Soul Shopping: Walking the Marketplace

Posted on November 8, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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:

The 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! 😀

The Artificial Tang of Banana Candy

Posted on October 25, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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).

(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.

When the Heart’s Desire Is a Little Backwards

Posted on October 18, 2015 by KatieComeBack

So it appears that there’s a Harry Potter marathon on TV this weekend.

Of course, upon making this discovery, we immediately abandoned our plans (which, admittedly, weren’t any more ambitious than to order takeout and to bingewatch Season 4 of Friends. But Friends is on Netflix ANY time, right? Okay, Harry Potter probably is, too, but it’s just DIFFERENT when you can’t pause it AND it’s peppered with commercials for fast food, pharmaceuticals, and feminine hygiene products, and it’s ONLY THIS WEEKEND so we HAVE to watch it NOW NOW NOW!)

<cough> Anyway.

Since we’re ordering takeout today, I’ve already wasted much of the morning agonizing over THAT Big Life-Changing Decision – what to get, how much to get, do I splurge on pizza or stick to steamed veggies and chicken, and don’t even THINK about ice cream….

If you live in this hell, you know the drill.

<strums guitar> Come on and join me in the campfire singalong!

Can I eat this many calories today?

Will the sodium bloat me for a week?

Will the kids notice if I only eat half of it?

Will I be able to only eat half of it? (HAHAHAHAHA no)

How long will it take to run this off?

Can’t you all just shut up and let me freaking EAT?

Um…What’s for dessert?

Compounding the struggle to complete this mental exercise is the painful guilt bruise I’m sporting courtesy of last night’s food bender. In addition to a balanced, healthy dinner (OK, it was Taco Bell, SHADDUP) I managed to stuff both a 6-serving bag of cheese popcorn AND two Hershey bars down my pie hole. (This dalliance will take at least three runs to burn off. UGH.) So I shouldn’t be eating much today. But I should eat SOMETHING, but I don’t know what, or how much, and I’m ~~not even~~ have no right to be hungry anyway, right? RIGHT?!?

And dammit, none of this is worth the energy I spend on it. It’s just food, not deciding which kid to feed to the dragons first. (Although today one is sporting a significant ‘tude that might make THAT selection pretty simple.)

While I was arguing passionately with the voices in my head, a scene from the movie (Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone) interrupted the melee and momentarily silenced the crowd.

Harry’s skulking along under a camo tarp that makes him invisible, spying on his teachers (we ALL wanted a peek at what REALLY goes on in the mysterious Teacher’s Lounge, didn’t we?) when he stumbles upon a magical mirror. When he peers into it, what he sees reflected back is an image of himself – WITH his parents. Now, Harry’s parents were killed by the Main Scary Evil Villain Dude when Harry was a baby, so he actually has no memory of his parents…but there they are in the mirror, looking back at him, smiling away all normal like they’re ready to toss him a football and bake him some cookies or something.

Harry eagerly brings his token redhead buddy to the mirror, excited to show proof that he didn’t self-generate from an unfortunate chemical spill. But Copper Mop doesn’t see Harry’s folks in the mirror. Instead, he sees himself actually passing gym class, or something. (Lame.)

But it wasn’t some evil ginger magic that broke the mirror. We learn this from the Grand Poobah Wizard Bro, who swings by in a few and says when he looks in the mirror, he only gets to see himself holding a pair of socks. (Lame, but less lame than gym class. I mean, socks can have, like, penguins on them. Penguins trump gym class any day.)

So it turns out that the mirror is rigged to reflect “only the deepest desire of our hearts.”

But now that the cool trick is revealed, the Head Honcho in a Poncho says he’s going to go off and hide the thing in a land far, far away. Because people are stupid, and lack willpower, and will sit in front of the blasted contraption for hours, days, even WEEKS, going bonkers, dying of starvation, or both, while obsessively staring into the glass, seeing exactly what they want to see.

(So, basically…it’s TV tuned to Say Yes to the Dress, or Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Come on, TELL me you haven’t lost HOURS of your life riveted to that drivel. Ah well. Since so many establishments deliver food via text or emoji nowadays, at least we won’t starve to death.)

(AND AND AND. Come on, Dumbledore. “I’m gonna hide it, but don’t you dare try to find it, because it’s bad for you.” Dude, that didn’t work on any kid, EVER, for shiz like Christmas gifts or Halloween candy; how exactly do you picture this working for something as SUPER AWESOME as an enchanted mirror? Clearly you don’t have much experience with the prepubescent set. I guess that’s why your magic school doesn’t start with pre-K.)

So it’s clear that this mirror is powerful, but dangerous. Dumbledore says something fairly profound about it:

Wait. What?

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Remember that.“

Whoa there, Sorcerer Santa Man. That hits pretty close to home.

All this extraneous noise in my head – how big are my thighs, how much food did I eat, what do I weigh today, can I eat anything else, when can I eat again, when will I get a grip and stick to a diet and finally lose weight – isn’t that dwelling on dreams? Shooting for a fictional figure, a meaningless number? Aiming for a target that darts and hides, and gets smaller and smaller, shrinking and reducing itself as I do?

Aren’t all these voices – with their commands and beratings, with their taunts and threats – distracting me from real life? From what should truly matter? From what I really could be?

I’ve been staring into this mirror for the better part of thirty years. It’s a permanent fixture in my spiritual home; it has a featured spot right in the entryway to my funhouse.

And it’s kept me from truly living.

I understand now why Professor DumbleD was trying to hide this thing. It’s been a major time-suck and hasn’t done me a lick of good. I’ve wasted years of my life stuck right in front of it, starving myself and sacrificing my sanity in an attempt to match the reflection.

If only I could get my hands on a house elf. Maybe, when he gets a break from washing the windows, he could get that sucker unloaded on eBay or something, and buy me a nice, benign, limited-edition Kinkade to hang in its place. A painting that, when you pass it, lets you stop and gaze for just a moment, recharging your spiritual batteries instead of draining them. A thing of beauty that gives you a small serving of light and peace, packed lovingly in a to-go box so you can carry it with you, taking small nibbles as you need them as you go about living your day.

That sounds like a nice change. Soothing. Healing.

If only I could tear this mirror out.

Breaking a mirror is rumored to bring you seven years of bad luck.

I’m holding a sledgehammer and preparing to swing.

You may want to back up a bit. This might get messy.

Throwback Foodday and a Day (of Food) in the Life

Posted on October 9, 2015 by KatieComeBack

As you already know, I have some “food issues”* that I’ve been dealing with since I was ten, when a solitary comment from a friend of my brother caused a seismic shift in food’s role in my life.

(“Food Issues” = currently read: EDNOS, or Eating Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified, or, re-read: Eating Disorder, Not Committed Enough to Qualify As A Real Illness. There’s actually a whole alphabet soup of different subtypes of eating disorders – you can read about them here. I have a wardrobe full of ’em myself. A few fit me better in high school than they do today, but I keep them around and try them on once in a while just for giggles. Bulimia is the bell-bottom of eating disorders, anorexia is menswear – just when you think they start to look ridiculous on you, they come back into fashion and all the models are sporting them on the cover of Vogue.)

Before that time – when I was a kid, and didn’t know any better – food was a calm, tranquil creek. When life had some hard edges, I could visit a favorite snack for brief moments of joy and delight. (Not that life was all that dramatic when I was ten. My biggest issues were probably the indignity of having braces and wearing really thick glasses AT THE SAME TIME. Trust me – highly traumatic, especially when you’re ALSO in band. It’s the grade-school trifecta of uncool.)

Food was comforting when I needed it, and unobtrusive when I didn’t. It was like a favored toy, satisfied to patiently wait on a shelf until I might want to take it out to play.

And play I did – heartily and often, with frequent trips to the convenience store for any one of the Hostess frosted confections (or those amazing little donuts with the crunchy bits on them!) topped off with an RC Cola or a Veryfine Papaya Punch. (Which, sadly, no one seems to make any more. Boo. It was refreshing, not too sweet, and was the color of sunsets. The perfect accompaniment to BBQ Corn Nuts. I haven’t had a beverage with calories in years (except wine, duh) but I still wish they had it, because I might want it SOMEDAY, ya know?)

oohhhh….yeah, baby….

There was more. Pizza and Pepsi every Friday. Homemade Tollhouse cookies. A large casserole of scalloped oysters at Thanksgiving, and a fruitcake at Christmas, “because Katie loves them.” (As I write this, it suddenly strikes me that these were treats that Mom loved, too. I wish she had realized that it was perfectly OK to make them even if SHE was the only one who wanted to eat them.)

And there was always good food at Grandma’s house. From Dad’s mom: chocolate pudding – the kind you cook on the stove, of course – made with marshmallows and served warm, with milk, in Depression-glass dessert dishes. JiffyPop served in green glass bowls. Frosted chocolate-walnut refrigerator cookies (which, despite reading many recipes and attempting several trial batches, I have never been able to replicate.) Smokehouse almonds and 7-Up. Cashews after piano practice.

Mom’s parents also fed us well. Grandpa was a fisherman (who, as I’ve mentioned, used to nail salmon heads to trees), so Saturday dinner at Grandma’s place meant a fish fry, complete with her famous yeast rolls:

Man, I could eat four of those during a meal. FOUR. And one or two for snack later on. Makes me realize how innocent I was….I had absolutely no idea about the frightening number of white-flour calories I was ingesting. (Nor did it occur to me to care. Ah, youth.) My sister, the quintessential picky eater, pretty much lived off these rolls – these, plus Grandma’s deviled eggs, filled her plate for every holiday meal.

Grandma’s house also meant dessert. (Obviously. What’s Grandma without dessert?) The aforementioned rolls, with homemade jelly – strawberry, grape, or sometimes tomato. (Only once. Because yuck.) Homemade apples, stewed with Red Hots. And fruit crisps: Rhubarb, of course. Apple. And, interestingly, zucchini.

Yes, zucchini – the vegetable that you only grow if you have a TON of friends, and if that ton of friends are people you want to have avoid you all summer lest you share the crop that keeps on cropping.

Photo from https://u.osu.edu/buckmdblog/2015/05/27/veggie-vitals-zucchini-the-great-houdini/

Even if you’re not a fan, you have got to try zucchini crisp. Really. It’s surprisingly good. If you like apple crisp, you’ll be all over this.

Zucchini Crisp
 
 3-4 Cups zucchini (peeled & deseeded), cut in thick pieces.  

Cook in 1/3 C lemon juice until tender.
 
 Add:
  1/4 tsp cinnamon
  1/8 tsp nutmeg
  1/2 C sugar
 
 Cook 1 minute; will be very juicy.
 
 Mix together: 
  1 1/2 C flour
  3/4 C sugar
  1/4 tsp salt
 
 Cut in:
  1 1/4 sticks margarine
 
Press 3/4 C of mix in bottom of 8X8X2" pan. Bake 10 min at 350.  
Pour cooked squash over baked crust.  
Cover with rest of crumb topping. Bake 40 min. at 350.  
Serve with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

OMNOMNOM. I actually made a version of this over the summer – without butter, of course, because butter is terrifying, and with honey instead of white sugar. And it was delish all the same. I promise this isn’t some cruel joke, like raisins in cookies or white chocolate in your Easter basket. It’s legit awesome. And reminds me of Grandma.

For the first ten years of my life, food was a celebration. Food was an expression of love.

Food was joy.

And then one day, suddenly, one comment turned food from friend to foe. From best friend to mortal enemy.

Food – the security blanket I turned to when craving love and affection – responded to this spasmodic paroxysm by transmogrifying from a much loved teddy bear to a hulking, sinister bully. It recruited the scale as its dictator and judge, and together, the two mocked, harassed, and tortured me.

(And you thought Decepticons were terrifying. Sure, stuff blew up, and people died. But Megan Fox was still skinny. AND HER WHITE PANTS STAYED CLEAN. I wasn’t even allowed to wear white pants until I was…well, by then I was too fat for white pants. Besides the fact that they do nothing to smooth, soften, or minimize, you also have to plan your undercrackers carefully, because you can see the print – stripes, polka dots, and baby ballerina whales – RIGHT THROUGH most of them. So no white pants. But I digress.)

So what does a day of food look like now?

Well, it looks a lot like this:

Now, normally, I don’t eat quite this much packaged food. But I wasn’t going to be home for lunch or dinner, so I had to pack food that could travel. Otherwise, dinner would likely be something predictably healthy, like baked fish and a veggie. Or a stir-fry. (And I couldn’t show you a picture of tonight’s dinner, because, well, it was SUPPOSED to be curried squash and potatoes (465 calories,) but I had 45 lives hoarded on Candy Crush, and it’s level 492, which is HARD, and somewhere between “hey, I got time” and “is something burning?” I cooked those cubes which I VERY painstakingly chopped into uniform pieces down into a gargantuan wad of bright orange wallpaper paste. Despite its attempts to resemble fluorescent mudding compound, it was actually pretty dang tasty. Just not terribly photogenic.)

Anyway. The point here is that 1200 calories is…not a whole heckuva lot of food. The breakdown:

Breakfast (178 calories): Smoothie.
Lunch (370 calories): Madras Lentils (300) and a nectarine (70).
Snack (80): Dried plums. (That’s hippie talk for “prunes.” Which your grandmother ate. I only eat dried plums. Now get off my lawn.)
Dinner (460 calories): Quinoa salad (340), cheese stick (80), clementine (40).
Snack (100): Yasso bar (frozen yogurt.)
TOTAL: 1188 calories.

And, if I stick to this very religiously (as I explained here), I can expect to lose roughly a half pound a week.

With maybe four exceptions to the 1200-calorie-a-day rule (seriously, I can count on ONE hand how many meals have been off the boat, and have one finger left over. GUESS WHICH ONE) here’s how this has played out in reality over the last few weeks:

Week 1: down six pounds (Six, yo. Salt much???)
Week 2: flatline.
Week 3: one pound gone!
Week 4: donut.
Week 5: GAINED A F%(^!N& pound (My body haaaaaaaaaaaates me)
Week 6: Lost SIX pounds (on the Ashley Madison diet. 10/10 would not recommend)
Week 7: Gained two pounds. (FML)
Week 8: Goose egg (FUUUUUUUUUUUuuu)

Hmm. Wait a sec.

As maddening as this roller-coaster ride has been, I guess I HAVE lost ten pounds in eight weeks.

Whoa.

I BEAT MATH.

I’m…MAGIC.

And a magical being needs magical hair…right?

So I treated myself to some color today:

Color makes me happy. Color brings me joy.

AND IT DOESN’T WEIGH ANYTHING.

Unfortunately, it isn’t cheap. Neither is a bad shoe habit. Or new clothes. Or all the nose rings I want from RockYourNose (which you should check out – her stuff is amazeballs.)

But with all the drama as of late, my ego has taken a beating. So, while I haven’t found the exact recipe for the perfect frosted chocolate-walnut refrigerator cookie, or a palatable low-sugar, gluten-free fruitcake, I think it’s perfectly OK to indulge in some pretty, shiny things here and there.

Little morsels of joy, fat-free.

A Kitten of Schrödinger

Posted on October 2, 2015 by KatieComeBack

Remember Schrödinger’s cat?

We all learned about this from Big Bang Theory, right? Essentially, you have a cat sealed up in a box, maybe with some poison. The theory is that, as long as the box remains closed, you don’t really know whether the cat is alive or dead. (Let’s assume this is a soundproof box, and one too heavy to lift and shake. Because otherwise, the cat would make its displeasure quite obvious, and if it didn’t, we’d all be rattling the box trying to get the thing to respond. Or opening cans of tuna. Because any cat not responding immediately to the mechanical crunching of a can opener is obviously dead.)

I realized today that I have some weird, mutant form of this thought experiment kitty going on in my marriage. With my spouse’s revelation last week, I’ve spent a lot of time in a thick fog, unable to visually articulate whether my marriage is dead, or alive.

And right now? It’s kind of…both.

Because it’s been all I’ve written about for two weeks, you already know this, but to recap: the hubs told me that he had, about two years ago, opened an account on Ashley Madison. He claims that, while he spent over $250 freaking dollars on it <insert colorful expletive of choice> he never actually met up with anyone. He had some fairly surface-level electronic conversations…but that was it. Eventually, he closed the account and walked away.

That was that…until the news broke of the security breach. At that point, he knew he had to tell me, before one of my less-trusting or drama-seeking friends “accidentally” found out, and felt compelled to let me know.

I’ve been struggling with whether to believe him or not.

And I’ve come to discover that it doesn’t really matter all that much.

Now, before you examine my cranium for dents, let me explain. It’s basically that philosophical feline, both alive and dead because it is neither.

Not actual thought-experiment cat. Not suspecting any sentient thought at all. Cat eventually proven to be alive when he passed gas and startled himself. Keepin’ it classy and highbrow, ya know.

I have a choice here. I can spend a shiz-ton of time examining, inspecting, and analyzing every nuance and detail of every exchange and communication over the last two years, trying to find the golden nugget of information that will lead me to a conclusion.

Or, I can accept him at his word.

Either way, the sooner I can get out of this dark cloud of over-thinkingness, the sooner I can choose to forgive him. The sooner I can forgive him, the sooner I can get on with life – MY life – whichever direction that may be.

In other words…it kinda looks like this:

The hubs and I spent a lot of time talking last weekend. We had our first counseling session, where he spent a full hour eating crow, barely choking on the feathers. On Saturday, I said I wanted to be outside, so he took me to one of the most gorgeous spots I can get to in under two hours.

You just can’t waste a day like this, ya know? And when the thinks and the thoughts try to smother your joy, there’s nothing like sunshine and giant rocks to bring your inner child out to play.

We hiked up and down the rocks for nearly four hours. On the way, we spotted some really cool ‘shrooms. It’s kind of neat that God’s crayon box is open even to the lowest fungi.

Author’s Note: No mushrooms were harmed, or licked, during filming.

Some of the rock formations formed natural “potholes” (although they look more like tunnels to me):

And there were several cliffs and bluffs, most of which were clearly made before the 80s (when we could learn by reading, instead of by, say, life experience or common sense, that it was not safe to use your toaster in the bathtub and that coffee is generally served hot) because there aren’t any guard rails or restraining bars. Theoretically, you could gently nudge someone to Absolute Enlightenment, or pay your own tuition to harp school, with a little chutzpah and a committed shove.

(Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to wing out an elbow.)

And eventually, we ran into this cool little fella. He didn’t have a whole lot to say. (The truly cool never do. They just hang out lookin’ fly while you wish you could be them.)

I was going to try to pick him up, but I don’t know enough about snakes to know which ones can kill me, so I opted out of THAT little adventure. I found out later that it was probably just a harmless milk snake, and the worst he’d probably do is try to hug you to death, and really, aren’t there worse ways to go? (Like having your deranged spouse kick you in the left kidney, sending you tumbling down a rock face into a murky river where you’re run over by a dinner cruise teeming with drunken nuns? Did I mention I was tempted?)

(Side note: I did add a snake pic to my Facebook page. In which I promptly tagged my spouse. One part passive-aggressive…forty-seven parts immensely satisfying. Heh.)

I still have a lot to work out – with myself, with my spouse, with the state of my marriage. But you can’t spend a day in THIS and not be able to think that somehow you’re gonna be okay.

I put my toe on the edge of a bluff. Not ready to make a decision, this is as close as I can stomach to stand to the edge.

Yeah. I’m chicken.

Calm, overwhelmingly blue skies above. Exciting river of energy below. A few rocks to clear that keep you grounded in rugged reality.

Every direction is intriguing. I have all the time I need to choose which way to go, and if I take my time and plot my course carefully, I can easily turn around if I want some different scenery.

I can’t speak for Schrödinger, but MY cats sure as heck ain’t gonna starve to death any time soon.

I think I’ll just breathe for a while and take in the view.

The Gray of Storm Clouds, the Tarnished Silver Lining

Posted on September 23, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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.

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

Posted on September 21, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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):

It’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:

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

Silver and clay ring:

And a couple of pieces from Mind of Madness Design:

Red agate/silver on braided leather

Hot pink and gold. LOVE THIS

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

Posted on September 20, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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”?

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.

Unfortunately, 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

Posted on September 19, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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.

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….

The Future’s So Right…. I Gotta Get Weighed

Posted on September 12, 2015 by KatieComeBack

I love a good challenge…gets me off the inertia couch and writing…SOMETHING. It generally ends up being a word salad, but salad is good for you, right? I like to think my word salad has lots of crunchy, salty bits, a bit of sweet, and a deceptively creamy dressing that is miraculously fat-free. But I may be dreaming.

Speaking of dreaming…fattymccupcakes, who is going to be my new best friend if she ever moves here (that’s not creepy, is it?) nominated me for the Future Challenge. So thanks for the mental shove, chica. (And if you haven’t picked up her blog – she is freaking hilarious. So you need to totally go read her.)

DA RULZ:

Thank the blogger who nominated you.
Next, link back to the original creator of the challenge, Dreams and Movie Screens, so they can see how far their challenge has spread.
Then, share 5 things about your future.
Finally, nominate 5 bloggers to share their own future.

So, about my future….

Photo borrowed from http://physicsworld.com/cws/article/news/2012/aug/03/can-the-future-affect-the-past

The challenge didn’t say I had to be totally realistic. (Not that I’m a great rule-follower, anyway. Speed limits? MERELY A SUGGESTION.) But I think it makes sense to chuck your desires at the universe. You can look at it as a goal to reach for, or a dream to follow, or some woo-woo hippie-dippie full-bore shot at The Secret.

Either way, I can’t help but believe that thinking positively does me more good than embracing gloom-and-doom. (Remind me of this in the middle of the night when my mind is racing maniacally to the tune of “the EEO report is due this month and I have to read 500 reviews and book flights for November before the holiday traffic takes all the good seats and someday my cats will die, my parents will die, and what if my kids or the hubs dies, they’ll ALL die someday or maybe one of my flights will crash and none of this will matter except then how will my kids buy shoes and why can’t I sleep EVER and my run tomorrow morning is gonna SUCK if I can’t get more than four hours of sleep and will my knee hold out, because if it doesn’t I am totally doomed to be fat forever and….” Do you know this one? Sing along when we get to the chorus. Anxiety always suckers me in to attending the after-party, and there’s no mental Uber to give me a ride home at 3 AM.)

Side note: I’m one of those peeps who copes by attempting to take control by taking action. (Which kind of explains the whole eating disorder dealio.) So, for example, if I’m having a craptacular day at work, I peruse job boards and send out a couple of resumes. To that end, I actually have a plan in place should something happen to my spouse: I’m selling off most of my belongings and moving somewhere warm – probably Arizona – but I’ve been eyeing this little town called Truth or Consequences in New Mexico. There aren’t many jobs there – most of them are entry-level – but housing is cheap, and I’d use this as an opportunity to simplify and scale back. Plus, the neighboring town is called – get this – Elephant Butte. Which makes me giggle, because mentally, I’m still twelve.

Barring tragedy, though…given the canvas I own and the paints I have, here’s how I’m sketching out my future:

Financial Health: I’ll have sufficient funds to retire more than comfortably by age 55. (OK, admittedly a stretch. 65?) And by “comfortably,” I mean I’ll have enough to both travel AND to make Christmas really special for the kids and grandkids. (Of which I’ll have four. NO PRESSURE KIDDOS.)

Physical Health: I’ll be in excellent shape (relative to most of the US – not planning on doing an Ironman or any of that cray shiz) and quite active. Since I’ll be retired, I’ll have plenty of time to work on my landscaping, as well as go hiking and biking as weather permits. And I’ll still be able to complete the airport sprint (when you have 15 minutes to get to your gate 1.2 miles away) at a dead run if I need to. My knees and hips will be in top form, and my bones will be strong. People will marvel at my energy level, and won’t add “for your age”, because they know they’ll get a fierce roundhouse kick to the cranium. BOOM.

Spiritual Health: I’ll be at peace with myself and with the universe. I’ll still read a lot, and talk up the issues, because that’s how we learn, right? The grandkids will seek advice and guidance from me because of how grounded and non-judgmental Grandma is: cool and calm, untroubled and relaxed, dynamic and feisty. (See “roundhouse kick” above. I don’t ever think I will suffer fools well. That ain’t in my DNA.)

Mental Health (#1): I’ll have found my voice and stood up to the bullying taunts in my head that tells me I’m not enough. I’ll know that I AM enough. I am whole and complete and have value.

In the future, I’ll be able to believe it – and I’ll live my life that way.

Mental Health (#2): I will finally be at peace with my body. I will have forgiven myself for taking up so much space, and will issue my thighs a pardon for their genetic makeup.

No. Wait.

Forgive?

What was the crime, exactly?

I guess I have a way to go before I get to this Future place. But I knew that; that’s kind of why I’m here.

But, try as I might, I still can’t envision a future without a scale in it. I can’t wrap my mind around how to exist without it. It’s easier to picture other what-ifs, like my relocation contingency plan above.

I’ve made some attempts at getting better – I’m working on some healthier habits, and tried therapy. Well, for a while. I haven’t been totally consistent, other than when I fall, I’m trying really, really hard to get back up. And I usually do.

Photo found at http://lifeasadivorceddad.com/category/hurdles/

The funny thing about failing at life? If you look outside your lane, you see you’re not the only one sprawled on the cinders. There’s camaraderie in life’s pileups. That’s why we lean on each other in the blogosphere, right?

I think the key is to keep going. And if we don’t like the direction we’re headed, we can always turn around. Or start over.

Photo borrowed from http://www.grassrootsfitness.ie/wordpress/index.php/kickstart/starting-line/

We can only really start from where we stand right now, right?

I’m putting on my sneakers, my knee brace, and my zaniest running capris.

The door’s open. I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, visualizing the finish line so I have a better chance of crossing it.

I’d like to invite these five bloggers to step into the TARDIS* and share their own futures. Have at it, ladies! 🙂

*This isn’t my typical genre, but the kiddos got me hooked, and for the record? I am TOTALLY TEAM TENTH DOCTOR. In fact, I had a dream about David Tennant the other night that was so <cough> detailed and explicit, I couldn’t look the hubs in the eye for two whole days. Anyway, if you haven’t watched, take a gamble and add it to your Netflix queue. At the very least, you’ll understand all these vague pop-culture references that erupt on your Facebook feed. And you’ll never look at angel statues the same way again. <shudder>

Carrots in My Carryon

My emotional baggage is packed with food

Category Archives: Spiritual Health

Soul Shopping: Walking the Marketplace

The Artificial Tang of Banana Candy

When the Heart’s Desire Is a Little Backwards

Throwback Foodday and a Day (of Food) in the Life

A Kitten of Schrödinger

The Gray of Storm Clouds, the Tarnished Silver Lining

You Put One Foot In, You Got One Shoe Out

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

Glass Slipper, Shattered

The Future’s So Right…. I Gotta Get Weighed

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