Category Archives: General Thoughts

Quiche Me and Tell Me You Love Me

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“If you could only have one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

The other night, I decided it’d be fun to play a little game.

I’m sure you’ve played similar games.  The difference here is that when YOU played them, you were probably twelve years old.  Or maybe you used these types of getting-to-know-you questions when you were first dating the person you eventually ended up life-partnering with.

I, however, play these games with the hubs whenever they pop into my head, which is usually at 10:15 at night, when the lights have been shut off, the wind machine is purring, and he’s four millimeters away from a sound snore.  This is, coincidentally, precisely the time my brain kicks on and starts rattling off all the anxieties of the day, magnifying them from paper cuts into amputations, and peppering them with some random “never gonna happen” crap that, in the light of day, barely even makes SENSE to worry about.

It goes like this.  (You know this one.  Hum along and join me when I get to the chorus.)

About a half hour before you want to go to bed, you start your “good sleep hygiene” routine.  Phone off.  Melatonin.  Lavender.  After a few minutes, you start to get a bit sleepy, so you go through your nightly rituals:  Face, teeth.  Floss, cream, rinse.  Contacts.  Tweezers.  Cozy jammies.

You crawl into your bed and settle onto the memory-foam-topped mattress, preheated by your electric blanket.  Ahh.

Lights off.

And suddenly, your brain comes to LIFE, translating “siesta” into “FIESTA!!” and smashing the serenity piñata wide open, spilling mental trinkets and brightly-colored snippets of images everywhere:

Work?  Will be impossible tomorrow.  Plane overhead?  Crashing into your roof.  Kid got the sniffles?  It’s meningitis.  And you have it too.  Hubs a bit distant?  International love affair.  (OK, too soon.)  And let’s throw in there the fear of random shootings, traffic deaths, and aneurysms.  ALL HAPPENING TOMORROW YO.  Or maybe tonight, while you sleep.  HAHAHA AS IF SLEEP IS GOING TO HAPPEN.

It’s like my mind is the opposite of solar-powered.  I’m working on powering down, and then BOOM!  Activity kersplosion all over my pillow.  Lights (out), camera, ACTION, cue the panic parade with the giant cartoonish balloons barely tethered to earth.

So, in desperate need of a mental detour, I drop deep, thought-provoking questions like these on the hubs JUST as he’s floating off the cliff of consciousness.

“If you could only have one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

Now, I never really considered this to be a valid life-compatibility screening tool.  I really just wanted a distraction from the maniacal hyperstimulation of my mind’s runaway imagination.

But his answer surprised me. (Well, the second answer.  The first answer sounded more like “mmmzzzkkbk…rrrrruh…what, hon?”  Bless his heart.  He really takes my special brand of quirky in stride.  Whereas if he tries to wake ME up, he loses a finger.)

“Hmm.  Well, it would have to be something that offers a nutritional variety.  So it’d have to have some veggies in it, some protein.  Obviously, it’d need to have a lot of ingredients so I don’t get bored.  Something like an egg bake.”

An egg bake?  AN EGG BAKE?!?!

To be clear, I have nothing against egg bakes.  In fact, I often make this one:

From http://www.thekitchn.com

(If you cut the recipe in half, it bakes very nicely in a pie plate.  Plus it’s super versatile; you can use any veggies you get in your crop share.  Kale, shredded carrots, onion.  I often skip the meat, use whatever cheese is fifteen seconds from molding in the fridge, and add garlic and splash hot sauce over it when I eat it.  It’s delish.)

But “egg bake” is sooooo NOT the answer to this question.    What you’re supposed to do here is name your absolutely favorite food ever, the one you love so much that you want to marry it and eat its babies too.

Clearly, HE WAS PLAYING THE GAME ALL WRONG.  (I guess he wasn’t invited to many preteen slumber parties as a child.)  By applying logic and rational thought to this question, he TOTALLY messed up the answer.  And after I got done laughing at him, I told him so – and shared a MUCH more appropriate response:

“See, for ME, the answer would have to be either pizza, or chocolate.  Although a world without chocolate would be tragic and largely pointless, I know I can ALWAYS eat pizza.  Even when I don’t feel well.  But…WAIT!  What I could TOTALLY do?  I could invent a NEW pizza that is normal pizza in the middle, but the crust has Hershey kisses BAKED INTO IT, so I would have, like, DESSERT after EVERY SLICE.  Now THAT I could live off of for forever and ever.”

<smugly pausing so you can admire my amazing genius here>

After he rolled over and went to sleep, though, I had some time to think about this.  (All night, actually.  YAY ANXIETY.)   And because I had all night to ponder either homeless cats or egg bake, I started to see some interesting parallels between how we approach this type of question and how we attempt to navigate relationships.

When we start dating, we swoon over a really good thin-crust pizza.  We do naughty things with chocolate bars, and open our minds to the possibility of inviting peanut butter to the party.  (Not mint though.  That’s just disturbing.)  Our senses are heightened, we’re over-stimulated, and we stuff ourselves with emotion, drama, and longing.  When presented with a hot, fresh, gooey pizza, logic and rational thought about a balanced diet fly out the window on a cloud of basil, garlic, and oregano.   Thougths of physical fitness can EASILY be buried under piles of rich hot fudge and fluffy whipped cream.

That’s all tomorrow.  That’s later.  I want this NOW.

But when we think about what we’re looking for in a life partner…doesn’t it look a little more like an egg bake?  Stable.  Balanced.  Sustaining.  Nourishing.

It certainly almost never resembles junk food; it’s not a thing that brings only momentary pleasure followed by disappointment and discomfort that leaves you simultaneously sort of disgusted with yourself, yet craving more.

I suppose this is the difference between lust and love.

And I’d also guess that this is the root of demise for many relationships.  You date the pizza, you marry the pizza, you try to build a life with pizza, only to find that you can’t realistically LIVE on pizza.  So you try to turn him into chocolate-crust pizza.  But pizza was never SUPPOSED to be dessert.  It was a whole food on its own; when you tried to change it, it SOUNDED like a great idea, but the chocolate melted into the red sauce and mixed with the pepperoni grease, making you not only realize that this was a terrible idea, but also turning you off from something you used to love.

Because once you eat pizza with chocolate chips, odds are you’re going to be off pizza for a bit.

It’s not a terribly romantic thought to know you’re someone’s egg bake.   I mean – snore.  Wouldn’t you rather be someone’s Seven Layer Chocolate Sin cake?  That’s passionate, romantic – splurgeworthy.

But, now that I think about it, it’s really better to build our lives around a good, solid, reliable egg bake.  Good for us.  Makes us better and stronger.  Sustains us.  Feeds our souls.

Asking someone to be your egg bake might sound kind of droll.  And it could be, but only if you let it.

The beauty of the egg bake is that you have a solid base, and you can mix up the recipe to match your mood and your need.  When life hands you carrots, shred ’em and toss ’em in.  Too much kale?  Wilt it and see what happens.  Radishes?  Well, we can try it once.  Watching your cholesterol?  Reduce the cheese.  Need iron?  Spinach is the green leafy of the day.

And it certainly can’t hurt to add a dash of hot sauce now and then.

Just don’t try to pour caramel sauce over it.

Soul Shopping: Walking the Marketplace

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So yesterday I was looking for something different* to do, and I stumbled upon a local Holistic Expo.

*Different than raking the massive amount of leaves in the yard. Seriously, I do not live in a freaking forest – where did they all COME from?!  And I didn’t PUT them there, why on EARTH should I have to pick them up? Whoever spilled them should be vacuuming that shiz up, yo. PICK UP YOUR OWN TOYS.  Gaaaah.

The Expo description:

“an inspired event focused on sharing the finest holistic approaches available in the Upper Midwest. It is an emporium of gifts, products and information to support holistic life — including health, ecology, community and a balance of mind, body and spirit.”

Hmm. Sounds interesting. Finding my balance is part of why I’m here. And if I can find it for $9, that’s pretty awesome.  If I don’t, I’m only out the cost of a pizza, and I certainly do NOT need* pizza. Plus, gifts = jewelry, and what girl can’t use a little more bling, right?

*Yeah, as soon as we left the expo, we immediately went out for pizza. It was delicious.

I’ll admit I’ve always been curious about psychics and have toyed with the idea of getting an “official” reading done.  The closest I’ve come was a tarot card mini-reading done virtually by a friend of a friend, who said that the card indicated money was coming my way surrounding my career.  What she didn’t know was that a few weeks earlier I’d chucked my resume out to the universe after a couple of rough days at work.  Subsequently, I’d been interviewing at a company and was dangerously close to an offer.  Turns out I got that offer…but decided I didn’t really want to leave my current gig.  I talked to my boss, and he not only matched the offer, but he also gave me a compressed work week.  BAZINGA.  So it could have been entirely coincidental, but I can’t deny that the reading was accurate.

So.  Expo.  With the hubs.

Yeah…the hubs decided to come along.  I’ve mentioned before that our relationship’s had a bit of a shakeup recently.  But…we’re working on things.  And by “working on things,” I mean he’s groveling and being SuperHubs, and I’m selfishly soaking it all in.  And we’re talking things out. A lot.  And he desperately wants to be here, and wants to be with me, and when I reflect on the entire relationship, I wonder if it really makes sense to let one blowout on the highway ruin the entire road trip, and if we keep making progress, we just might be okay.

When we got there, we discovered that the tickets were not $9…but 2/$10. Score! Now I’m only out the cost of a a pint of ice cream* if this whole thing is a bust.

*You guessed it. I ate this last night, too. Technically, I didn’t finish it, though. Well, not until this morning, because, well, it was still THERE. Man, I suck.

Chocolate Peanut Butter Swirl

The Expo had over 80 vendors who provided a huge variety of services that fall under the spiritual umbrella.  And apparently, that umbrella could shade Rhode Island, because it was awfully broad.  Sure, there were a lot of psychic mediums, spiritual counselors and healers, aura photos/readings (I had one done a while ago), Reiki/energy healers, and tarot card readers, like you’d expect.

There were also several jewelry vendors.  OK, technically, this was relevant because the jewelry was crystals and minerals and stuff.  But when you put it in wearable form I forget a lot of that. Because PRETTY.

(My poor hubs.  He thought he was attending a vendor show where he’d have the opportunity to flex his skeptical muscles, but instead was surreptitiously suckered into looking at MILES AND MILES OF JEWELRY instead.  HAHAHA #vindicationbling #allthatglittersisrevenge)

And yes, OF COURSE I bought something. Because I am weak I deserve it.  And I love this:

spiderblingThe stone is Ruby in Fuchsite.  The description of its powers: “Perfect heart stone. Enhances connection to spiritual realm. Promotes contentment and peace.”  OK, I bought it because it looks cool, but I can appreciate the message all the same.  🙂

Most of the vendors seemed to be in line with the expo’s description – but there were a few head-scratchers:

Health & Beauty items. Beauty?  I sort of thought the point of this inner peace and tranquility scene was to not focus so much on the outer shell of your soul. But there were a few vendors who wanted to fix your skin and cellulite all the same.  Maybe that near-death bright light is brutal on your complexion, having the same effect that dressing-room fluorescent bulbs have on thigh ripples during swimsuit season.

Of course, there were the ubiquitous home-based businesses for essential oils, and a couple places offered herbal lotions. One dude insisted on demonstrating his cleanser on the back of my hand. (Ooh, that sounded dirty.)  Normally, I’m pretty good at dodging aggressive vendors, but there were pretty, sparkly crystals EVERYWHERE and he caught me completely off-guard while I was literally distracted by something shiny. Fortunately, being surrounded by crystals and all, I was too Zen peaceful to punch him in the face as he touted the benefits of this cleanser while massaging it into my hand.

(To be fair, the cleanser was super moisturizing…but it had an odd smell that for a while, I couldn’t place. Then it hit me. Cumin. Cumin?? Was he…basting me? Is this how a turkey feels before it goes into the four-hour sauna?)

Diet aids.   Sure enough, one vendor was peddling some sort of 10-day Power Green “cleanse.”  Yes, even at a spiritual expo, the pressure’s on to lose weight.  <grumble> Dude, I can barely stick to a FREE diet for ten days. Unless it contains hallucinogens, or adhesives to glue my lips together, I GUARANTEE you I can outsmart it. (Despite the free samples, I kept walking.)

Another vendor was selling something called “Living Water.” Uh…living? I don’t know about YOU, but once I see Living + Water, that’s a hearty helping of NOPE in my glass. Water is supposed to be…well, not dead, really, but certainly NOT “living.”  And once you start using descriptors like “plasma” there is no way in freaking HELL you are getting that shiz anywhere near my gyro hole. Nope nope nopity nope NO.  The eerily-smiling vendor offered Dixie cups of what I’m certain was zombie afterbirth.  Startled, I darted into a chiropractic booth to keep the water from catching the smell of fear and chasing me.

A toe reader. Toe reader. !!!  This person was legit doing life readings by LOOKING AT PEOPLE’S NASTY SWEATY BARE MAN HOOVES.  Seriously. <shudder>

I declined, because let’s face it, feet are gross.  That said, I REALLY wanted the hubs to do this.  Why?  Suffice it to say he does NOT have pretty feet. I mean – three words: hairy, crooked toes.  (I’ll spare you the picture.  YOU’RE WELCOME.)  But it’d have been worth the cost just for the sheer entertainment value of horrifying the vendor.  Plus, I’m sort of dying to know what on EARTH disfigured fuzzy hobbit flippers say about a person.   But sadly, I spent my cash on pizza and ice cream (see above.)  Ah well.

A custom home remodeling company.   It escapes me how this is relevant, but these people are EVERYWHERE, so while their attendance was illogical, it wasn’t surprising.

We spent several hours milling about the different displays and perusing their wares. And I dove right in to my knapsack of adventure and took the opportunity to have not one, but four different readings.  (Apparently, I will not miss the opportunity to binge, even at a psychic fair.)

My readings:

  • Two psychics – one focusing on past lives
  • Palm and tarot card reading
  • A tattoo reading (Did you even know there WAS such a thing?  Me neither.  Apparently, they read scars and interpret dreams, too.  Well huh.) 

I’m still mulling over the details of what I heard.  My mental jury’s still out on things like past lives, and I know this is only for entertainment purposes, yada yada yada.

But regardless, the experience was fascinating, interesting, insightful, and inspiring.   It was much like a cerebral fortune cookie – most of what’s inside probably applies to a lot of folks, but if I can use that little slip of paper to give myself a push in the direction of healing and peace, AND get a little something sweet out of it, it was well worth the price of admission.

Speaking of fortune cookies…Interestingly, much like the hallmark of Chinese food, about an hour after the expo, I was hungry for more.

So, in the meantime….I’d love to hear YOUR stories.  Have you had your cards or palm read?  Been to a psychic?  Share your experiences – feed my need until I can go back for more without looking like a spiritual glutton!  😀

Fueling the Food Beast

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Have you ever monitored a toddler’s diet?

If you have kids, you probably remember the many, many questions you had about the proper feeding of a two-year-old:

How long can a sippy cup stay out of the fridge before we risk botulism?

Are six bites of turkey really enough to sustain this kid until dinnertime?

That’s a remarkable diaper load for six bites of turkey.  Oh, look….he apparently ate a blue crayon, too.

Please don’t tell me he’s chewing on the French fry we gave the cat to play with.

<at a ballpark, or church>  Oh look, he’s eating…um…a saltine?  WHERE DID HE FIND A SALTINE CRACKER?!?

(Side note:  Rest assured, I totally did not poison my kids.  Well, not on purpose, anyway.  You do the best you can, but those suckers are quick when they wanna be.  Toddlers totally fool you with their propensity for copious amounts of drool and general lack of motor control.  You let your guard down and risk a quick blink, and when you open your eyes you find them covered with a massive wad of ick.  This is why my daughter’s first solid food was actually a ladybug.  But we were just notified yesterday that she received a full scholarship to the university of her choice, so either bugs are good for you, or they clearly didn’t slow her down much. #mombrag)

Anyway.  The point here is that toddlers’ lives aren’t focused on food.  To them, food is fuel.

Kids have a normal, healthy relationship with food.  When they’re hungry, their little bodies TELL them to eat – so they reluctantly stop trying to draw on the cat with a Sharpie, and find Mom or Dad to demand a snack.  And when they’ve had enough, and are no longer hungry, they throw the rest of their food on the floor so they can be released from the restraints of the high chair and go do something devious fun or educational.

Toddlers don’t eat when they’re bored or when they’re sad.  They have lessons to learn, things to break explore….They’d MUCH rather be playing, or throwing a tantrum, or plotting to smear something red and sticky on something CLEARLY not meant to be sullied, like the wall, the couch, or the carpet, than sit down and refuel.

Simply put, toddlers have better things to do than center their lives around food.

That must be so very…freeing.

I mean, these kids – babies, really – have a completely unadulterated approach to food.  Get some when you need it, forget about it when you don’t.  It’s that simple.

<insert philosophical quote about the innocence of youth>

I cannot be the only person to whom this seems to be a completely foreign concept.  Can I?

Dr. P (the therapist) and I talked about this a bit.  Eating “normally” is a long-range goal for me.  (Or so SHE says.  I’m not quite ready to accept “normal” if it makes the scale go up.  Sigh.  She’s got her work cut out for her, that’s for sure.)

But what does “normal” even LOOK like?

Maybe I can learn something from my toddler days?

<looks under hotel bed for abandoned potato chip>

OK, maybe notsomuch.  I mean…yuck. <shudder>

But defining “normal” eating isn’t all that easy.  We can define an eating disorder pretty quickly – here’s an example found on ANAD.org*:

An eating disorder is an unhealthy relationship with food and weight that interferes with many areas of a person’s life. One’s thoughts become preoccupied with food, weight or exercise. A person who struggles with an eating disorder can have unrealistic self-critical thoughts about body image, and his or her eating habits may begin to disrupt normal body functions and affect daily activities.

*National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders.  You’re welcome.

So whatever we consider “normal” eating isn’t…that.  Okay.

Perhaps it means tossing the food scales, deleting the food tracking apps on my phone, and just eating when I’m hungry, stopping when I’m full, and letting my body weigh what it wants to.

Sounds simple.  But then, the most complicated things often do.

Sadly, one of the consequences of a life filled with the all-or-nothing yin-yang of food extremes is that you completely lose the ability to discern when you’re actually hungry.  It makes sense, really – if you’ve spent years spinning yourself around in a constant complete 180 between splurging and starving, dieting and binge-eating, deprivation and indulgence – is it any wonder that I have no natural ability to know when and what I need to eat?

After 30+ (!!!) years of gaining and losing weight – of alternating between Dieting:  Extreme Edition and gorging on the all-you-can-eat platter at the Screwitall Grand Buffet – I have no idea – zero – on how to listen to my body.

I’ve spent most of my life basically flinging my appetite back and forth violently between the ceiling and the floor trying to break it.  It should be no surprise that I’ve been successful.

Left to my own devices, I truly think I could go for days without feeling hunger.  And then, once I realized that yeah, I probably need to eat something, the dam would break wide open, and it’s all HIDE YOUR KIDS, HIDE YOUR WIFE in my kitchen.

My fridge be all like:

(Retro meme from back in the day for y’all)

In all seriousness – very occasionally I feel hunger – but not often.  But when I “allow” myself free reign – eating what I “want” – I can eat WELL past the “full” point, until my stomach is sporting a food baby that would fool the eye of the most experienced midwife, and I seriously do NOT have room even for the legendary wafer-thin mint. (Bonus points if you know the reference.  My apologies if you didn’t, and clicked on the link, and now cannot unsee it.  I truly am sorry.  Here’s a bucket.)

When I’m in “food mode,” I can easily keep up, volume-wise, with my 6’4″ hubs and I blow right past my 15-year-old.  Yes, I can eat more than a growing teenage boy.  Why is there no trophy for that?!  (Probably the same reason that there is no award for stopping up a commode that you bought SPECIFICALLY because it can flush an ENTIRE BUCKET OF GOLF BALLS.  Not that this has EVER happened.  If it did, I’m not sure whether the perpetrator (poopetrator?) should be mortified or impressed.  Probably both.  But that’s beside the point because THIS IS ENTIRELY FICTIONAL AND TOTALLY DID NOT HAPPEN.  GOT IT?)

Maybe I’m actually part camel.  Perhaps eating nothing for weeks and then EVERYTHING in a day is normal…for me.

This is FINE, as long as my body does what my mind wants it to and drops ten pounds.  But that clearly isn’t how it works for the camel.

camel:

That’s hott.

I very much do NOT wish to resemble a camel, in any way, shape or form.  But I suppose being cool with my body, regardless of its size, is PROBABLY part of this whole “normal” dealio.

Right?

Except….what woman in the US is OK with her body as-is?

Anyone?  Anyone?

<crickets>

We know that nearly 35% of the US population is obese.  And despite the fact that only (only!) 1 in 5 American women are on a diet – and that this number’s lower than it was a few years earlier, when it was closer to 1 in 3 – we’re not happy about how we look.  It turns out that two-thirds of women are trying to lose weight, and 39% of us let it impede our happiness.

I guess we’re just not using the d-word to describe all the meal-skipping, raw vegan, high-protein gluten avoidance we’re trying.  Diets are so 1990s, anyway.  It’s all lifestyle choice, right? Or was that what we were calling it in 2005?  <head scratch>

Regardless of whatever label we’re slapping ourselves with this week, a lot of us are still desperately trying to be thinner.

So…given all that….what, then, is normal?

And if I’m not clear on the what, how on earth do I find the how?

I don’t wanna be a camel.  I want to be a car.  Cars have it pretty easy – they have a gauge right on the dashboard that tells you how full or empty they are.  (They even have a little arrow to tell you WHERE TO PUT THE FUEL.  Well, unless you’re Nissan, then SCREW YOU, I guess.)

gasgaugesucks

Actual gas gauge from actual rental car. Actual WTF moment.

And once you get the pump set up?  It automatically SHUTS OFF when the tank is full.  It’s nearly* idiot-proof, stopping when the car’s had “enough.”

*Yes, I still occasionally get gas on my shoes.  Because I even overfeed my car.  I HAVE A SERIOUS PROBLEM.

It’d be hella easier if we had dashboard gas gauges.  Maybe I can get one installed with the next upgrade.

Until then, we’re stuck trying to tame the food monster.  Which makes a harmless, innocent cookie…

giantcookie

Ginormous cookie served BETWEEN lunch and dinner at a recent conference. Because OBVIOUSLY sitting on your duff learning about the Affordable Care Act works up an appetite. Note size of cookie relative to pen. Yowsa.

…look a bit menacing.

pepperface

ROASTED RED PEPPER REVENGE YO

I’m not sure I can wrestle the monster back into its cage.  I think after 30 years of having unrestricted freedom, it’s gonna put up a fight.  And frankly, I’m not sure I’m ready to invest the effort and energy to work on containing the beast.

But I do know that food isn’t a monster.  Food isn’t the enemy.

The enemy is the one staring back at me in the mirror.  And she’s gonna be pretty tough to tame.

The Artificial Tang of Banana Candy

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Despite the overabundance of Christmas decorations you see in every retail shop in America, this is NOT the “most wonderful time of the year” for HR.

Why?  It’s because, in addition to the normal chorus of Stupid Employee Tricks, it’s the time of year where everything is due at once.  Right now I’m working on a few of the following:

Annual AAP and EEOC reporting (the latter is finished.  The former?  SHOOT ME.  I mean, I’m all about diversity.  It’s the mind-numbing minutiae of government documentation that makes all of us approach this task with the enthusiasm and vigor of preparing our taxes or heading to a root canal.)

Open Enrollment – the annual event where HR pulls you all together and shoots confusing terminology and abbreviations at you for a full sixty minutes.  The end result of this meeting is the expectation that you place you order for your own personalized combo platter of a pre-tax alphabet soup that you’ll pay a couple thousand dollars for. On the menu are PPO, with or without FSA (dependent care, medical, or BOTH); OR HDHP, with or without HSA (so study those co-insurances and copays, folks!); LTD and STD, the latter of which cannot be cleared up by antibiotics, and you really DO want, just in case, and and let’s not forget to remind ourselves of the benefits of our EAP and 401(k).

<head explodes>

(Side note – Seriously, folks.  You’re probably spending upwards of $2000 on insurance – take an hour or two and READ the stuff HR gives you.  We don’t print it because we are budding novelists desperate to see our names in print.  We do it as an attempt to educate you on what we know is an overwhelming, confusing, and expensive topic.  I’ll bet the last time you bought an electronic device, or a new appliance, you spent HOURS poring over Consumer Reports and Amazon reviews, determined to get the best value.  And that likely didn’t cost you HALF of what you’ll spend on insurance.  So take a stab at actually using the tools HR gives you.  This is a much bigger – and more expensive – decision than whether you need a built-in ice maker or not.)

Performance Reviews:  Ah…my favorite.  And by “favorite,” I mean “time of year I most frequently question my career choice.”  And by “choice,” I mean “where I accidentally landed after discovering that most people lack the chutzpah to tell someone when they’re getting canned.”

Anyway.

Your performance review is supposed to be the time of year where you get dedicated attention from your boss – where she actually has an in-depth conversation with you about your job performance, your career potential, and your future with your organization.

What it often ends up being is a quick meeting where you get a pencil-whipped checklist from your boss, where you were arbitrarily rated, like wine, cheese, or earbuds, on a scale of 1-5.  This scale is meant to capture the full spectrum of performance, with a rating of one meaning “unable to safely operate a crayon” and five being “not only walks on water, but turns it into wine when he’s done.”

Often, you and your peers are force-ranked – this means that your company has set quotas on how many people can sit in which seats on the rank bus – so most of you are solidly in Seat 3, which is Neutral, or Neither Agree Nor Disagree, or “Does my boss even know my name?”

Suffice it to say I’m not a huge fan of performance reviews.  What should happen is that you have clear job expectations, and you receive frequent feedback from your supervisor so you know EXACTLY how you’re doing every week of your job.  Feedback should be an ongoing process, not a once-a-year event.

But I’ll let you in on a little secret – most managers completely suck at managing.  (OK, admittedly, that’s not much more a secret than water being wet.)  Most of them are pretty candy-a$$* about telling you when you’re doing something wrong.

*I tried to find another word here, because although in real life I swear like the mechanic I was raised by, I try to keep my blog pretty clean.  But Thesaurus.com didn’t have ANY synonyms for “candy-a$$” –  it came up empty: “Did you mean cantatas?”  Uh, no.  Choir peeps may SOUND all innocent when they’re blasting through Vivaldi’s Gloria, but don’t let the robes fool you – they will TOTALLY cut a b!tch.  Especially the altos.  Those chicks are dark.

The point here is that if HR didn’t force managers to write down how you’re doing once a year, you’d never actually know, well, at least, not until the day you get called to HR and your boss is waiting there with the exit packet.

So that’s why your company does performance reviews.  And that’s also why your review tastes oddly like banana candy.

Laffy Taffy - bite-size banana - tub of 145:

Bananarama / Banana Runts - Bulk:

Banana Candy SHOULD be good.  I mean – SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR.  Right?  It’s sweet.  It has a fun, bright color that should signal a party in your mouth.

But it just doesn’t taste good. The sweetness is cloying.  The flavor is…odd.  Unpleasant.

And it certainly tastes NOTHING like an actual banana.  It’s totally fake.  I mean, it has the COLOR of a banana, and because you’re told that it’s supposed to taste like an actual banana, you eat it and play along.

But if this candy was, say, blue, and shaped like a prickly pear?  No way would that shiz stay in your mouth.  You’d spit it out.  You’d agree pretty quickly that it was nasty, artificial crap that has absolutely no business being called food.

But when we’re told that it’s supposed to be something we normally find palatable, we dutifully nod and swallow it.

You see how this is much like your annual performance review?

It’s supposed to taste just like a banana.

Incidentally, this is how I’m feeling in my marriage lately.  I’m trying to recover from the  “incident” from a few weeks ago, and I’d been doing remarkably well, actually.

Then I made the decision to go back to therapy.  I had my first return visit on Friday.

As it turns out, I’ve been feeding myself a whole heckuva lot of banana candy.

That whole inner peace thing I’ve been carrying around like Fall’s must-have Tory Burch backpack?  Fake.  Forced.  Surreal.

I’ve spent the last two days in the uncomfortable spot of really feeling the feels.  Oh, and eating them.  I demolished a 26-oz bag of this in under 24 hours.  (Add THAT to the list of “can never buy again.”  Curse you, Costco.):

can't buy THIS again, either. EVER.:

For you math geeks, that’s almost two pounds of popcorn, folks.  3,640 calories.

Now THAT is one big-azz banana.

Yesterday, the hubs took me for a massage.  (Which should have been nice.  But all the nice things he’s doing for me lately feel artificial, too.  Despite his insistence on the authenticity of his actions, I can’t accept them as acts of love; they feel like guilt gifts.  Obligatory offerings.  Choco-flavored maraschino-esque balls of goo.)

I cried for much of the massage.  As the masseuse worked my shoulders out of my ears, I watched big, fat tears of heartache fall through the face pillow and onto the floor.  I wanted them to take some of the anguish with them, but all they did was broadcast it, displaying my hurt for everyone to see.

I spent the rest of the day hiding under a cold, dark cloud that I pulled over my face and head to shut the world out.

My homework from therapy is to let myself experience the emotions I have.  I guess now that the popcorn bag is empty (EMPTY.  seriously @(#@#WTF*$@!!!!) I can start to do that.  Dr. P encouraged me to sit with these feelings.  They’re admittedly (and obviously) unpleasant.  But eating doesn’t lessen them, nor make them disappear.  It only postpones them.  They lie in wait until you’re ready to deal with them.  It’s like sheets in the washing machine.  Eventually, if they sit there long enough, you’ll need to rewash them once in a while.  But they won’t get dried and put away until you begin the arduous task of taking them outside to dry on the line, hanging them one corner at a time.

I hate feeling this way.

I don’t want to have these feelings any more.

I’m really, really sick of this damn banana.

But I guess if I want to really heal, I need to eat every stinking bite of it.  I’ll need to force myself to choke down one piece at a time, brown spots and all.

Not So Twitterpated – Help a Gal Out!

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I am CLEARLY showing my age here by my complete lack of instinct when it comes to technology.

It’s not my fault.  When I was a kid, the phone was attached to the wall, and postcards went in the mailbox.

Sigh.

Tonight started with a food binge that spiralled quickly out of control.  Once all the food was gone, it morphed into online shoe shopping.

In order to break the cycle of excess, I decided it’d be cool to have a Twitter account.

I mean, that’s fun.  Right? Or, at least, distracting?  BECAUSE DON’T I NEED ANOTHER TIME SUCK?

And it has to be easy, because everyone is doing it. Right?

I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE WHAT I AM DOING.

You can follow me there…but how do I find all you lovely people?

Gimme your handle or nom-de-at-sign or whatevs, and I’ll follow ya.

Love and shoes,

Kate.  AKA @carrotkatie

Midweek Marketing: Going Against the Grain

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As you know, I started this blog  with the intent of focusing on recovery.  But as of late, I’m not feeling all that brave, especially after recent events, and more especially because I’m just coming off a two-day food bender, and subsequently have gained two freaking @Q#(#@$(#@* pounds, which will take me four weeks and a blowtorch to undo. IF I’M LUCKY.

*insert a few more expletives.  Colorful, vibrant, grandmother-shocking expletives. 

UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH

Transitioning from a full-on binge to “normal” (read: diet.  re-read:  not) eating is tough.  Your body is coming off its sugar high, and the afterburn sends mixed messages to your brain.  And by “mixed” I mean that every voice inside your head, along with a few it’s recruited from the outside, are SCREAMING at you to EAT EAT EAT EAT.

Blah.

Two f(#@*F&G** pounds.

**More expletives, please.  Get creative, peeps!  Use your favorites as noun, verb, and adjective. 

So, while I’m sitting on my hands trying not to stuff my face with both Ben and Jerry, I’ll leave you with some of the other random thoughts in my head.

A few days ago, Nikki at The Undiagnosed Warrior was kind enough to nominate me for the Encouraging Thunder award.  Now, Nikki is an amazing young woman who has been dealing with a debilitating illness – the cause of which has continued to evade many trained medical professionals.  Ya gotta be brave to face chronic illness day after day; that’s true tenfold when your illness doesn’t have a name.  So if you need a story of perseverance and determination, check out her blog!

encouraging1DA RULZ:

When you get this award, you can:

  • Post it and the logo on your blog
  • Pay it forward by nominating others

You cannot:

  • Abuse or misuse the logo
  • Claim the logo is your own

If you receive the award you should:

  • Give thanks via comments and likes in the blog of the person nominating you
  • Mention the person who nominated you in your award blog
  • Discuss your purpose in blogging in your award blog

I feel a bit like I’m cheating, because I actually won this award before.  But the rules don’t SAY only one per participant.  Not that this would stop me.  If I can scarf through an eight-serving bag of popcorn in one sitting, do you think I’m gonna even blink at a “limit one per customer” rule?

If you’re still not sure, ask the demonstrators at Costco how many Bailey’s truffles I scored last weekend.

Wait.  On second thought? Don’t.  I don’t think we need, like, an actual NUMBER here.  Never mind.

So anyway.  You can read about why I started this blog here.  Essentially, I was taking a wild stab at recovery.

As I mentioned above, though….these past two days were bad.

Very, very bad.

This weekend, ice cream and dill pickle popcorn were my binge foods of choice – namely, because I had them in the house. See, that’s how binges normally work:

Step 1:  I buy groceries like a normal person, taking time to select items that actually sound good.  (Side note:  I know the experts say never to shop when you’re hungry…but if I don’t, I won’t actually BUY anything.  I have to shop when I’m physically hungry, or I leave the store with new makeup instead of anything I can actually eat.  And if I don’t buy food that looks appetizing, it just sits about my pantry like ugly wedding gifts, and I just won’t ever get around to using it.)

Step 2:  I fall off the wagon and binge-eat a certain food item (or items.  Yeah.  More like items.)

Step 3:  I CAN NEVER BUY THAT FOOD AGAIN because I will eat it all in one frenzied nonstop session like there’s a prize at the bottom and getting it is my JOB.

This is why I can’t buy stuff like frozen pizza, ice cream, pudding, cookies, chocolate peanut butter, kettle corn, potato chips, anything from Culver’s, or cereal.

Especially cereal.

Cereal is the WORST.

One time?  I ate an entire fifteen-ounce box of Peanut Butter Puffins.  IN ONE AFTERNOON.  (Note to self.  Do NOT eat whilst Facebooking.  It’s trouble.  Especially when peanut butter anything is involved.)

barbaras product image:

Image from http://barbaras.com/

And don’t let’s pretend “well, at least this is HEALTHY food,” mmmkay?  Because the second ingredient is – guess what? – SUGAR.  And the box is SUPPOSED TO FEED FIFTEEN PEOPLE.  That’s 1,650 calories of cereal, folks.  (And it wasn’t even the only thing I ate that day.  NOT EVEN CLOSE.)

So at the tail end of my dill-pickle popcorn binge, I was watching the Patriots totally SPANK the Cowboys, and between plays they announced that Jason Witten (tight end, Dallas) now has his own breakfast cereal.

(The stars were not so lucky on Sunday.  BOOYAH.  SUCK IT COWBOYS.)

So as I’m sitting there on the sofa, crashing rapidly from my sugar rush face-first into a carb coma, I started thinking about other cereals the NFL could market.

And they sounded…kinda dirty.

(Just in time, too, since apparently you can’t get your jollies from the pictures in Playboy anymore.)

What do you think?  Would you buy any of these?  Tape them to your face, go long, and not stop until someone calls a personal foul?

In Chicago:  Cutler’s Crispy Bits

New England:  Brady’s Frosted Patriot Power Os 

Denver:  Peyton’s Protein Clusters

Pittsburgh:  Big Ben’s Marshmallow Poofs

Seattle:  Wilson’s Brown Sugar Nut Toasties

I can’t say any of these splits MY uprights, exactly.

Yum, yum.  Guten appetit!

For this award, I’ll nominate a2eternity, adjustremembered, and wehaveapples.  Thank you, ladies, for saying some of the many things that need to be said!

The Gray of Storm Clouds, the Tarnished Silver Lining

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In our last episode (OK, the last three), Kate was struggling with her spouse’s recent revelation that he established an account on Ashley Madison two years ago.

So, for any of you who haven’t bailed on this leaky tugboat…here’s an update.  Sorta.  It may just be more blommit.

I love that word.  Blommit.  Super-big puffy heart it so hard.  And I love you guys, too.  MWAH

I am still largely numb.  There are occasional brief bouts of anger, and there’ve been a couple of tears…but apparently, I’m still in shock.  What he did is so incongruous with the behavior of the man I married – the man I THOUGHT I married – that I’m having trouble reconciling the two.

Sometimes, I even forget for a while that this is actually happening.

Emotionally, anyway.

Physically, it’s a different story.

I feel raw.  Hollow.  Like my soul has been in a horrible motorcycle accident;  I’m covered in road rash on the inside, the smashed fragments of my heart staining the pavement a bright red.  My mouth tastes of metal.  My stomach randomly churns and dips as if I’ve been blindfolded and thrown upside-down onto the Gatekeeper at Cedar Point.  I’m exhausted, yet wide awake.  I spend much of my day feeling like one does the day after a bad stomach flu.  Drained.  Empty.

Weak.

Sometimes I am weak, sometimes I am strong.

I am strong because I am demanding the space and time that I need to think this through.  I am weak because sometimes I still want to hug him and hold his hand.

I am weak because I realize this sends mixed signals.  I am strong because I don’t care.  The final decision is up to me, when and if I make one, regardless of how he perceives I am feeling today.  Regardless of what HE wants.

I am strong because I’m getting myself tested, and requiring him to do the same.  I am weak because my gut tells me that this isn’t necessary, because he’s telling the truth.  That he never met any of these women.  That nothing physical ever happened.    I desperately want to believe this is true.  Every fiber of my being tells me he isn’t lying.  But that’s the same clearly faulty intuition that completely missed this was happening in the first place.  IT WENT ON FOR FIVE MONTHS AND I HAD NO IDEA.  (Sporadically, he says.  But the window was open, so SOME sulfur must have blown in.)

I am strong because no one at work has any inkling of the internal chaos I’m carrying.  (I even finished that blasted EEO-1 report – EARLY – go me!  Although of COURSE now that I’m DONE I see they extended the deadline A WHOLE MONTH.  I put in 3 hours on my day off and NO ONE THOUGHT TO TELL ME I HAD 31 EXTRA DAYS?!?  <stabs air wildly and sprouts hissing rattlesnakes from scalp>)

I am weak because I don’t trust any of my family or friends enough to share this burden.  And because saying it aloud will make it real, and I don’t know if my heart can sustain the blow.

I am strong because even though I had previously quit going to therapy, I made some new appointments today.  (And he’s going to pay for them.  OBVS.)

I am weak because I still love him.  And because part of me thinks we can fix this, and a bigger part of me still wants to.

Is there any chance at all that he’s telling the truth?  Is it possible he was just window-shopping, clicking on the pretty things he’d like to have and adding them to his cart, only to abandon them by closing the browser instead of clicking “Complete Order”?

Does it matter?

I am strong because I’m keeping to my exercise routine.  I ran yesterday and today.  Although I am weak because I’m just not eating.  My body simply doesn’t want it.

My run times are suffering – badly.  I’d been doing a 9:20 mile, and this week it’s been 9:45-10.  Ouch.  (Side note:  The fact that I think a 10-minute mile is “bad” is freaking hilarious.  I spent most of my life being completely unathletic, and I am realizing as I’m typing this that I sound like an ex-smoker telling tobacco users that they smell bad.  I’ll slap myself FOR you, so you don’t feel you have to do it.)

<slap>

So, as I write this, it’s Tuesday, and that means…

…it’s time to face the scale.

I mentioned in my last post that I was pretty sure I’d lost some weight this week.  After all this, that’d be a definite plus, right?

I thought I was looking a bit thinner these days.  I mean, I believed I could actually see a difference.  And that NEVER HAPPENS.  This morning I went as far as to take some pictures, because it felt like a pretty dramatic loss, and I was thinking I would have a physique I could actually show off a bit. <strut strut>

But when I looked at the pictures, I saw this fold here and that bulge there, and promptly hit delete.  Must have been an optical illusion.  I should know better than to trust my vision at 6 AM, before I’ve had any coffee.  HELLO.

It was time to face the music.  Numbers don’t lie.  Let’s get today’s.

I went for my slog run.  I came home.  Peeled off the sweaty running togs.

I dust off the scale with the broom (because I have three cats, and hair weighs something.  So does dust.  Can’t be too careful when you’re letting an inanimate object set your mood for the week.)

(Quit looking at me like that.  I KNOW you have your scale rituals, too.  Shave first?  Pluck your eyebrows?  Visit the restroom for one last hurrah?  Yeah, I’m on to you. <points finger-scissors at eyes, then back at yours>)

I step on.

I look down.

HOLY FREAKING FAINTING GOATS BATMAN.

I LOST SIX EFFING POUNDS LAST WEEK.

ALL HAIL THE ASHLEY MADISON DIET!

Seriously, do they need a new spokesperson? I hear they’ve had some publicity issues.   And I have WAY more mass appeal than that Jared ex-Subway clown.  (Especially now.  Couldn’t set THAT bar much lower.)

All kidding aside – I know I need to eat.  After living on swallowed angst all weekend, I’ve been trying to force myself to eat one good meal a day.

But I’m struggling.

I don’t want to eat because I want to lose weight.  (That’s a given.)

I don’t want to eat because starving myself will hurt my spouse.  A sweet, slim revenge for what he did to our marriage, a full dish of piping-hot guilt stew to go with that regret roll he’s been noshing on.

I don’t want to eat, because I normally don’t want to WANT to eat, and eating when you don’t want to ACTUALLY eat seems like a waste of a perfectly good gift horse.

I don’t want to eat because my heart is screaming that it’s hurting.  It screams so loudly that no one can hear it.  Eventually, maybe they will see the screams.

I don’t want to eat because I want to disappear, fading gracefully into the ether, drifting off to a place of peace where no one hurts.

Is that weakness, or strength?

Does it matter?

My spouse says he’ll do absolutely anything to keep us together.  He’s had a taste of what it might be like to lose me, and it’s wrecking him.  I can see he’s lost weight; I can see the anguish in his eyes and feel it vibrating from his very core.

He’s terrified.  Absolutely frightened.

(Good.)

I have agreed to try counseling with him.  I have also insisted (as I said above) that he get physically tested.  He didn’t even hesitate.  Didn’t protest “but nothing happened”- he understands why I might not can’t believe that right now.  He even offered to go to a Christian counselor (remember, he’s been a fairly hostile atheist, so him seeing a Christian counselor is kind of a big deal.)

What else should I ask for?  What would YOU ask for?  What would you need him to do?

Am I an idiot for giving this a chance?

I know that doesn’t matter.

As long as I’m at peace with whatever I decide.

Speaking of peace, here’s a giant chicken.  BECAUSE GIANT CHICKEN.

giantchicken

He lives at the Farmers Market. I have no explanation.

Bawk bawk, homies.  Thanks for hangin’.

You Put One Foot In, You Got One Shoe Out

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Before I start on yet another brain dump on the grenade my spouse dropped on our marriage last week, I want to thank all of you who have reached out, commented, and connected with me.  I don’t have anyone to talk to about this in real life, and I can feel your support seeping through the interwebs like the heat from a camp bonfire, where we sit around and melt away the chill and make calorie-free, gluten-free s’mores with peanut butter and drink wine.  (You are also free to roast hot dogs if you like, but with that as an alibi, don’t ask me what’s on the end of MY stick.  Mkay?)

I appreciate y’all sticking around while the power’s out.  Hopefully the generator will kick on shortly.  Thanks for sitting in the dark with me and keeping me company.  It means more than you know.

As long as I can remember, I’ve been the sort of person that craves both security AND independence.  I think this can be best illustrated by a story my mom likes to tell:  When I was a baby, she would occasionally stick me in the playpen. (This was, of course, back in the 70s, when playpens were actually death traps, and I would’ve apparently been safer playing with a hair dryer in a shark-infested bath tub.  But no one knew this at the time, and I’m pretty certain she wasn’t plotting to kill me.  That came later, when I became a teenager and fully deserved it.)

Anyway, when Mom needed just five minutes to take cookies out of the oven, or use the bathroom, or whatever, she’d plop me in the playpen, pulling the sides up so I couldn’t wander off.  This was my cue to scream, cry, and generally throw an Oscar-worthy hissy fit.  I HATED being trapped in there.  Shortly, she’d decide that neither her sanity nor her bladder could take the wailing, and, resignedly, she’d put the side down and let me out.

But then, a couple of hours later, a funny thing happened.  I’d creep over to the playpen and, noting the sides were down, crawl RIGHT IN and blissfully play with my toys.  Putting the sides up turned it into a torture chamber, but with the exit wide open, I was perfectly happy to hang out there all day.  (Even as a baby, I drove my poor mother nuts.  I’m sorry, Mom.  I love you.  Thank you for letting me live.)

And this is, historically, how I have approached relationships.  I want you to stay, but I can’t be confined.  And, now that I’ve been forced to reflect, I see that this has been true with my current spouse – even though I thought he was the love of my life*, I’ve kept the escape hatch propped open.

*He may still be.   Or he may meet the fate of the aforementioned hot dog.  Jury’s out yet.

For one thing, when we got married, I didn’t take his name.  Well, I did, but I hyphenated it with my ex’s name.  It made sense at the time; I had 12 years of professional experience under my previous name, plus I wanted to share a last name with my kids.

Lately I’d been toying with the idea of dropping my ex’s name from the two.  It’s part of my legal name, but I never actually USE it, and incidentally, hyphenating is a royal pain in the keister.  (Don’t ever do it, ladies.  JUST PICK ONE NAME.  Otherwise you’re constantly wondering which name (or names) you’ve used on which credit cards and internet sites, and you’ll never remember which company’s systems use hyphens, which use spaces, and which just shove both names together into an intimidating tangle of letters, and you’ll have to spell every possible permutation of your name EVERY SINGLE DAMN TIME anyone has to look you up.  By the way, no two airlines handle hyphens the same way.  This keeps you on the short list for free invasion of your personal space.)

Anyway, I haven’t dropped the prior name yet.  Just didn’t get around to it.

Hmm.

Another example that perhaps I wasn’t all in:  My spouse and I keep separate finances.  Remember how I said I was a math geek?  Well, every month, he pays the mortgage, and I pay the rest of the bills.  I enter everything into a spreadsheet, and we “true up” at the end of the month.  We even buy a lot of our own food.  I know it SOUNDS ridiculous, but we never fight about money.  And in my last marriage, I was the sole breadwinner while my spouse stayed home buying old watches on eBay.  I was NOT having any of THAT again, so I control my own funds.

It’s always seemed to make sense for us, but with the current filter on my lens, it seems to suggest that I was keeping the sides of the playpen down.

Oh, another thing.  I have this tattoo (I swear it’s less crappy than this photo makes it look):

tattooIt’s a kokopelli – he represents the spirit of music, and he’s also a prankster.  Even if you’re not terribly spiritual, you can usually hang with a fun musical deity.  There are three music notes beside him – one for me, one for my son, and one for my daughter – symbolizing our survival of the divorce.  (And to further drive that point home – I bought this tattoo with the money I made hocking my first wedding ring set.  Heh.)

My current spouse wondered aloud why there wasn’t a note for him.  We were engaged when I got it…surely he’d be a permanent part of my life, right?

But I didn’t add a little note for him.  I’ve thought about going back and doing it…but….

(Yeah, I know, you never ever EVER tattoo yourself with a relationship.  Not ever.  Here’s another reason why not to, I guess.  I mean, don’t be this guy):

(By the way?  Don’t bother sending this to your friend Brenda.  Trust me, she’s already seen it.)

One more thing.  I have a backup plan.  I just wrote about that a week ago.  I SAID it was in the event of my spouse’s death.  But perhaps I was keeping my parachute packed not just in case of sudden engine failure, but also in the event that I didn’t like where the plane was going.

Given all this, maybe I wasn’t truly as blindsided by this as I originally thought.

When I’m poking around my brain, it’s definitely one of the tender spots.  For some reason, I keep rubbing it to make sure it still hurts.

One positive to this whole mess is that it’s been a super-effective weight loss plan.  Based on my complete loss of appetite, and my stomach’s reaction to stress*, I’m sure I’ve dropped a few pounds.  I won’t actually know until Tuesday, because in order to keep from being obsessive, I’m only allowed to step on the scale on Tuesday morning.  (Perfectly logical, yes?)

*When I’m stressed, I normally eat.  However, when I peg the meter – divorce hearing, child illness, or, apparently, your husband flipping the “Available” light on the commitment taxi – my stomach pulls the evacuation alarm, and suddenly there just aren’t enough lifeboats on the Titanic, if ya know what I mean.

About 2-3 years ago, I was at my lowest weight since my anorexic high school days, due to some stomach issues and recurrent mononucleosis.  Since then, I’d put on ten pounds and just haven’t been comfortable in my skin.  So when I put on another five recently, I stepped up my game.  My weight loss has been…slow (which is expected, as I wrote about here.):

  • Week 1:  six pounds (Whoa. Clearly I was retaining water like the Hoover Dam.)
  • Week 2:  zip
  • Week 3:  one pound
  • Week 4:  donut
  • Week 5:  GAINED A F%(^!N& pound

Week 6 is Tuesday.  I think I crushed the plateau like Godzilla in a bad Japanese movie.  ROWR <stomp stomp stomp>

Ironically, my low weight hits the same time frame as the rest of this whole debacle.  Which would lead a normal person to NOT want to be that weight again, right?

But then, if food and I were normal, I wouldn’t have started this blog in the first place.

Sigh.

In the meantime, since food doesn’t appeal, I’ve been binge-shopping.  I stocked up on new workout gear on Friday, and today visited the local farmers market and treated myself.

In addition to veggies, I bought myself flowers:

FarMktFlowersAnd because flowers die, I bought some jewelry, too.  BECAUSE I DESERVE IT.

Silver and clay ring:

RingClayAnd a couple of pieces from Mind of Madness Design:

Red agate/silver on braided leather

Red agate/silver on braided leather

Necklace

Hot pink and gold. LOVE THIS

Necklace2

Here’s what it looks like on. Bold, eh?

I may be all scrambled up like a smoothie on the inside, but I’ll glam up my game face and keep my brave on.

Fake it ’till ya make it.

Glass Slipper, Revisited: What to Do with the Other Shoe

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My last post was decidedly unfunny.  I’d apologize for that, but it’s not every day that the man you married confesses to dabbling with Ashley Madison.  I think I’ve earned a temporary hall pass on that.

This post won’t be all that hilarious, either.  I need to take some time to purge the thoughts in my head.  It’s like I binged on a full jar of chocolate peanut butter and a large pizza; it’s bloating me and congealing on my insides, and I’m desperate to get it out as quickly as I can before it consumes me.

I’m finding myself trapped in the incongruous dichotomy of having a racing mind, yet not being able to actually feel anything.

I’m keenly aware of a number of thoughts (How did I miss this? and My spouse cheated) bouncing uncontrollably around my head like a giant tub of Super Balls broke and scattered all over a gymnasium – hundreds of thousands of pinging bullets that roll and bounce and refuse to be stilled.

Yet, at the same time…I should be upset.  It would be natural to be angry.  Logical to be yelling.  You might expect me to cry.

But other than one or two stray tears, I’ve been numb.  I’ve been walking around like I’ve been mentally anesthetized.  I feel detached; I’m absently letting the situation play in the background like some third-rate sitcom while I nonchalantly go about my business, seemingly unaffected.

This can’t be real, can it?  This is just a very long, drawn-out dream; soon I’ll be rudely interrupted by the morning show blaring through my clock radio and be jolted into a perfectly normal day.

You’ve certainly heard the old adage, “Pinch me, I must be dreaming.”  Unfortunately, I’ve tried that, and it just isn’t effective.  I used to pinch myself when I was dreaming – but my brain outsmarted me by allowing me to feel pain while I sleep.  I’d actually feel the pinch, but wouldn’t wake up.  So I devised a new trick to help me discern dreams from reality:  telekinesis.  If I can move things with my mind, I’ll know INSTANTLY that the situation isn’t real, and I can happily coast along knowing it’s just a dream and I’ll wake up soon and it’ll all go away.  When I’m having a bad dream, I focus on something lightweight – a tissue, a piece of paper (because even though it’s a dream, we don’t want to get all crazy here by trying to throw cars.) If I can get it to move – if I can get that piece of paper to twitch, even just a little bit – it gives me the courage to stand up to whatever demon is chasing me, because I’ll know I’m only dreaming.

Suffice it to say on Thursday night, and at least hourly since then, I’ve desperately tried to get papers to flicker.  I’ve begged tissues to please, please, just flutter a teensy bit so I know this will be over soon.

But all the paper products have conspired against me and refuse to budge.

What the hell do I do now?

I work in HR.  My career is built on how I react when people surprise me.  But this has struck me as unexpectedly as a truck barreling through a stop sign, hitting me so hard that I’m having a discarnate experience, watching my body violently bounce off the hood while thinking, “Dayum…that’s gotta hurt!” as I painlessly float above the carnage.

He tells me that, although he was on the site, he didn’t actually meet anyone.

In the unlikely event that it isn’t blatantly obvious, this article provides an excellent summary of everything that’s wrong with this.  But, in the spirit of trying to get it to soak in so I can accept it and address it, I’ll list it out.

He set up an account, with a new email I’d not been aware of.  Deception with intent to harm.

He paid for the account.  To the tune of $250 or so.  And when I think of all the forgotten birthdays and neglected anniversaries, this is the closest I can get to tears.   He’s never spent that much on me.  His wife.  Yet he found it a worthy investment to make in the collapse of my trust.  (Him:  “I promise there was no further money spent.  I didn’t mortgage the house.”  Me:  “No.  Just our marriage.”)

He contacted two women and communicated to four.   But he insists that he never met any of them.  And it was two years ago.  In the past.

Where I struggle with this:  My gut is convinced he’s telling the truth.  But based on how many clues I missed – based on how completely oblivious I was to his discomfort when the data breach broke – I can’t trust my gut.  I would be foolish to do so.

And frankly, what would YOU tell your best friend in this situation?  If she said, “He was on the site, but he swears he never actually met anyone”?

<cue the rousing chorus of “Yeah…riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.”>

I am a smart woman.  Aren’t I?

How can I possibly believe him when I can’t believe myself?

He tells me that he’s tried a number of times to tell me.  (Well, once the news broke and it was conceivable that he’d get caught.  Eyeroll.)  To his credit, he knew it’d be better if he told me, as opposed to waiting until I found out.   And there were a number of reasons why it wasn’t a good time – the kids were home all day during the summer, which segued into my super-busy season at work – and he knows about my food issues and my anxiety and wanted to wait until a time where I’d be better equipped to handle it.

As misguided as it was, he was sort of trying to do the right thing.  (Which would have been a much nicer sentiment when he was whipping out his credit card to buy deception and lies. Obvs.)

But there’s no good time for bad news. HR folks talk about this quite a bit, in the context of “what’s the best day of the week to fire someone?”  Is it Friday, so they have the weekend to cool down? Is it Monday, so they have a full week to job hunt and file for unemployment?  There is no clear answer.  (Although, if you can avoid canning someone on their birthday, they usually appreciate that.  My sincere apologies to Pat.  Know that I learned from it, and I always check birthdays before a layoff now.)

He tells me that he’s incredibly sorry, and that he’ll do anything – ANYTHING – that I need him to do in order to make this work.  He’s already offered me full access to all of his PCs and his phone; he’s volunteered to carry a GPS 24/7.

He’s begging me to stay.  To give him another chance.  He pleaded with me to go to counseling with him, to please, please let him try to fix this.

He’ll do anything.  Anything.

He’s doing his best to give me space, backing off quickly when I don’t want him near enough to touch.

Over the last two days, he’s broken down completely.  I’ve never seen him close to anything like this.  We’re talking big, ugly, snot-dribbling sobbing here.

While I sit there, numbly, listening.

It’s so surreal.

He is absolutely terrified that I’m going to leave him.

And I don’t know that I won’t.

My heart desperately wants to forgive him.  My head, however, knows that I need to do my due diligence here – while it may be a long time before I can trust him, he can certainly work his a$$ off proving to me that he means what he says in the meantime.

I’ve told him that I don’t know where this will go.  That I may seem fine some days, and then suddenly be angry, and I have every right to react in whatever way my emotions choose to express themselves.

He said he’s just thankful I haven’t left yet.  That I’m talking to him.  He said he’ll take any and every moment now, because he realized in full force what it would mean to lose me.

All the right words.

Will the right actions follow?  As we say in HR: “Immediate, significant, and sustained improvement is required for continued employment.”

Show me.

I attempted to escape from this today by taking my bike out.  I thought a long ride would do me some good – if I logged a solid 20 miles, perhaps I’d burn off some of this numbness and be able to sleep.

It was a beautiful ride.  Good for the soul.

bikedam1 bikedam2 bikecity1Unfortunately, I got lost, and ended up clocking 27 miles before I got home.  But, as with my marriage, I can take all the time I need.  There’s no deadline here; I can take it moment by moment, stopping to snap some pictures or to rest a bit, and head home – or wherever I want to be – when I’m ready.

Glass Slipper, Shattered

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This week, I had an unexpected visitor.

It was someone from my past.  Someone who, in the back of my mind, I feared would come to visit me one day.  And although I certainly wasn’t looking forward to her arrival, I fully deserved her company.

Sure, I had cut off all contact with her, or at least I TRIED to.  But she found me.  How?  Well, I suppose I could blame this blog; while it’s anonymous, my guest this week is quite resourceful at connecting the dots, and I did throw some things “out there” to the blogosphere, and to the universe.  I started this blog to fix the issues in my head, but sticking my Swiffer into the cobwebs meant sharing some dark, dirty corners of my life that my friends and family aren’t typically privy to.

That’s the risk you take when you’re honest.  Someone might find you.

And she always does, eventually.

Obviously, I didn’t want her to find me.  While I wanted to use my writing to expunge some demons, I certainly didn’t want them to darken my doorstep in real life.  But she found my address, and it’s my own fault that she did, and now I need to find a way to make room for her in my life, because I have no right to ask her to leave.

She came knocking at my door on Thursday night, pulling her overstuffed, heavy Louis Vuitton roller bags, and when I opened the door just a crack, she came barging in, her luggage banging on the floor and denting the walls as she roughly threw an impossible number of suitcases and steamer trunks in a huge pile in the center of the room, forcing me to face it all and deal with the mess.

She turned her back to the giant, precarious stack.  Haughtily, she stood facing me, her feet firmly planted to the ground in a wide stance in severe Prada ankle boots, her Chanel power suit inexplicably perfectly pressed.   She looked me directly in the eye, then, her eyebrows slightly raised and her right hand assuming the position of authority on her hip.

Challenging me.

Daring me to speak.

I blinked.  Once.  Twice.  My mind racing.  Why was she here?  What does she want?

I didn’t have to ask that question aloud.  You never do with her.  She knows.

She stuck her perfectly manicured hand (OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress) into her sleek Gucci messenger bag, and pulled out a document and handed it to me.

A hollow, cold blackness tore through my heart and slowly snaked its way to my brain as I read the words in front of me.

The document?  This.

The mysterious Angel of Vindication had found me.

Her name?  Karma.

KarmaKnot

And she was forcing me to be held accountable for the most despicable, wretched thing I’ve ever done.

It was time to pay the piper.

She watched me with an ironic, sanctimonious smirk as I digested the evidence she had presented.

I closed my eyes for a moment.  Hadn’t I always suspected she was coming?

I looked at her then, resigned.

Waiting.

She met my gaze for a full half minute, drinking in my discomfort.

I braced myself for the inevitable.

Finally, she spoke.

Two words.

Ashley Madison.

She let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching my reaction with a satisfied glare.   Then she turned on her heel and marched toward my bedroom, slamming the door hard.

There was a brief silence as her words, and what they meant to me and my marriage, sunk in more deeply.

As the noxious fog of her message crept into my pores, poisoning my soul, I was startled out of the eerie quiet as a loud crash of glass shattered the silence.

Hesitantly, I stepped toward the unstable, haphazard pile of baggage, unsure what had broken, yet afraid to look.

I saw the remains of a single glass slipper, smashed to unrecognizable bits by its plunge to the hard, cold floor of reality.

He confessed to me on Thursday night, under the cloak of darkness that only a rainstorm can bring.

About two years ago, he established an account.  He took the deliberate steps to set up a new email address, he paid the fee, and he contacted two women, conversing with four.  He claims he never met any of them.

Of the many, many thoughts, fears, and questions racing through my mind, there are two dominating thoughts.

The first:  How did I not know?  How did I miss this?  My career is reading people, for f#ck’s sake.  And yet, my own husband was able to deceive me. Effortlessly.

We had talked about the Ashley Madison data breach over the dinner table.  I had heard about it on NPR, and brought it up merely as a point of conversation. Weren’t we all talking about it?  Unlike politics or global warming, this was actually kind of…fascinating. Juicy.

(Funny how quickly that juice turns into a rancid vinegar once it’s served to you at the dinner table in your own home.)

It would certainly have been more interesting news had I realized that my husband turned several shades of red and started to sweat when I brought up the subject.

But apparently, I didn’t even notice.

Not even a blip on the radar.  No thread of a red flag.  Clueless.  Oblivious.  Chalked it up to my spicy tofu stir-fry.

But if I look back…I mentioned in this post that the hubs had recently stepped up his game.  He’s been, and I quote, “absolutely amazing lately.”

Lately = last couple of weeks.

The data breach hit the news July 15.  I made that post September 9.

Usually, I like math.  (Karma knows that, too.)

In retrospect, I know I had casually made the observation that he had seemed to lose much of his appetite.  (He’s 6’4″, and he’s a dude.  Big cup of DUH there.)  And he started therapy a couple of weeks ago; he said it was to better manage his ability to hold eye contact with people at work.  (He is on the autism spectrum, after all.)

The clue phone was clearly set to vibrate, sending those calls right to voice mail.

It was like I was happily tapping along on my mental laptop, not worrying about saving my work because it was plugged in, after all, and was confused when the battery suddenly died and I discovered that in my foolish reliance on the consistency of the power cord, I had apparently neglected to actually plug the damn thing into the wall.

Despite all of our challenges over the last year, the one thing I knew – I KNEW, with absolute certainly and with the absence of any and all doubt – was that I could rely on his faithfulness.  We’d talked about it; we’d said on several occasions that if we ever felt the need to step out, we respected each other enough to discuss it first.  Decide whether to fix it or move on. Like adults in a mature relationship.

Of course, that was all hypothetical, because it was never going to actually happen.

And now, I’m like the child who has discovered that there is no Santa Claus, that peanut butter cups will always have too many calories, and that, simply put, there are no fairy tales.

I have to face the reality that my husband and I aren’t unique or special.  Our relationship is no longer a beautiful story that little girls dress up and dream about.  It’s as raw, gritty, and real as everyone else’s, with rough edges that snag the tulle and sticky dust that dulls the sparkles on your tiara.

Our relationship is painfully human.

So now, I’m looking for a dustpan that I never thought I’d need, as I begin sweeping up the pieces of my broken glass slipper.  I’m just starting the cleanup, and there are little shards everywhere – under couches and in the African violets – so it’ll take a while.

This is messy work, I’m finding, and the slivers are getting under my fingernails and into my eyes, contorting how I see the comforting and familiar into caricatures with a different shape and color.

I don’t know where the scars will land.

Which brings me to my second thought.

As my spouse was confessing – as he was purging his soul of the demons that have occupied him, as he was begging forgiveness – I didn’t feel anything.

No sadness.   No anger.

I suppose I was, and have been, in shock.

Instead, inside my head was a clear, calm, meditative treble, that simply stated:

Now you never, ever have to eat again.

Is this the end, or the beginning?

…to be continued….