered potatoes and I do not. And it’s HARD sometimes – especially when they have a ginormous meal at noon, WITH dessert portions that contain at least half my daily caloric allowance, and then have another plate FULL OF FREAKING RIBS for a SNACK (a snack!!) at 3:00 and I have to pretend to be happy with a bowl of watermelon.

I was mad. Angry mad. Because life is unfair when it comes to food, and I’m never, ever going to be the kind of person who can walk past an ice cream store, think “hmm, sounds good,” and eat a simple cone and have that be the end of it – no drama, judgement, or guilt. The scale is my probation officer who commands me to report in almost daily; dalliances are immediately evident and the punishment is severe. Best not to tick her off.

So why else?

I’m angry because the hubs has been somewhat distant this week. That’s partly because he’s trying to be respectful of me “needing my space,” and partly because my vibe this week’s been pretty much “touch me and die.”

But he’s also been working on writing me a letter.

What about? His quest to explore his spirituality. (Or lack thereof.) He’s been crafting a letter to me explaining how he feels about the Bible in general.

And I have zero – ZERO – interest in reading this.

Why? A number of reasons:

1. I already know how he feels about it. He’s made it abundantly clear – in his choice of T-shirts, his bumper stickers, his inability to refrain from rude comments….I get it. I know. You’re not on Team Jesus. Copy that, loud and clear, bro.

2. I’m not in a good place for this right now. WE’RE not in a good place for this. I still can’t hear your opinions on the subject without feeling personally attacked; you’re not in a headspace where you can communicate these issues without a ton of editorial emotion; and frankly, I’m still not over the whole Ashley Madison thing, so giving me more reason to feel like we can’t bond, to realize that we might not ever again be close….Let’s just say now is not the time. I still feel like I’m being emotionally waterboarded over here. I need time to breathe. Our relationship needs time for the glue to stabilize and set a bit before you start using this newly repaired vessel as a cocktail shaker.

3. It’s hella long. It just feels like…work. Like writing-your-Affirmative-Action-Plan work. Which is somewhere between <snoooooooooooore> and PLEASE SHOOT ME.

In other words, I just don’t have the energy to bring this festering lump to a head and clean up the mess when it ruptures and oozes all over the place.

Not right now.

Because I’m also angry that my Dad started hospice care last week.

We’ve known it was coming. He’s been slowly withering away for the last nineteen months, losing weight, eating less, getting out of bed less often. If you haven’t lived through something like this, you likely underestimate the stressful state of limbo this puts you in.

Every morning, you check your phone for news: Nope. Not dead yet. And you get on with your day. Eventually, you get accustomed to this as the status quo, and you work with it.

But once you call in hospice, you know you’re racing the final lap. No more pit stops; the checkered flag’s somewhere in front of you. But the road’s all wavy and bendy, like the heat mirage on the highway in July, and you really don’t know how much further you need to go before the path ends and it’s finally over. And every day you preface work, kid activities, and other commitments with “…unless something happens to Dad.” And people nod somberly, and they understand.

And your heart breaks a little more each day.

And the light of your soul just isn’t quite as bright.

And the steel of your armor rusts, bit by bit, until the things you’re shielding yourself from start to leak through.

Mom called hospice two weeks ago. Dad isn’t getting out of bed any more. And he isn’t eating, though he’s still taking fluids.

So it can’t be too much longer.

But, so far, it hasn’t been today.

Not yet.

Dad had a birthday on Friday. Since I live 1000 miles away, I had to mail a card. I already hate greeting cards, because most of them are either insipidly saccharine or blatantly insulting:

Syrupy Sentiment: Cards that rhyme make me want to shove lit cigarettes into my eyeballs – there’s a reason Dr. Seuss isn’t required reading past the first grade, people:

My love for you is like a song

In my ears, where you belong

My heart will sing it night and day

I hope to marry you someday

<BARF>

Ridiculously Ridiculing: Birthday cards no longer read “Let’s Celebrate” – they’re all about “ha ha, you’re old, and I find that funny.” Here comes the fire department to put out your cake, isn’t that hilarious? (No, but if you send me some shirtless firemen, I might forgive you, just a bit, especially if they bring cake.)

And just try to find a Father’s Day card that doesn’t refer to beer, farting, or both. Unless it’s one from the cotton-candy sticky-sweet category, you won’t find it. (I’d insert some examples, but yuck.)

So finding a decent card is tough. Now find one for your Dad when he’s terminally ill. Remember, this is probably the last card that you will ever buy for him. So no pressure.

Dad likes funny pictures of animals, so I headed to that section first in an attempt to find something lighthearted that would make him smile.

Here was my first pick:

This looks promising….

Um…like Mother Theresa and Jesus? Not yet, Dad.

I put it back and picked up this one:

Seems appropriate – especially when I tell you that Dad had an orange tabby named Blondie before us kids were born. And every time he sees an orange tabby ANYWHERE, he says, “Looks like Blondie!” (Yeah…. Every. Single. Time.) So, hey, here’s Blondie in his fifteen minutes of fame, great card, let’s send it!

And then I opened it. And HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

<snort> I AM TERRIBLE.

Laugh or cry, right?

OK, highly inappropriate. If it were my mom, or ME, this might fly. But Dad’s more of a sentimental, emotional guy, so I settled on a fairly innocuous card with a smiling nun on it that simply said “Happy Birthday” inside. (Because, since he was raised Catholic, nuns are also funny. We get him the “Nuns Having Fun” calendar every year.)

And he lived long enough to get it. So there’s that.

So that’s why I’m angry.

Because I’m really…sad.

And I can’t control feelings like sadness. OK, full disclosure, I’m not really great with taming anger, either, but it feels more powerful to me.

And power means control.

And you know what I can control?

What I eat.

All this stress has been remarkably effective in helping me control my weight. Today, I stepped on the scale, and saw a number I haven’t seen since high school. A number lower than when I was unwell a few years ago and lost weight almost by accident.

Not much lower.

Not yet.

But the hubs actually noticed, as witnessed by this random text he sent this week:

I can’t control what happens to Dad. His itinerary is non-refundable; the only variable is the arrival time.

I can’t control how my spouse feels about things. I can’t make him more accepting of other viewpoints. I can’t force him into a mindset of “live and let live.” I can’t make him see that he’s destroying us, comment by comment, shirt by shirt, letter by letter. He’s asked what he can do…but I already told him, and he’s no longer DOING it. So what’s the point in adding to the bucket of unmet expectations? It’ll just glop out onto the linoleum and be another mess for me to mop up.

I can’t control the overwhelming sadness. This emotion is foreign to me; it feels like an unwelcome parasite, sapping my soul, draining my energy. It trips me up at random times during the day, jumping out from dark corners, startling me into spilling hot coffee onto my hands. It reminds me that it’s here. That I can’t get away from it.

I can’t escape, but I can hide. I can duck behind something I know. Something I can predict and control.

I’ve made myself a disguise: hunger.

Hunger I expect. Hunger I understand.

When you eat less, you feel hungry.

It’s black and white. Concrete. Reliable.

Anticipated.

Welcome.

So I’ll wear the anger blanket instead of the sadness scarf. It goes much better with the hunger hat that I’ve invested so much of myself into buying.

It’s a classic; I’ve worn it for years. I don’t know what I’d look like if I had to replace it.

And when the temperature rises, and I’m no longer chilled by the icy emotions that threaten to overtake me – when they’ve been replaced by that gnawing, familiar, hollow, empty nothingness of hunger – I can take off the blanket for just a little while.

I can be a few pounds less angry.

I can remain in control.

Creative Games and Cookie Names

Posted on July 10, 2016 by KatieComeBack

My son and I were kicking the yoga ball around in the basement the other day when he suggested we bake cookies.

OK, lemme back up a sec….That might have been somewhat confusing, especially if you don’t have children.

One of the things that no one told me about having kids is their constant need to be entertained. This is mostly true when they’re little; once they get to the age where they can really participate in the fun adult stuff, they declare you unfleek (or whatever today’s word is for “uncool”) and plug into their electronics, effectively tuning you out until they need money or a ride somewhere.

But let’s take the nostalgia train to the days when they were little and still needed you. <insert nostalgic sniff>

As parents, you have many choices of methods by which to entertain your children.

Electronic Babysitters. Obviously, nowadays there are a number of electronic toys that can be used – iPads, laptops, your phone, video games, and good ol’ TV programming will all entertain your kids for ~~days~~ hours at a time. However, society will deem you an unfit parent if you use any of these in public, and you risk losing your little ones and having them shipped to be raised on a rural farm in Idaho.

Chores. Interestingly, many older toddlers actually find it FUN to vacuum, dust and mop. (Clearly, they’re too young to know better….) Unfortunately, in the playacting, they tend to make a bigger mess than what you started with, and by the time they’re old enough to actually be helpful, they’re no longer interested in housekeeping as recreation. (Further evidence that our Creator loves irony.)

Reading. Since there are a bunch of writers here, we can’t forget about books. I LOVED books as a child. Still do, when I have time to read. Unfortunately, my son didn’t inherit this gene. One summer, when he was struggling to learn to read and we were trying to get him to go over his practice readers, he attempted to feed the books to the cat. At the time, our cat did like to chew on paper on occasion, so the plan isn’t as farfetched as it sounds, even though it failed. Eventually, when we threatened him with a tutor, he did a complete 180 and suddenly figured it out. (Literally – within a week he went from barely recognizing letters to plowing through the practice readers. That tutor must have been a real ogre. Hey, whatever works, yo.)

Arts and Crafts. Oh, I nearly forgot “crafts.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Have you tried crafts with little kids? If not…well, really, it’d be more contained of a mess if you just opened fire with a paintball gun in your living room. And if you’re ~~stupid~~ brave enough to open the glitter, know that this is a decision more permanent than a tattoo, and you WILL be finding random sparkle EVERYWHERE IN THE HOUSE FOREVER AND EVER. On the ceiling. In the carpet. Behind the fridge. IN the fridge. You could burn down your house and rebuild and I guarantee you that you’ll STILL find glitter somewhere, right along with cat or dog hair, even though Sir Shedsalot died well over fifteen years ago.

Anyway. My son hates crafts. But we’ve tried. I do have evidence of a couple of attempts.

Exhibit 1. Ice Cream Pie. I’ve shared this one before….but it’s worth another look.

When my son was in kindergarten, his class made a recipe book. He needed to illustrate a favorite recipe from home. I present his interpretation of “Ice Cream Pie”:

It’s worth noting that I have never, EVER, made Ice Cream Pie. Ever. I asked him later why he chose this recipe. “Mom. It’s pie. Anyone can draw a circle.” Well, kiddo, clearly not EVERYONE. Love you.

Exhibit 2. Turkey Disguise. In this traditional Thanksgiving exercise, children were sent home with a paper drawing of a turkey, and were told to make a “costume” for it so that it would not be recognized, therefore escaping the seasonal fate of ending up on someone’s dinner table.

So…here’s the one he made, next to the one his sister did:

Now, to be completely fair, since he turned it upside down and cut all the feathers off, he really DID disguise the bird beyond all recognition. So, super effective, but kind of missing the point. I think. Either that, or it’s genius.

Athletic Activities. Since we’ve exhausted the other options, it seems that the only thing left is sports. Unfortunately, physical activity is not my forte. But my son is quite athletic. First, he’s super-strong, like Bamm-Bamm from the Flinstones. Here he is at age 7 1/2, carrying his cousin:

Note that the older cousin was about NINETY pounds at the time. Hell, I can’t lift 90 pounds. I can barely get off the couch some days, ya know?

He also loved baseball. He had a wicked arm back in the day, and loved to play in ANY weather:

I don’t remember being quite that heavy here. I think I was just dressed in 14 layers.

But now that I’m in the Midwest, there are days where it’s truly too cold to be outdoors. (Or too hot, so they tell me, although I have yet to find a day where it’s too warm for me to sit outside. Clearly, I’m an orchid in a family of crocuses.) So we have to get creative with the indoor games. Fortunately, we have a mostly-finished basement that gives us a 25×20 space in which to roughhouse. We have a dartboard and a foosball table, but you can only play those for so long, so we supplement with pool noodles and a variety of inflatable beach balls and Nerf guns to create a variety of indoor sports.

Side note: Pool noodles are awesome cheap indoor entertainment. You can get ’em at the dollar store, and they’re quite versatile: Lay it flat and it’s a border/line for dodgeball, fold it in half and it’s a baseball bat, or hold one end in each hand in front of you and you’re a human basketball hoop. And, of course, they’re naturals for sword play. (Well, until someone gets whacked in the face, at least. But you normally get about ten minutes of uninterrupted time first, so balance that risk/reward portfolio for yourself.)

This summer we’re more into playing darts with the Nerf Gun (which, surprisingly, seems to work with the electronic board) and playing some version of two-square with the yoga ball. (Yeah…this is the most use my yoga ball has had since I bought it. Don’t judge; I know you probably have some piece of exercise equipment in your personal Graveyard of Good Intentions, too.) Basically, you have to keep the yoga ball moving – but you can’t use your hands. And it’s more fun to kick when it bounces, because you can lob it off your knees and make it ricochet off the ceiling. (Am I not the coolest mom on the planet?) You get bonus points for keeping the ball airborne, even though we don’t seem to quite know how to keep score. Second bonus is that it seems to be a pretty decent thigh workout, but don’t tell my kid that, because he’ll probably quit playing if he discovers it’s actually GOOD for you.

So the other day we’re in the two-square zone, on a wicked streak, with the score Q to ketchup or some such, when we have this conversation:

Son: We should make cookies.

Me: We can do that….I’ll need to buy stuff. What kind are we making?

Son: The kind you made last year with M. (his sister)

Me: Which ones? We made a few.

Son: The oatmeal raisin ones. Except without the raisins. Like, with cinnamon and stuff.

Me: …we never made those without raisins. Do you mean the peanut butter ones with the chick peas? (We made these – and they were DELICIOUS.) We’d have to get chocolate chips.

Son: No, they didn’t have chips. But they were chocolate.

Me: You don’t mean the black bean brownies, do you? (Yes, we tried those too. Also two thumbs up, as long as you don’t tell anyone what’s in them.)

Son <with eyroll>: Mom. I know what brownies are. No. These were, like, flat on the bottom. (Super helpful clue there.) What shape are peanut butter cookies?

Me: They’re…like, cookies. You drop a blob and smoosh ’em and bake them….

Son: No…wait. We didn’t bake them. And they looked like no-bakes.

No-bakes it is.

So we made a batch. And then another, because I can’t be trusted around no-bakes. The recipe I use is pretty close to this one, except I use brown sugar, and I omit the butter and use more peanut butter instead. (Because butter is narsty.) Also, I seem to need more oats than the recipe calls for – it might be because I use the hippie-dippie gluten-free oats, which apparently have superpowers and repel sugar and chocolate, or something.

Anyway. While we were stirring, I asked him what he thought of my new Dr. Martens.

Yes, posting these again. Because LOVE.

Me: So…do you think your sister will like them, or will she totally be annoyed by them?

Son: Wait. What? They’re shoes?

Me: Yeah…they’re boots. <nervous pause> What did you think they were?

Son: Pants. Like, cheetah-print pants. Or something.

I’m not sure which is more disturbing: the fact that my kid didn’t know what Dr. Martens are, or that he thought I would actually buy cheetah-print pants.

Clearly, this parent’s work isn’t done yet. But hey, he still talks to me, and still wants to kick a yoga ball around with his mom, so I’ve gotta be doing something right, right?

Since this recipe seems to be working, I’ll just keep stirring. No baking required. 🙂

Navigating a New Novel

Posted on July 8, 2016 by KatieComeBack

So, if you haven’t heard…there’s a new book out that was just released over the July 4 weekend. In case you missed it behind the fireworks and grilled burgers, here it is:

This book was written by this dude:

This is Dan Alatorre.

I’ll admit that I hadn’t heard of Dan before I started writing this blog. But I stumbled on his writings through the magic of the interwebz, and you should follow him for a couple of reasons:

1. If you’re a writer, or want to be one when you grow up, you can get free advice. And, unlike most guidance that one would get from, say, relatives on Facebook, he’s legit, because he’s, like, published, and has sold actual books in real life to real people. Good advice for free – can’t get anything better than that, except maybe the samples at Costco on Saturday. But you have to actually get dressed for that free shot glass of popcorn, as pantsless sampling is frowned upon. And there are no people elbowing you out of the way to get that 1/8″ piece of bacon when you’re online.

2. He’s pretty damn funny. (Most of my imaginary internet friends are.)

Anyway. Back to this new book. I happened to be in the right place at the right time when Dan was asking for beta readers. Because I like to be in on stuff (which is part of the reason I work in HR, so I can know the dirt ahead of time), I raised my hand and scored a copy.

And I devoured it.

This book was like a mental bag of Chicago mix popcorn. Full disclosure here – I didn’t expect to like it that much; it’s not a flavor I generally go for. But once I opened the bag, I kept reaching in for more handfuls of it. I believe it’s listed as a sci-fi thriller – but honestly, it’s not violent, or too “out there” – it’s just a really fun, adventurous read. If you’re one of those who’s maybe not so much into, say, zombies, and liked Dr. Who primarily for David Tennant (Team Tenth Doctor!) you’ll enjoy this.

Here’s my review of the thing:

OK, if you’re reading the description and thinking, “meh, not my genre” – think again. You need to try this book. I swear, I’m not trying to sell you on something you obviously won’t like, like beets in a smoothie.

I do most of my reading on airplanes, since I travel a couple of times a month, and this story was so engaging, I was actually looking forward to getting back on the plane so I could finish it. If you fly a lot, you’ll appreciate how unusual that is.

Anyway – there are unexpected layers to this story – things wrap largely as they should, but not as you’d expect. There are characters you’ll like, and those you’ll love to despise. And you’ll find yourself truly just ENJOYING a darn good story.

Read this, and share it with your older teens, too. (They need to get off the Xbox anyway, right?) This is actually a story my son would like, and that’s as rare as him eating a vegetable.

You can buy this book here. For, like, $3. Which is less than that pretentious cup of crappity coffee you really were trying to quit buying every single morning…right?

Anyway. Because Dan is a sharing kinda guy, I thought it’d be fun to share a few ~~nosy~~ provoking and insightful questions regarding the writing process.

1. What was the most challenging aspect of writing this book? Weather, sticky children, research? What motivated you to plow through it?

Just one? Hmm… well, I was used to writing humor like Savvy Stories in first person but my early chapters of The Navigators had a lot of head hopping – Point Of View issues. That doesn’t fly with a lot of readers, so I had to go back and learn fix that. It’s simple to spot and tricky to fix because we need information conveyed, so we write it; then some critique partner says, “Fred can’t know what Ethel is thinking.” Oops. What motivated me to plow through it was I was getting amazing feedback from my critique partners as I wrote the story. They were so enthusiastic about what I was writing, my energy level soared and I was banging out two and three chapters a week, creating this amazing rollercoaster ride for readers. That excitement shows, too. Readers have found The Navigators to be full of great surprises.

2. Sometimes we write stories in a “wishful thinking” attempt to rewrite our own histories. Was there any aspect of this book that was sprung from a personal experience, and what happened in “real life” that differed from the book’s version? (This could be anything from a small exchange with a character to a larger wish to turn back time.)

Sure, I use my real life in books all the time. Why not? I encourage all new writers to be as real as they can and bring pure emotion to the page, and I do it, too. There are definitely parts of my personal experience that are explored in The Navigators. For example, one of the characters talks about using a time machine to go back and let his daughter see her grandmother. And he makes it more personal by saying “when she was healthy and beautiful and full of life” – indicating that when she died it was from an illness. I have gotten notes from readers indicating they teared up at that passage, and there’s a lot of emotional depth in that part of the book. That is definitely something I would wish in my own life, too, that my daughter would have been able to meet her grandmother.

I use my real life in other places, too, like the dad of the heroine is a pretty strict and powerful type guy, but as soon as his daughter walks in he smiles from ear to ear and gives her a big bear hug and asks if she had breakfast. It’s just very obvious to everybody that the dad really, really loves his daughter – and of course that’s absolutely true of my own life, too. Writers need to do that stuff. Readers sense the humanity and are right there with you. They love it.

3. When your kids get older, what do you hope they’ll say about your works?

In my bestselling series, Savvy Stories, I wrote in the dedication that I hope one day I can hand my daughter a stack of books and say, “Here, this is all about how much fun it was to hang out with you when you were a baby/little kid.” For my novels, I hope she sees that some of the characters are people she knows. The Navigators is a sci-fi thriller but it has a elements that everyone will enjoy, like the dad who loves his daughter very much. I hope my daughter sees the love for her expressed on the page. Readers love their relationship.

4. What was the one food or beverage that made this book possible? BE SPECIFIC.

I’m sure most authors feel as though they are fueled by coffee. Others might cop to imbibing in and adult beverage on occasion. I really don’t do either of those but not for any good reason; I just don’t like the taste of coffee and I don’t drink alcohol very much. However, there is a particular brand of peach mango green tea that I drink by the gallon and if they ever want a product placement endorsement, I am completely open to it because I chug that stuff. Also chocolate. Very good for the creative spirit.

So, there you have it, folks. Everything you didn’t realize you HAD to know about Dan Alatorre. So, even though he’s clearly partially broken (no coffee? seriously?) you should look up his stuff.

Dan’s Amazon Author Page

Dan’s Helpful Blog

Dan’s Most Excellent Books

Where to score YOUR copy of The Navigators

Thanks for playing along, Dan. (He’s a good sport.) Can’t wait to read Poggibonsi!

There Oughta Be a Law…or Not.

Posted on July 2, 2016 by KatieComeBack

I’ve mentioned a number of times that the hubs and I disagree on many major issues – religion and politics being the top two.

Lately, he’s been using his Facebook feed to promote some of his beliefs, largely in the form of petition requests and YouTube clips. Which is fine, of course. It’s his feed, after all. Plus, to be fair, it’s really presenting as more information-sharing, not inflammatory faux-news articles with no substance. (We all have THAT Facebook friend, don’t we? The one who we have to hide or unfollow during politics season because all that’s on his feed is a sewage-filled waterfall of grammatically and factually incorrect drivel?)

So the other night, the hubs posts this:

Source: Credo

Now, before we get rolling too deeply here, please understand that I like holidays. A lot. Because that’s when all the good sales happen. Let’s have a look at the calendar:

January: Happy New Year! Go buy yourself a winter coat, at 50% off.

February: Presidents’ Day. Honor the dead guys printed on money by pulling out your cash, waving it around, and exchanging it for new bed sheets! Not to mention, it’s the week after ~~National Being Single Sucks Day~~ Valentine’s Day, so you can stock up on an eight-pound box of loneliness truffles to christen your linens.

(Side note: When I die, y’all best formally designate the day as something to do with buying new shoes. If you fail to honor my passing in this HIGHLY appropriate manner, I will TOTALLY come back and haunt your sorry @$$ by belching in your ear at completely random and inopportune times, like at funerals, during work meetings, and intimate moments with your boo. So. Kate + Death = National New Shoes Day. Got it?)

March/April: EASTER! Resurrect your wardrobe with a new dress! And if you truly love Jesus, you’ll honor His sacrifice by buying your toddler an insanely expensive, elaborate frock, complete with ruffles and bows, which will be worn for exactly sixty-five minutes while she squirms incessantly, whines about it being itchy, spills Communion juice down the front of it, and promptly proceeds to outgrow it as soon as you exit the pews. (Depressed about this? No worries, the candy’s all on sale tomorrow. Stock up on chocolate-covered therapy and gnaw the shiz outta those bunny ears.)

May: Memorial Day! Time to honor those who died while they served by grilling processed meat tubes in your new summer duds! Never mind that they were all made in China. (The clothes. Not the hot dogs. Although I make no guarantees if you bought your pseudo-food at Discount Dollar Dump.)

July: Independence Day! The US emancipated itself from Mom and Dad and celebrated by throwing a kicka$$ party and lighting things on fire. (Come on, when YOU were sixteen, you’d have treated newfound freedom exactly the same way.) Oddly, this seems to be the time of year for appliance and mattress sales. While I could insert a few too-easy-and-tasteless jokes about fireworks and mattresses, I’m still scratching my head over appliances. So I Googled, and found a few examples of why one might need something like a new microwave after the holiday:

September: Labor Day. We celebrate working Americans by kicking the kids off the Xbox and shipping them back to school – in new clothes, of course, as well as new backpacks and new shoes (And you know how THAT goes. One for you, two for me….)

Christmas: Ah…the season of greed and debauchery, where we all get sucked into the annual quagmire of buffets, potlucks, stilettos, and family obligations. We cram an entire year’s worth of guilt and unmet expectations into this six-week period, eating and buying pretty much everything that isn’t Gorilla Glued to the floor. The shopping season used to start on the day after Thanksgiving; now it pretty much starts on Thanksgiving Day and runs through January 2, at which point we start the year over again.

But we were talking about voting, not shopping.

I can certainly agree that not enough people exercise their right to vote. A pathetic 57.5% of eligible voters showed up for our last big election in 2012.

And one might sit and wonder why.

And that same person might think, “Hey! I’ll bet it’s because people are too busy. So let’s give everyone the day off so more people vote!”

And this right here is a prime example of one of those things that SOUNDS simple…but once you look at execution, is WAY more complicated than you’d think.

First, declaring a “national holiday” only means that banks and the government will be closed. And your mail won’t be delivered. (Which is super annoying, because you’ll invariably forget that there’s no mail that day, and check anyway. Even though there’s never anything you really WANT in the mail. Unless it’s your birthday or something, 99% of mail goes right in the recycle bin. Yet, most of us are still looking in there every day, regardless, as if one day the Mail Genie will appear and grant us three winning entries to Publisher’s Clearing House.)

Think about it…who stays open on holidays? Well, there’s nursing homes and hospitals, of course. Then you’ve got the service industries, like restaurants. Don’t think for a moment that Taco Bell and Mickey D’s will lose a day of revenue over this – I mean, you gotta eat more than ya gotta vote. Transportation will be running, as well. Cab drivers will work. Buses will run (they HAVE to, or how will people GET to the polling station?) Planes won’t be grounded, either. They fly every day, Christmas and Thanksgiving included. And, because everyone gets along so well when discussing the merits of their candidates, I sure hope the police station stays open, too.

And let’s ask ourselves something: If you find yourself with a day off mid-week, how many of you are really going to spend it voting? In the US, we get so few days off from work – with no mandatory leave whatsoever – will we be motivated to spend those precious, cherished free hours waiting in line to cast a vote for one of two blowhards we’re not terrifically enthused about? Oh, and remember, because it’s a holiday, daycare’s closed, so you’ve got your kids in tow. But don’t worry, everyone else’s sticky, rambunctious offspring will be there, too. THAT can only end well. <eyeroll> I suspect, though, if we’re completely honest with ourselves, many of us will use the day to recharge – we’ll sleep in, get a pedicure, have a late lunch, and yes, go shopping – instead of “wasting” half of it at the polling station.

Another thing to remember: just because a day is a holiday doesn’t mean anyone has to be paid for that day. No employer is obligated to pay for hours not worked. There are some limited exceptions, of course, like jury duty pay in some states, paid leave for bone marrow donation in Minnesota , and the many states and cities providing for paid sick leave. (Note that this shiz is pretty much changing daily, so if you’re trying to find the current law for your location, Google it.)

Now, let’s say that you work for an employer who DOES decide add this new holiday to the list of paid holidays. Even if an employer added this as a paid holiday, most of their part-time workers wouldn’t be eligible, because part-time employees usually don’t get benefits. So you lose a day of pay if you’re a part-time person and your employer closes, generally. And who’s working part-time hours? Well, a lot of people:

Source: AdvisorPerspectives

OK, full disclosure: I have no clue what this graph means. But it looks rather patriotic, dontcha think? Anyway, as an example, Wal-Mart has a ton of part-time employees who theoretically wouldn’t be eligible for holiday pay…but they’re also not likely to be closed on Election Day, either. Heck, they were open on Thanksgiving Day last year. I know because I went. (Yes, I recognize that this makes me part of the problem.) They had cops there at the ready to break up the anticipated brawls over crappy TVs, but sadly, it was a complete snoozefest. I was sorely disappointed at the general civility and lack of WWE antics. Come ON, America. HAVE WE LOST ALL SENSE OF TRADITION?

Ah, well.

Another thing to consider here is that many states already have laws in place allowing time off to vote. Some states even require that you get paid time off to vote. So what happens to those laws if the President declares a national holiday? I imagine they won’t be officially repealed, but they certainly could be. At the least, they’d be largely redundant. And it might be cheaper for an employer to close – and pay no one for the day, because they don’t have to – than to try to stay open and schedule everyone around their voting activities.

With all that said, employees DO need to understand their rights around voting, and pursue remedies if they’re discouraged from doing so. A lot was sacrificed to GIVE you this right, and the best way to honor those efforts is to cast your ballot.

Source: Truthdig

But if we DO get a holiday out of the deal, I promise I won’t judge you for exercising your rights in your new Dr. Martens. (Because I only judge Crocs. But don’t let that keep you from voting.)

These boots were made for votin’….

Have a great 4th, peeps! <insert fireworks and sparklers>

Carrots in My Carryon

My emotional baggage is packed with food

Category Archives: General Thoughts

Organizing the Next Chapter

Dipping into Fall and Falling into Dip

Searching for Butterflies

Days of Wine and…Popcorn

Reblog: How to be Less of an A$$#ole in Life and Relationships

The Lessons of a Legacy

Analyzing the Angry

Creative Games and Cookie Names

Navigating a New Novel

There Oughta Be a Law…or Not.

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