Tag Archives: anxiety

Stressing About…Stuff. Part I of II

Posted on by
28

Today’s post was inspired by Fatty McCupcakes’s recent article on Shopper Lottie: When You Are An Expensive Taste Cheapskate.

Katie is brilliantly funny, and the article’s a quick read.  (So go read it now.  I’ll wait.)  She got me thinking about…well, stuff.  Things.  Clutter.  The junk in our trunks, closets, and attics.

Whether we admit it or not, we’re largely a species of collectors, aren’t we?

The bottom line is, we like stuff.  Specifically, we like new stuff and we like more stuff.  Katie mentioned the irresistible draw of the Bath & Body Works sales – no matter how much lotion you have, it never hurts to buy MORE, especially when it’s 3/$5.   Right?  RIGHT?!?!  Walking away is basically like leaving cash on the ground here, people!

While I don’t stock up on lotion (I’ll tell you why in a bit*), I will confess that I cannot resist the siren song of…Kohl’s Cash.  Or, as it SHOULD be called, Kohl’s Crack.

Here’s how this malicious marketing method sucks you in:

First, you should know that everything at Kohl’s is always going to be on sale at some point.  And by “at some point,” I mean “on the day of the week ending in Y.”  Next, coupons.  Roughly 100% of the time there’s a coupon somewhere for at least 15% off – in either a mailing, online, or via the store’s app.  (Pro tip:  Get your spouse, your kid, and/or your cat on their mailing list, too.  Come coupon time, odds are good that at least one will be for 20% off, and more than half the time you’ll score the Golden Ticket of 30% off. BOOYAH.)

Golden Ticket 1971 movie:

In the famous words of Billy Mays, “BUT WAIT!  THERE’S MORE!” Periodically (read: pretty much every other week), when you hit the register, AFTER you get your sale price and AFTER your coupon is applied, you get…Kohl’s Cash.  For every $50 you’ve spent, they give you a voucher for $10…to use like cash, starting NEXT WEEK.

So next week you come back, scouting sale prices, your 20% off coupon AND your Kohl’s Cash in tow, because you can’t just leave $10 worth of Kohl’s merchandise IN THE STORE, right?  That’s $10 of FREE STUFF you are GIVING AWAY TO THE EVIL CORPORATE EMPIRE AND THEIR PROFITS OF LUCIFER AND DAMMIT, THAT’S LETTING THE TERRORISTS WIN.  So you pore over the merchandise for HOURS, calculating and re-calculating to see how much you can get for basically nothing.  I mean, you can ALWAYS use a candle, right?  Or a pair of tights?  Especially when it’s FREE?

Smugly, you walk out of the store with your new Vera Wang sweater THAT YOU ONLY PAID $4 for.  $4!!  You’ve won.  Suck it, Economic Slowdown.

And three days later, they mail you a flyer announcing that there’s a Cuddl Duds sale…and include a 30% off coupon.

It’s quicksand, I tell ya.  QUICKSAND.  DANGER.  DANGER!!!  One foot in and you’re stuck.  (And now need new shoes.)

Is there a Kohl’s Anonymous?  Perhaps there should be.

So yeah, we like new stuff, especially at bargain prices.  But, oddly, we also seem to be quite attached to the stuff we already HAVE. Even if it’s no more than future landfill fodder – in other words, GARBAGE – we aren’t very good at getting RID of stuff that no longer has value.  Whether it’s clothes that no longer fit, broken clocks, or “intimate delicates” that will surely disintegrate when faced with the challenge of the rambunctious digestion of your next overly-ambitiously-spicy meal…for some reason, we’re hesitant to part with this stuff.

I’ve mentioned before that I have an aversion to clutter, largely because my ex – and his parents – collected things.  They frequented yard sales, antique malls, and flea markets, and came home with all sorts of things:  Cake plates.  Tools.  Clocks and watches.  Printers.  Diabetes.  (Hey, the Amish can bake a mean Whoopie Pie.)

And pianos.  (Yes.  PIANOS.  My kids have informed me that their Dad recently brought home his fifth.  FIFTH.  What on EARTH does one do with five pianos when you only have two hands?  That’s a rather cumbersome paperweight, friends.)

But in addition to this, they also saved EVERYTHING.  Plastic bags, shoe boxes, newspapers, magazines, clothes that hadn’t been worn in decades (thankfully!) but were “perfectly serviceable,” and plastic containers.

Which brings me to The Great Plastic Throwdown.

We all have at least one relative who saves plastic tubs, right?  Whether it held Cool Whip, Chinese food, or cottage cheese, these tubs with the locking lids are awesome for freezing soup, storing paint, and sending leftover holiday food home with your guests.

So I get the appeal of saving some of these.

SOME.

My ex saved them all.

Every. Single. One.

He stashed them in not one, but TWO, of our small kitchen’s cupboards.  Stacks of bowls and lids were crammed, shoved, and jammed in there in an attempt to fit more and more into the space.  And you know what happens when you make something FIT without looking at the space’s FUNCTION, right?

Here’s a chart to illustrate:

OrgEffChart

One day, I wandered over to the cupboard to pull out something to put soup in.

You know what’s coming, don’t you?  It’s the cat jumping on the table during Round 16 of Jenga.

I opened the door.

And this happened:

Avalanche. When you have too much crap in your closet

TupperWars.  IT’S ON.

Working at a heated frenzy that should have fused most of the offending objects together, I began to sort.  Stained bowls, out.  Lids warped from the microwave were Frisbeed into the trash.  I declared that every bowl needed a matching lid, or it was being evicted.  But the eclectic collection mocked me, much like the laundry nightmare of black, dark brown, and navy socks. NOTHING matched.  NOTHING.

After about 45 minutes of ranting, cursing, and organizing, I finally had a small collection of bowls and matching lids.  I stacked them neatly in the cupboard.  It CLOSED!  I had EXTRA SPACE!  All was well. Until…

My ex confiscated the rest of it – ALL of the mismatched, stained, twisted-beyond-recognition pieces – and moved them to the basement.  Because, of course, “he might need them someday.”  Because OBVIOUSLY the lid that held the hot and sour soup you bought in 1998 is irreplaceable.  The bends, twists, and dents in the lid from repeated reheating?  Custom, one-of-a-kind ART, yo.

When we separated, I didn’t take a single one.

Thankfully, the current hubs isn’t like that.  Other than a mild predisposition to hoard cardboard and food, we’re largely in the clear.

However, I have to admit that I’m not immune, either.  While I routinely declutter, and take bags of excess to Goodwill, I do hang on to some things entirely too long.

But we’ll save that for the next post.  🙂

* Oh yeah, the lotion.  In addition to the clocks and watches and pianos, my ex couldn’t resist the semi-annual Bath & Body Works Stock-Up Sale, either.  He kept every “free sample” of lotion he got since probably college, AND hung on to those little bottles of lotion from hotels, too.  We didn’t travel a ton, but after ten years of marriage, I had probably three dozen of those little bottles, PLUS myriad samples AND all the stuff he’d bought over the years (or received as gifts, because “obviously you like Bath & Body Works.”)

Suffice it to say we had an ocean of lotion.

The kicker?  HE WOULDN’T USE ANY OF IT.  He only liked Vaseline Intensive Care.  But of course, we couldn’t discard or donate “perfectly good lotion.”  Because (sing along, you know the chorus) “we might use it someday.”

Finally, I had had ENOUGH.  I made a plan.  And I waited.

One Saturday morning, he was out with a friend, undoubtedly at yet another auction to buy more stupid watches.  Perfect.  It was time.

I gathered my supplies.  The miniature army of lotion bottles stood staring at me, waiting for battle.  I reached for the nearly empty warehouse-club-sized bottle of Vaseline.  I unscrewed the lid, setting it gently on the sink.  And, one by one, I poured in every little hotel bottle, free sample, and mostly-used-but-not-enough-to-throw-out container of lotion we had in the house.

Nearly an hour later, I replaced the lid on the “Vaseline,” gave it a good shake, and discreetly disposed of the evidence.

Heh.

And to answer the question you haven’t asked:  Nope.  He never noticed. 

The Purse of a Person

Posted on by
36

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had something kicking the sides of my cranium trying to work its way out.  It’s done quite a bit to try and capture my attention, distracting me from intense post-season NFL matchups and Sunday morning sermons.  Impressive for an intangible product of my imagination.  Even more impressive, it’s not about food.

What’s been festering in my frontal lobe?

Purses.

Yes, purses.  Pocketbooks.  Handbags.  Cross-body messenger bags.

(Well, it beats staring at my thighs trying in vain, yet again, to suck them in.)

(Side note:  That doesn’t work.  If you find a way to do it, hit me up.  K?)

Everybody loves a good purse, right?  Well, women, anyway.  And some dudes.  NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT and I DO NOT JUDGE.

I’m not sure exactly at what age I started carrying a purse.  I’m guessing it coincided somewhat with puberty – the age where you suddenly NEED to have, at all times, concealer, frosted eye shadow and neon-blue mascara  (hey, it was the 80s, and I bet if I looked at YOUR yearbook, your regrettable decisions would be documented, too),  and <whispers> Certain Feminine Hygiene Products We All Carry But No One Must Suspect You Have Because You Would, Like, Die.

Oh, and lip gloss.  I think that was the official sign of Becoming a Woman – you graduated from either Cherry Chapstick, or this (which came in a tin and you kept in the pocket of your Lee jeans):

To Maybelline’s Kissing Potion:

Scandalous.

In retrospect, these were actually pretty horrible.  Essentially, you were putting corn syrup on your lips.  Sure, it was delicious, but I can’t say I’d be puckering up to that sticky, smeary mess.  Especially with an inexperienced kisser.  Then again, I’m not a dude.  Curious, I asked the hubs how he felt about smooching on someone with gloopy, shiny lip gloss.  He shrugged and said, “Wouldn’t slow me down.”   (I will never understand men.  And, speaking of men…if this stuff is supposed to ATTRACT men, why doesn’t it taste like bacon instead of bubble gum?)

Because I don’t really do anything halfway*, once I started carrying a purse, I used a really BIG purse.  Something like a hobo bag – big enough to carry all the things I absolutely, positively COULD NOT be without for an hour (read:  a wallet and a ton of useless crapola), but NOT big enough to be called a tote bag (or suitcase.  Although I suppose that’s just semantics, really.)

*Except stuff like cleaning the bathroom.  Because sometimes, a C+ effort is plenty, and because eeeewwww.

Funny thing about space – we fill it almost as soon as we acquire it.  (Quick quiz to prove my point:  Do you have any empty cupboards in your kitchen?  Unoccupied drawers in your desk?  Unfilled shelves in your pantry or linen closet?  If you do, you’re in the minority, and basically probably not even a true American, because along with our fast food, we like our useless piles of stuff.)

The same was true for my purse.  It became a catchall for various items:  gum, mints, extra hose, Scotch tape, receipts, Happy Meal toys, a goat, old makeup, new makeup, Scrunchies,  keys to a bunch of unidentified passages to Narnia, earring backs, bobby pins, and approximately 23948324032 pens.

Rifling through my purse, looking for the latest misplaced item, my brother would lean over, look inside, and joke, “Oh, there’s my ski!”  He affectionately called it “The Abyss” and threatened to hide my sister in there, where she’d clearly never be seen again.

I kept using storage-closet-sized purses well into adulthood.  Once I had kids, I had to add entertainment to the variety show in my handbag.  So crayons, stickers, antibacterial wipes, sunscreen, fruit snacks, and Cheerios got added to the portable flea market.

It was nice to carry a convenience store on my shoulder – but I still hadn’t mastered the challenge of organization.   All of my “essentials” were in a jumbled heap in the bottom of the Pocketbook Black Hole.  After grocery shopping, I’d stand on my front doorstep, impatiently shaking my purse, listening for the metal clink of what would (hopefully) be the keys to my house, attempting to locate them before Ben and Jerry  melted into a depressing puddle of ooze.  Other times, I’d carelessly toss my phone in there before leaving the house; later, walking around the mall, a small voice beside me would pipe up, “Mommy?  Your purse is ringing.”  I’d frantically rifle through the contents, ineffectively calling out to it, “Hold on, I’m coming!  I can HEAR you, I just can’t FIND you!”  (Ah well.  I can always call them back.)

I have several friends who collect purses.  Coach, Dooney & Bourke, Vera Bradley, Kate Spade, and Louis Vuitton.   Since I spend most of my money on shoes, I’m more of a “what’s on sale at Kohl’s” kinda gal.

And I’ll let you in on a secret:  I actually only own one purse at a time.

One.

One purse.

(Yeah, I know, if it weren’t for my shoe collection, you’d be banging my door down trying to get me to relinquish my Girl Card.)

Don’t get me wrong – I truly can appreciate a really nice handbag.  But, frankly?  I’m lazy.  Remember, I’m schlepping around a boatload of miscellaneous (yet ESSENTIAL) items – the thought of transferring all that rando shiz from one bag to another just so it’ll match my shoes is EXHAUSTING.

So I buy one bag, use it until it falls apart, and then begin the arduous task of relocating all of the contents to their new home.  It’s not unlike moving a two-bedroom apartment, really.  I just don’t have to repaint.

Recently, the piping started to peel off my current bag.  Reluctantly, I started the search for its replacement.  This was a GREAT bag.  Well under $50 at Kohl’s, BEFORE the coupons and discounts.  And bonus: it had a bajillion pockets, so I could actually organize things.  (Hubs:  “Or have more places to lose things.”  WHATEVER. <eyeroll>)

<sniff>  It was a good soldier.  I wanted to post pictures, in reverence, but as you can see, I was mercilessly photobombed by an attention-whore tabby:

catpurse1

What the – oh, hi kitteh.

catpurse3

Aw, I love you too.  Now move, asshole.

catpurse3.1

GAAAH Really???

catpurse4

Uncle.  UNCLE.  Close enough.

See all the pockets?  (They’re behind the cat.)  And to help me further organize, I bought a giant wallet – an organizer WITHIN an organizer!  (Heloise should be sending me an award shortly.)

clutch

Also a superbargain at Kohl’s.

The smart thing about this clutch is that it has a detachable strap, which, since I travel a lot, I keep in my airport carryon.  So, when I’m gonna be out of town, this goes in my backpack, along with my laptop, sewing kit, sunglasses, headphones, gluten-free snacks, gum, Advil, and bottled water.

Wait a sec….

That makes my backpack just another purse, doesn’t it.

Anyway, I just bought a new purse.  Well, I bought it about a month ago, but procrastination + lazy + funk meant I was going to haul around a beat-up, falling-apart purse for awhile, while the bright, pretty new one hung in anticipation by the door.

While I’m still feeling pretty blahbulous, I did manage the purse transfer.  Here’s my new companion:

newbag

 

Isn’t it cute?  I bought this one** at the World Jubilee Fair – it’s a market where they sell crafts from around the world; the funds go to support…um…oppressed women or something.

(I probably should have been paying better attention.  But it sounded sort of like this:  blah blah blah in the country of blah blah women blah blah self-sufficient blah blah blah OOH LOOK SCARVES AND PURSES AND JEWELRYYYYYYY.  And yes, I binge-bought, but at least it helped the planet or something.  Right?)

**It didn’t come with the little state*** key fob.  Or the pepper spray.  Those were after-market upgrades. 

*** yes, it’s stupid cold here. 

The beauty of this bag is that, in addition to being ergonomic, it has TONS OF POCKETS.  Score!

So there’s room for EVERYTHING.  All the essentials listed above, AND a mini first aid kit, generic Advil, a taser, my work badge, a tape measure, and my grown-up lip balm of choice:

burtsbalm

 

I even have room for these guys:

trollguys

Although why they’ve taken up residence in my purse remains a mystery.

So what’s your bag?  What do you carry?  What’s the oddest thing – and the best weapon – in there right now?   

Dissecting the Funk Frog

Posted on by
14

Yeah, I know.  It’s been a while.  This funk that I’ve been in since – wow – November – seems to have settled in for the long haul.

I’ve been trying to pinpoint the issue, to roll back “effect” so I can find the cause.  This is a coping trick that helps me (sometimes) when I get an overflowing cup of the feels.  Often, emotion crashes into me like a runaway truck, and my priority at that point is to roll off the road and pick gravel out of my kneecaps, notsomuch getting the license plate of the bus or piano or proverbial cartoon anvil that’s just knocked the spiritual wind out of me.

https://geekwhisperin.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/screen-shot-2010-12-10-at-1-24-47-am.png

I’ve found that just putting a label on an overwhelming feeling helps drain its hold on me.  If I can identify it – if I can call it out, give it a name, loosely label what it is – it loses some of its ability to smother me and I can start to come out from underneath it.

“I am feeling anxious.  This feeling will pass.  It is OK to feel this way.”

Believe it or not, that small acknowledgement helps.  From here, I can then ask myself if there is anything that might make me feel better.  (Tonight, it was paying bills, of all things.  Go figure.  I suppose the getting-done-ness of an annoying pending task helped in some way, but I’m not taking it up as a recreational activity.  9/10 do not recommend.)

But whatever’s dragging me down these last few months is engulfed in a thick cloud of fog, darting craftily in and out between the trees to keep me nervous and off-balance.  After a lot of squinting and head-scratching (and, unfortunately, way too much snack food) I can only make out vague shapes and shadows of what I think it might be:

My dad.  I did get to see him over the holidays, and on the plus side, he’s still alive.  But he doesn’t have long – months?  weeks?  Every morning, I check my phone for the news I’m dreading.  Every morning.  Kinda wears on a gal after a while when you start every single day checking for a pulse.

My marriage.  He’s trying.  He’s been attentive, kind, understanding, and overwhelmingly helpful.  All the things you’d ever want.

But it takes time to accept that something you once believed to be somewhat magical is really quite pedestrian.  Ordinary.

It’s like Grandma’s prized antique vase:

vase

After years of admiring it, cautioning the kids to “look but don’t touch,” and hearing great stories about its perceived rarity, you take it to be appraised on Antiques Road Show, where you discover (after a four-hour wait in line behind someone with a fugly Volvo-sized painting that you’re pretty sure was created by a dog and a four-year-old) the prized glass sculpture that she so carefully guarded and protected was a mass-produced grocery store giveaway in the 1950s and has a market value somewhere between Betamax video cassettes and books on how to survive the Y2K disaster*.

Why Worrying is a Waste of Time - Y2K

*Ah, Y2K.  We were all doomed, remember?  Everyone was up in arms about how 1/1/00 was essentially gonna shut the planet down, because computers didn’t know that “00” meant 2000 instead of 1900.  We all held our breath on New Year’s Eve, and…nothing happened.  Well, except this:  There was an older gentleman who was quite well-known in our small town for founding one of the larger local businesses.  He was a community icon, especially after he turned 100.  And the year he turned 105, he received a letter from the local elementary school reminding his parents to sign him up for kindergarten.  HAHAHAHA

Anyway, even if your vase isn’t priceless, you can’t just throw it out, right?  Because Grandma LOVED it, and its place on her mantle has given it a rich history and some good stories.   So you still treasure it, but…it’s just not the same vase you thought it was.  You just don’t have quite the same… reverence for it.  It’s nice, but viewing it gives you just the smallest twinge of disappointment, because it’s simply not what you made it out to be.  It’s an unstirred blob of cornstarch in your coconut cream memory pie.

Work.  Normally, my busy season ends right before Thanksgiving.  This year, it lasted all the way until December 23, at which point I attempted to take a few vacation days.  But I didn’t really get the break I needed, because apparently, I’m SO important that they felt the need to call me EVERY STINKING DAY (three times one day.  THREE.  TIMES.  Am I the HR freaking pharaoh?!?!) with questions, problems, and general bad behavior of certain employees.  (I blame the full moon.  Really.  Ask any HR person, or anyone who works in a hospital, if there’s any truth to the full moon being fertilizer for the crazy daisies.  They’ll affirm heartily.)

But the holidays are over now, Open Enrollment is closed, we’re all set up to print the ACA tax forms (I think, anyway; besides, the deadline’s been delayed AGAIN, so I have two more months to royally eff them up issue them.  Oh, and that also means you won’t have them by the time you want to file your taxes.  THAT won’t confuse anything, right?) and the OSHA logs (over thirty of them.  !!!) are ready to post.   I might be due for some relief shortly.  Fingers crossed.  Although I did hear that the CEO has some “ideas” he wants to discuss, so if you need to find me, I’ll be hiding under my desk behind the 2008 termination files.)

Fat.  So, through all this, I’m still fighting the food demons.  I went from swearing off food to eating ALL THE THINGS so no one else can have any.  Here are some more of the things I can no longer have in the house (because I will tape them to my face and inhale until the bag is empty):

CC_coconut-crunch-new

Sweet & Salty

I can also no longer have no-bake cookies, because my motto seems to be One Batch, One Serving. I made two batches over the last three weeks.  Moo.

Peanut Butter-Chocolate No-Bake Cookies

(If you don’t quite hate yourself enough and want to get in on the self-loathing, go here and make these.  Use brown sugar and sub out the butter for more peanut butter, because butter is gross.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  I cannot be held accountable for your cocoa-covered countenance of shame, or the repercussions of locking your family out of the kitchen.)

Topping off the snack-food skyscraper was an influx of gift cards (Merry Christmas!) to my favorite public binge site, Benihana.  This is one of those Japanese cook-on-the-table types of places, where you sit around family-style while they twirl knives and pitch shrimp tails in your pocket.  During the entertainment, you get four or five courses of food, a veritable stir-fried Mount Unami that no one could POSSIBLY scale to the summit.

Except me and the hubs.  We take great pride in declaring that to-go boxes are for quitters, and that the ability to finish the whole thing is what makes America great.

And we ate there twice over the last two weeks, finishing every bite and washing it down with one of these:

bowlpunch

Yeah.  It’s as good as it looks.

Contributing to the waist-pinching is the lack of exercise.  I try to run a few days a week**, but that’s been tabled lately because somehow, I hurt my hip.  I say “somehow” because I quite literally have no idea what I did to it.  One day, I got out of bed, stretched, and felt a stabbing pain.  YAY.  This week, I finally caved and went to the doctor (Happy New Year! Here’s your $5000 deductible!) so I’m hoping they can get me back on track.

**Don’t get me wrong – I don’t actually LIKE to exercise.  But without it, I find the stress builds up inside and doesn’t have an outlet.  It just sits there in my gut demanding I feed it naughty things like kettle corn and chocolate pudding.  Exercise, like coffee, keeps me from having to chip through the frozen ground to bury the bodies.

The doctor thinks it’s something that can only be healed by using crutches for four weeks.

Whoa there, Doc.

<BEEP BEEP> BACK UP THE TRUCK.

I have to navigate a ginormous parking lot every day, and I live in America’s Frozen Tundra, AND I have to juggle my coffee and my morning smoothie, so unless these suckers come with cup holders and an ice pick, I don’t see crutches being a reality.  Plus, airports.  I have five trips to take between now and the end of February.  While crutches might be handy to take out unruly children and line-cutters, I don’t think they’re gonna expedite my last-minute dash to my gate.

I did get an MRI yesterday, so hopefully that’ll give me a more palatable answer. Like something that requires weekly massages and heat therapy.

And speaking of therapy….I should probably add that I quit that, too.  Why?

Because the therapist called me fat. 

OK, I should clarify.  She didn’t mean to, I don’t think.  But while we were talking, Dr. P made a comment about “your size X body.”  Essentially, she mentioned a size that, intellectually, I know is viewed as “slender” by society….BUT IT’S A FULL SIZE BIGGER THAN I ACTUALLY WEAR.  So my brain immediately assumed that I look 10-15 pounds bigger than I AM, which is 10 pounds bigger than I WANT to be.  You see how this works?  I’ve been working so hard to accept myself at my current size, and one offhanded comment just burnt all progress to ashes.  So forget it – we’re back to a goal of Size Invisible and I apparently need to lose twenty pounds*** in order to be acceptable.

Incongruously***, I dealt with all of this last night by downing a healthy (HAHAHAHA) portion of Cab Sav and most of this:

40% Reduced Fat Original

***Classic eating disorder logic here, amiright?

But today is a new day. I’ve broken my clichéd New Year’s resolutions about twelve times already, but thankfully, there’s no punch card of restarts.

Today, I can start anew.

What I’ll choose, though – food? weight loss?  health? remains a mystery.

Sharing the Joy Bauble

Posted on by
9

In my last post, I made a promise to myself – that I’d find myself a good, solid, abdominal-muscle-exhausting belly-laugh before Christmas was over.

I am proud to report that I got one…courtesy of my cat.

So, in case Santa didn’t bring you a big bucket o’happy this holiday, I’ll share mine.  Laughter isn’t like cookies – if you share, there’s MORE, not fewer that you fight over.

Side note: I would totally cut a bish for a good gluten-free cookie.  AND I MAY AS WELL ASK FOR A UNICORN TOO I GUESS SINCE THIS SHIZ DOESN’T EXIST.

Thankfully, THIS does – AND it’s gluten-free:

helladrink

I did share.  A little.  *hic*  After about a third of it, I had lost my ability to tie the cherry stems into knots with my tongue.  Which I can TOTALLY do, sober.  (So can my daughter, because I taught her, because I’m Mother of the Year here.  Besides, HOW WILL THE CHILDREN LEARN if we don’t teach them?!)  Obviously, I didn’t care at that point…because delicious.  MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ME YO.

Okay.  Before I get to my cat, here’s a car I parked behind the other day:

sexypony2

Do you see it?  On the dashboard?

sexypony

That is one sexy pny.

So yesterday, I was getting in the car to go to work.  This is usually a bit of an ordeal, because I’m juggling a couple of things:

  • Laptop bag
  • Gigundic purse with all the day’s essentials (most of which I haven’t used since I put them in there when I bought said purse….)
  • Lunch (pistachios, an apple, and a cheese stick, because I have to at least PRETEND to diet at work, even if my heart hasn’t been in it lately)
  • Bag with work shoes in it (I wear my snow boots to work, because we have a big, dark, parking lot with large ice patches and several surveillance cameras.  I don’t want to fall.  I especially don’t want to fall on video.  So the fun shoes go in a bag until I’m safely at my desk.)
  • My morning smoothie
  • a 32oz cup of coffee

Today, I also have three gift bags for my team.  (They got chocolate and alcohol, because I am an awesome boss.  Don’t you wish you worked for me?)  Suffice it to say my hands are full.

I perform my circus act of getting myself to my car, hauling all my stuff down the steps, out the front door, and into the garage. Once I wedge myself through the car door, I start to arrange all my crap so that I don’t break the wine (a tragedy!) or spill my coffee (at which point I’d have to turn around and go back to bed.)

And suddenly….I hear….something.

whirr

whirr whirrrrrr

whirrwhirrwhirrrrrrrr THUD THUD THUD THUD

Whu??

Out of the corner of my eye, some motion catches my attention.  I’m alone in my garage…

and…

SOMETHING IS MOVING.

It’s…my passenger-side mirror.

IT’S TOTALLY FLIPPING OUT YO.

It’s flopping and turning like a freaking salmon trying to leap to its homeland to spawn.

WHAT THE ACTUAL EFF.

After several long minutes of vacillating between complete bewilderment and terror that AAAAAAHHHHHHH MY CAR IS HAUNTED…I figure it out.  Apparently, when you try to carry the equivalent of the contents of your hall closet out to the car, you should be careful NOT to set the ENTIRE load RIGHT ON TOP of the little doohickey in the center console that adjusts the power mirrors.

<snort>

Oh yeah, the cat.  I’ve written about my cats before.  Like all good cat people, I find them fascinating and endlessly entertaining.

But I wasn’t prepared for Oliver’s…beauty pose.  Which completely killed me dead:

toosexy

Sing it with me:

I’M

TOO SEXY FOR THIS RUG

TOO SEXYYYY YEAAAAHHHHHH

To close the holiday out, allow me to share a Christmas Miracle:

On Wednesday, I was almost DONE with Christmas.  I had ONE more present to wrap – a donation in my in-laws’ name to Heifer.org.  You might have heard of this organization – you make a donation and they use it to buy sheep and chickens and bees and stuff for folks in third-world countries.  It’s a really cool idea, especially if you have relatives who “don’t want anything.”  Because my mother-in-law is a wonderful woman with a generous spirit (unlike me, who asked for Etsy gift cards so I can buy handmade jewelry) this organization is where we get all her Christmas gifts – this year, she and her spouse are getting two goats.

Being the Christmas stickler that I am, though, I really feel like she should have something to unwrap.  So I printed out a certificate:

goatcert

And, to commemorate the event, we ordered a Christmas goat for them to hang on their tree:

White Goat Christmas Ornament Red Gift Box

You can find this beauty on amazon.com.

Yes, a legit goat Christmas ornament.  Don’t ever say I don’t make things memorable. I mean, you don’t just HAVE something like this – there HAS to be a story behind such a thing.  Right?

So I’m wrapping this – the LAST present, and then Christmas is DONE! and I can have WINE!

And I ran out of paper. @#$(*#@($@*!!!!

I had ALMOST enough, but, dernit, the paper, much like last season’s skinny jeans, was just not gonna close around the box.  I did the best I could, defying generally accepted rules of geometry and physics, but try as I might, I had a small space on the top and bottom, about 1″ square, of cardboard-colored Christmas failure peeking through the hole and mocking me.

But then I found a sheet of old address labels (why were these in with the wrapping paper, anyway?) – oddly, from Heifer.org.  (You know how that works – once you make a donation somewhere, they thank you by sending address labels.  I have about ninety six gazillion of these, and it’s not because I’m especially philanthropic.  I have so many that one year I actually used them instead of cellophane to tape presents shut.  Because I’m all resourceful and shiz like that.  Especially when it’s totally tacky.)

But this sheet of address labels HAD CHRISTMAS STICKERS ON THEM.

And they fit PERFECTLY on the Square of Shame on my meager offering.

miraclestamp

CHRISTMAS IS SAVED!  HALLELUJAH!

May you all have a delightful holiday, filled with sparkles, sprinkles, and new shoes.  Thank you for being part of my joy this year!

 

Jell-O Salad…the Leftovers (Part 2 of 2)

Posted on by
14

(This is a continuation of my last post.)

After a frantic, exhausting trip, I’ve just arrived at my father’s room in the ICU.   I know, from text updates, that Dad’s still with us; we just don’t know how much so.

I find Mom, completely drained, still in her workout clothes from earlier that day.  She had just gotten home from the gym (yes, my 70-year-old mother goes to the gym five times a week and can probably bench press me on a fat day.  Puts me to shame, for so many reasons.)  She had poured my dad a cup of coffee and had just sliced a grapefruit in half when he gave a small moan and collapsed in his recliner – so gently that he didn’t spill a drop of coffee.

911.  The stretcher.  Grab the medications.  Follow us, ma’am.  Why aren’t they moving?  Start CPR – charging.  No, wait, he has a rhythm again.  Stroke.  Heart attack.  We can’t move him.  Now we wait.  Transfer.  Stabilize.  Wait, stroke or heart attack?  Yes.  Wait.  Wait and see.

We’re a little unclear on the details, but Dad’s in a medically-induced coma at the moment, and we have a consult with the cardiologist in the morning.  Mom camps out on the questionably-comfortable pullout in Dad’s room while the rest of us head back to Mom’s, dazed and exhausted.

The next few days are filled with ups and downs.  Dad wakes up.  He doesn’t know what happened, even though we’ve repeated the story several times.  He thinks he’s back in his college dorm.  He thinks he’s back in the Army.  He thinks I’m his wife.  (That added an extremely awkward and bizarre twist to the whole dealio.)  But there are other times where he knows exactly who we are and where he is.  He worked in maintenance at that hospital for over 30 years, and even though he retired seven years earlier, he recognizes several of the nurses who come to care for him.

There are also times – MANY times – where he thinks it’s time to go home.  Like, NOW.  You haven’t lived until you’ve seen your father in a hospital gown, fish sticks and tartar sauce a-flapping in the breeze, vehemently fighting through the tubes and wires trying to leave the ICU.

My sister:  My eyes!  MY.  EYES!!!

Me:  He MADE you with that.  WITH MOM.

Sis:  EWW EWW EWW <whacks me with bedpan>

Dad sees several specialists.  They all agree – he should be dead. They marvel at the angiograms.  “Never seen anyone walking around with this, this, these, that, and those all blocked up.”  Four highways to the heart; three are permanently closed.  They debate about whether to attempt to open up the fourth – aptly named the widowmaker – as it will most likely kill him.

We decide to proceed.  What choice do we have?  My sister and I walk Mom down the hall, shoring her up on each side, and start planning his funeral, start making lists of who to call and where to start.

But Dad isn’t done yet.  (Stubborn old coot.)  The procedure works, and when we go back to see Dad, he’s telling the surgeon some elaborate story, gesturing with his hands to illustrate.

Two days later, another setback.  The left side of his body droops; we can’t understand his words.  We Skype in with a specialist who confirms, after watching him raise his arms, speak, and stick out his tongue, that yes, he has had another stroke, albeit a mild one.   (Mild?  Is ANYTHING “mild” at this point?  Every step feels like a mile; there are no slopes, just mountains and canyons pocked with prickerbushes and mudpuddles that leave marks and tears as you go.)

And so it goes for several days.  Ups and downs.  Adjustments to medications.  Him trying to bribe me to bring him a beer.  My sister and I having chair-spinning contests.  (Hey, we were exhausted.  And it’s a lot harder than it sounds. YOU try staying up for three days straight and completing FIFTEEN rotations on a backless stool without tumbling to the floor.   I’ll wait.)

Countless friends and relatives stop by; Dad tells them one by one about his new pacemaker.  Sometimes, he stops suddenly mid-conversation and jerks about, faking a shock “event.”  (This only fools me the first time.  I punch him in the arm.  Too soon, Dad.  Way.  Too.  Soon.)

In between these visits are rounds of physical and mental therapy:

Nurse:  I want you to tell me something that begins with “B.”

Dad:  <cold stare at nurse> BATTLE-AX.

(Hey, I come by my smartassery honestly.)

The good news:  Dad went home a couple of weeks later.  And this is a blessing, I know.  He’s supposed to be dead.  All the doctors said so.

But over the last year, he’s gotten progressively weaker.  There’s nothing else to be done for his condition.  As the cardiologists so eloquently put it, “Surgery is contraindicated.”  His veins are too weak to reinforce.

So now, we wait.

And every morning, I check my phone for news.  He could have a few weeks, a few months….he’s had a year now.  The man who could fix any engine, appliance, or sticky door – the man who somehow managed to restart his own heart the day he collapsed – is dying.

But every morning, he’s still alive.  So far.

My mother is caring for him at home.  Once overweight, he now needs to be cajoled into eating.  (Last weekend, he had pie for breakfast AND lunch.  We were thrilled to get two meals into him.  AND PUMPKIN PIE IS TOTALLY A VEGETABLE.)  He takes dozens of pills a day.  He sleeps a lot.  He falls out of bed a lot.

Mom’s also trying to slowly transition his business to another dealer.  Dad’s had his own business for decades, selling and servicing lawn and garden equipment.  He was running this business until the day he collapsed.  He tried to run it after he came home, too, but two hours in the shop required an eight-hour nap.  And the risk of a laceration is just too great.  (Being on powerful blood thinners can turn a paper cut into Niagara Falls. He can’t even use a manual razor anymore.)  Yet, Mom doesn’t want to move too fast, throwing out too much of his life’s work too soon.  “It’ll only upset your father.”   I know this is true.  But being in limbo for a year takes its toll.

We had Christmas with them last weekend.  And it was bittersweet.  We won’t have another.  This, my friends, was it.

But there were blessings.

The hubs came along and, since he’s incredibly handy, he helped Mom out by fixing the sink and the lights and doing a bunch of other things Dad has always handled.  The hubs has been working really, really hard to rebuild my trust and to repair our relationship – and last weekend, I saw him at his best.  (Oh, and in his down time, he bought me a seat warmer and steering wheel heater for my car.  THAT’S LOVE.)

My siblings and I got to make dinner together and open presents together and laugh together, as a family, one last time.

And I got to watch the love my parents have for each other – after over fifty years of financial ups and downs, three surly, unappreciative teenagers, polar-opposite political opinions, and the general irritation that comes with having to wash your husband’s socks:

Mom:  Do you need anything else, dear?

Dad:  Just you. 

And then I had to leave.  And as I dropped the kids off at their father’s house, and drove off, I was inundated with Christmas music.  Every station was jingling their bells, rockin’ around their trees, and lettin’ it snow.

And I lost it.

Over the stupid radio.

As I started to hyperventilate, heaving great, big, mountainous sobs, I told the hubs to find something, ANYTHING, that was just people talking, because If I had to hear “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” ONE MORE TIME I WAS DRIVING OFF AN EFFING CLIFF AND LIGHTING A COOKIE FACTORY ON FIRE.

Holly Jolly Christmas?   More like…

https://i0.wp.com/www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/Images/Winkworth-Chorale/Cong/28-A_Dread.jpg

(I actually found this “gem” on The Hymns and Carols of Christmas.  Clearly, not everyone in history was decking the halls with marshmallow cheer and boughs of jolly.  To be fair, though, there was more plague back then.)

The holidays are hard on a lot of people.  We have dysfunctional families; we lose loved ones.  Yet society has established this Great Expectation of what we’re supposed to do and feel.  And it sure as heck ain’t a gray funk of no.

Years ago, I got overwhelmed by the obligation  of it all – the cards, the decorating, the baking – and I quit.  Voluntarily resigned from the madness.  I bought a pre-lit plastic tree, and topped it with an angel that makes me laugh.  I gave my unused Christmas cards to Goodwill, and only ate cookies that other people so generously baked and shared.  I made reservations for Christmas dinner OUT.  I relaxed and enjoyed the season.

It was very freeing.

This year, I’m struggling to find my joy.

Last Christmas didn’t go as planned. That happens sometimes. There are things in life that you just can’t prepare for. But life happens, and you find a way to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

That Christmas wasn’t the one I wished for – but it happened. And we’re going to be okay. We aren’t the same. But we’re going to be OK.

And as painful as the whole experience has been – as heartbreaking, terrifying, exhausting, unfinished, and messy as it is – it was beautiful in its own way. It’s OKAY to be sad. It’s OKAY to be afraid. That means we’ve been blessed to know things when they were different – and I have had, and continue to have, a life full of blessings. It’s also okay to hope and dream and wish. That’s part of the magic.

Christmas last year didn’t go as planned. But it is one I’ll remember forever. I learned more about love, forgiveness, and family than I think I ever knew – and I had no idea how badly I needed the lesson.

When I was a kid, my parents took me and my siblings to church faithfully every Sunday.  Sometimes, during one of the prayers, Dad would be standing next to me, serene….then, without warning, he’d uncross his arms just enough so that he could punch his right hand with his left fist.  This sent his right elbow swinging….into my hymnal, into ME, or into the collection plate.  As the coins danced dangerously to the edge, I’d giggle.  And once you start laughing in church…there’s no stopping it.  The floodgates are opened, the dam is broken.  Mom would glare, and it was like kerosene on an open flame.  BOOM.  Muffled snorts would sneak out from the hands tightly clamped to our faces, fueled by the dirty looks and stares from <gasp!> other families.

So tonight, at the candlelight Christmas Eve service, I’ll be thinking of my family.  I’ll pray for my dad, and for my mom – for strength and happiness while those last few sands in the hourglass fall.  I can’t quite capture that bubble of lightness and joy this year, but maybe, that’s OK.  This year, maybe my gift isn’t meant to be flashy, heady buoyant exuberance -maybe it’s a solid, calming classic peace.

But the man who taught me that laughing in church is totally OK once in a while would want more than that.

So, if I haven’t found my joy before I’ve blown out my candle tonight, I’ll make it my mission to find a solid belly laugh before the lights go out.

I’ll find just one shiny bauble of joy, and hang it on my mental tree.

For Dad.

Whatever you celebrate, I wish you and your loved ones the brightest of blessings.

P.S.  2015?  You can suck Father Time’s little second hand.  Baby New Year has a steaming pile for you at the back door, yo.

‘Tis the Season to be…Gelatin (Part 1 of 2)

Posted on by
4

So I’ve been absolutely sucktacular at posting lately.

I feel kind of like a bad Jell-O salad from the 1950s.  I seem to be stuck in this gelatinous, undecipherable state of…blah.  I’m suspended in this gray, chilly place that I don’t really like, but can’t seem to find the energy to work my way out of.

Lately, I’ve been rotating between three general moods:  1) anxiety over something I can’t identify, 2) a vague general sadness, or 3) feeling nothing at all.  Season with a pinch of irritation and a teaspoon of fairly random anger, and serve on a platter of bitter arugula to a bunch of society ladies who are harshly judging you.

Occasionally, I spy a bit of brightness, like a maraschino cherry*, just out of my reach.  It looks…nice, and even though I think, at least intellectually, that I’d rather be warm and engaged in life a bit more, I’m not motivated to actually DO anything to move towards it.  Besides, moving would take energy.  So here I stay.

Gelatin salad:

YOU KNOW YOU WANT ME

When the sadness or the anxiety creep in, I shut those bishes up with other vices.  My emotions are drowned out by the crunching of chips, the munching of popcorn, the suddenly urgent work project, the flood of wine.  The world around me is gearing up for the holidays, but the joy and exuberance of the season are muffled by the thick layer of apathy clogging my eardrums and blurring my eyesight.  I’m not powerless, really.  I’m just uninspired and unmotivated.  So I shrug back under my shawl of numbness and do…nothing.

Blah.

*Did you know that, in most of those beloved fruit cup snacks from childhood, that the cherries weren’t even cherries AT ALL?  They were GRAPES.  Grapes with makeup.  TRUE STORY.  Nowadays, the USDA has defined standards for what percentage of fruit cocktail actually has to be cherries – but many of those cherries STILL wear blush.  And often, the dye is carmine.  WHICH IS MADE FROM BUGS.  That’s fine with me; I’d actually rather eat bugs** than a lot of what we attempt to pass off as “food”; this is more of a PSA for you vegan types.

**Speaking of eating bugs – if you want to get in on the hippie-trendy-sustainable-food bandwagon and try some really tasty bugs (come on, all the cool kids are totally doing it!) visit chapul.com.  These folks make some seriously good energy bars – out of crickets, of all things.  Yes – crickets:

from inhabitat.com

Now, before you jump on your chair and scream like a little girl – hear me out.  I swear they have NO weird aftertaste – when I first tried them, I was actually disappointed because they DIDN’T taste…I dunno…exotic?  I’m not sure what I was expecting.  Something more unusual, I guess.  But although they won’t make you hear colors or grant you metaphysical genius powers, they’re energy bars that actually taste good.  Like cookies.  And the bugs are all ground up, so I promise you won’t get a cricket leg in your teeth.  Taste some adventure and buy some.  I TRIPLE-DOG-DARE YOU.  I mean, unless you hate Mother Earth or something.  Whatevs.

Anyway.  I’m trying to figure out why I just don’t FEEL this year.  And, while I’ve been dealing with a few things this year, I think this particular funk may have something to do with my dad.  So this post is super long, and I’m sorry, but selfishly, I need to get this out of my head so I can start to deal with it in a way that doesn’t involve a bottle of wine, sharp words towards my family, or gallons of delicious, brain-soothing popcorn.

 

Almost exactly a year ago, my phone rang at work.  Now, this was unusual for a couple of reasons:  One, it was my personal cell phone.  I don’t get many calls on my cell phone – I mean, who actually talks on the phone anymore?  We all text and Facebook and InstaTweet and a bunch of other things that your average preschooler has figured out and I will never understand.

Two, I don’t have cell phone coverage where I work.  We’re not entirely sure why, but there are theories.  One is that our building is haunted.  Even though I totally believe in ghosts, I’m not buying this one.  I’m more aligned with Team Crappy Construction and Leaky Windows.  Our building actually used to be a window factory before the current company bought it.  In the winter, my office gets so cold that I get ACTUAL LEGIT FROST ON MY WALLS.  (Gee, and the window people went bankrupt WHY?)  Suffice it to say I have a space heater cranked at 80 between October and May.  (And the rest of the year, because air conditioning.)  And I’m sure somewhere in this shoddy shack is a solid, scientific explanation why my office can’t hold heat, yet is impermeable by cell phone signals.   (And probably isn’t bulletproof, but has successfully shielded me from crazed local wildlife.)

So my phone rings, and I see from Caller ID that it’s my brother.  I stare at the phone for a minute, surprised.  My brother?  In the middle of the day?  He works all day.  How strange and random.  Why would he call in the middle of-

Oh.

<insert that sick, sinking feeling you get when the pieces fall into place>

I let the call go to voice mail, knowing that if I pick it up, I’ll be rewarded with a frustrating round of “What?  WHAT?  Can you hear me now? Hello?”  I call him back from a land line and get voice mail; meanwhile, he’s leaving me a voice mail.  I call him again.  No answer.  YAY TECHNOLOGY.  Frustrated, I try him one more time.

“Dad had a stroke.  It’s bad.  Come home.”

The next twelve hours are a blur.  I blurt out to my team that I’m leaving.  I get in the car and call my spouse.  I retrieve the five voice mail messages I couldn’t get before.  (THANKS VERIZON.)

I start chucking clothes into a suitcase (not wanting to discern what I might need for a funeral; do I jinx it if I pack a black skirt and dress shoes?  or do I risk being the relative who went to her dad’s funeral in yoga pants?) while I call Delta to get my Christmas flight rescheduled.  (Mad kudos to Delta for helping me out. On any given Sunday I’m typically cursing them for stranding me in Detroilet YET AGAIN, and their number is stored in my phone as Another F@#$ing Flight Delay, but they came through for me this time.)   I dump a week’s worth of food into bowls and pour six bowls of water for the cats, hoping for the best as I head to the airport.

I check a bag, wondering, as it trudges along the conveyor, when I might see it again.  I wonder if I will see my father again.  If he’ll have passed before I get there.  If he’ll know I’m there. If he’ll know who I am.

I pick at a sandwich during my layover at JFK.  (Seriously, airports?  I was ONE gluten-free sandwich away from STARVING TO DEATH.  I know us sensitive types should plan ahead and pack our own food, but seeing as how sometimes air travel is an emergency and OBVIOUSLY it’s my dad’s fault for not requesting to have his stroke two weeks in advance so you could provide real food I could actually EAT, would it kill you to have a meal option here or there for those of us who can’t eat normal people bread?  If not for that one lone sammie, I WOULD HAVE TOTALLY EATEN ANOTHER PASSENGER’S DOG.  I had a packet of grainy mustard and I was eyeing the Chihuahua at gate B17.  Don’t challenge me, bro.)

Hours later, I’ve aged forty years.  I get to the hospital, prepared for the worst.   I find my father’s room in the ICU, darkened, machines whirring and beeping.  Tubes.  Lots and lots of tubes.  And in the center of this artificial cobweb, underneath a gray, dark cloud of wires and a ventilator, I find my father.  The man who bravely swatted bees and dried tears, who fearlessly chased both bats and boys out of the house, lies there, motionless, small and shrunken and vulnerable.

…to be continued….

Procrastination Station: Seven Rando Factoids

Posted on by
51

So I have some stuff I need to get out of my head and write about, but I’m procrastinating, because it’s kind of painful and therefore feels like work.  Which I have no interest in starting, contemplating, or completing today.  BECAUSE WEEKEND. Plus, I’m really, really good at procrastination. It’s the zippy convertible I use to drive through life – tight corners on two wheels, slamming into the last available parking space thirty seconds before the show begins.  WHAT. A. RUSH.

(And yes, I recognize that life would PROBABLY be a lot less stressful if I actually planned out things and allowed ample time to complete them, and this last-minute-Charlie thing I’m sporting feeds my anxiety like fertilizer on corn in July.  But dat’s how I roll, yo.  It’s as much a part of me as curly hair and birthmarks, and I’m not sure I could change it if I tried.)

Today I’m putting off stuff by buying shoes.  Here’s what’s coming to my house later this month:

http://www.springstepshoes.com
http://www.springstepshoes.com

 

Merry Christmas to me, yo.

So, since I’ve spent my shoe allowance for December (and probably most of 2016), and have to clean out some old shoes to make room for these, I’ll clean out my blog awards closet, too, and post one of the awards that’s been sitting in my drafts folder for a bit.

So, without further ado…

versatile-blogger1

whereishappy was kind enough to nominate me for the Versatile Blogger Award.  (Over a month ago.  But again, why do TODAY what can be done after the mall closes?)  You can find the rules on her post. And you should check out her blog anyway, so go click on it.

Since I dropped my grocery money on shoes this morning, I’m not feeling too rules-y today.  But, as the award commands, I will post Seven Meaningful (and Potentially Creepy) Facts about Myself.

1. My tree has been up since October 24.  We put it up specifically because the hubs is a cardboard hoarder.

Makes sense, right?  Let me explain:

I may have mentioned in the past that I have an aversion to hoarding clutter.  Thankfully, the hubs is pretty good about not collecting useless crapola that belongs on the Goodwill truck; if he DOES hang on to something, at least it’s only ONE of the thing, not seventy thousand million of the thing.

(Well, wait.  That’s not entirely true.  He kind of hoards food.  Meaning, if one of the kids mentions that he likes a specific Luna bar, for example, he’ll buy ten boxes of said Luna bar.  But, the hubs is 6’4″, so frankly, he eats a lot of what he buys.  And he DOES toss it if it gets old or expires, so we’re not going to be featured in a TLC documentary anytime soon.  But currently, Target started stocking his favorite frozen pizza again, and there are now SEVEN of them in my freezer, despite the fact that there are THREE Super Target locations within spitting distance of my front door.)

Yet… the one thing that the hubs cannot seem to part with?  Cardboard boxes.  Whenever you buy a new computer monitor, video game, vacuum cleaner, etc., the rule is that you keep the box just in case the new item goes kaput and you have to send it back.  OK, I get that, but you don’t have to keep EVERY BOX FOREVER AND EVER UNTIL DEATH DO US PART.

So, since he’s been in and out of the doghouse these last few months, I announced one Saturday that we were cleaning out the shed AND the garage.  We have been blessed with a shizton of storage – we have a four-car garage AND an external shed.  Plenty of room for storing bikes, your mower, rakes, extra furniture, a helicopter, a few horses, and probably a national monument or two.

What we had?  Two cars, a workbench, an armoire, 4 bikes, a Christmas tree, and FOUR HUNDRED EIGHTY MILLION CARDBOARD BOXES.

So we excavated Mt. Cardboardicus.  Our township recycles cardboard IF you tie it neatly in 2′ X 3′ squares no more than 12″ tall.  That day, after cutting and stacking boxes and boxes from old appliances we no longer had and furniture we bought over a year ago (seriously – who is gonna mail a couch?  !!??!!) I ended up with two cardboard towers each about 4′ high.  A veritable…wait for it… skyscrapper. <rim shot>

But the good news?  I got to use a saw to cut the cardboard down.  Power tools are such a rush.  Even if you’re only using them to terrorize glorified paper, saws are awesome for channeling your inner Dexter.

Plus, I found my old rollerblades that I hadn’t been able to locate for two years, AND we unearthed the Christmas tree.  So, since we spent all that time digging it out…why not bring it inside?  Going ALL THE WAY to the backyard AGAIN to get it in a month or so?  Super inefficient.  I mean, you’re halfway to Target by that point.

Also, that night, the neighbors were having a Halloween party, and their yard was THOROUGHLY decorated.  I mean – Frankenstein automatons, fog, cobwebs….I have nothing against National Beg for Candy and Dress Like a Ho day, but for some reason, the juxtaposition of a lit tree beaming down on the graveyard zombie scene cracked me up.

Hey, someone’s gotta be first, right?  And this gave free license to our other neighbors putting their lights up, as well.  Including this one.  Although, if anyone actually has any clue what it’s supposed to be, you get mad props because I’m stumped.

xmaswut

Christmas kangaroo, anyone?  Kids, let this be a lesson: Lights first, cider second. 

2. This is our tree topper:

treetopper

Angels watchin’ over me, my Lord….

3. Last year, our tree didn’t come down until April.  Because again, PROCRASTINATION.  I had to finish our taxes first, ya know.  Hey, if there’s snow on the ground SOMEWHERE, the tree can stay.  MY HOUSE, MY RULES.

4.  Speaking of houses…Last year the kiddos and I made a gingerbread house.  Since we suck at all things art, we made it a crack house complete with a murder scene:

crackhouse2

See the rats?  And the blood gushing from the head? And the door blocked off?  Parent of the year, right here, folks, molding tomorrow’s youth.

5.  More “I can’t art”:  Super-glue HAAATES me.

Every.  Single. Time.

I come by it honestly, though.  I have fond memories of my aunt gluing herself to a hairbrush when I was a kid.  Who needs a DNA test to prove blood relation when you’re bonded by your lack of adhesive skills?

6.  My son isn’t good at art, either.  When he was in kindergarten, his class made a recipe book.  He needed to illustrate a favorite recipe from home.  I present to you “Ice Cream Pie.”

pieno

Brings tears to my eyes, it does.  TEARS.  Someday, when he’s the lead burrito assembler at Chipotle (yes, this is his current career aspiration,) we’ll be able to say “we knew him when….”

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

7.  I made my own pens.  This is a Big Deal because I suck at all things art (see above) AND because I very nearly failed shop class in middle school.  Apparently, I can’t smooth out a solder bead smaller than buckshot – my “lines” probably spell out something obscene in Braille – and when it comes to wood, straight lines and right angles are for non-creative types, in my humble opinion.  <turns nose upward>

The ONLY reason I passed Industrial Arts was because half of our grade was a written test to identify tools.  I got 100% on the test, but my projects are likely either polluting our planet in a landfill, or they’re a horrible joke circulating through a local club’s annual White Elephant Swap.  If you come across one of them, they’re SUPPOSED to be a metal pencil box and a wooden Tic-Tac-Toe board.  No, really.  Quit laughing.

But recently, I tried my hand at turning, through the help of a friend at work, and I MAKED THESE PENS ALL BY MYSELF (practically) AND I AM SO PROUD.

The red and the purple are fountain pens, because I so fancee.  And the purple pen has purple ink.  BECAUSE PURPLE.

Here’s a shot of Pen #2 in progress so you can sort of see how it’s done.

pen2a

Essentially, you start with a “blank”, which is a rectangle of wood or acrylic or whatever.  (The orange is all acrylic; the red and purple are actual wood with added colored resins – kind of a hybrid of wood/plastic, which you probably guessed as purple trees currently only exist in The Lorax.)  Then you cut it, drill out the barrel, and turn it to get the shape. I got to use saws and drills and lathes and polishers and I STILL HAVE ALL MY FINGERS YO.

Plus, I have three very elegant pens.  I sign benefits contracts and written warnings with just a little more flourish.  It’s like using the good china for a grilled cheese sandwich.  Why not?  You’re worth it.

Next up will be turning a bowl.  Fingers crossed (while they’re still attached, that is….)

Happy Sunday!

 

That’s My Note Athiest! We Empires the Bad.

Posted on by
25

I’m long overdue for a post here, I know.

In my defense, things have been a little dark lately, and in the few moments I’ve been able to come up for air, I haven’t felt at all like doing much of anything.  I’d blame the full moon I saw last week…

fullmoon

Actual full moon witnessed on actual commute.  Sweet cheeks, pumpkin.

…or the odd weather we’ve been having…

weatheroutsideisfrightful

Actual weather report at actual terminal.  Fled in terror before Niagara Falls came to a boil.

…but I’m sure neither of these contributed much.

Plus, I’ve been wrapping up my annual super-busy period at work. At last count, I’ve read over 500 performance reviews, editing out “helpful” feedback and rewriting some of the comments so we don’t get our carcasses sued.  Here’s a sample of this year’s gems, fresh from the school of “I wish I were kidding”:

Mark is an expert fisherman and all the customers know that.  Because even though we do not sell any fishing paraphernalia, this subject comes up every time we need him to unload a truck or clean something and we hear his sudden andn intense passion in discussing his hobby in detail with anyone nearby.  (Mark is kind of my spirit animal.)

Joe does the best he can with his bum hip.  <cringe>

Sally is smart, but sometimes the men don’t think she knows much about our product line.  She needs to find a way to service these customers better.  I know she really trys.  <double cringe>

And my personal favorite for 2015:

Jim is an excellent associate.  He expertly fills all my holes.

<DELETE DELETE DELETE>  Well, right after I copy and paste and send to all my HR buddies.  Because HAHAHAHAHAHA

In my spare time <snort> I’m finishing up the last few days of Open Enrollment. For you non-US folks, the Open Enrollment period is the annual time where you can make your benefit selections for the following plan year.  This time period is usually about three weeks. OF SHEER HELL.

Let me tell you how this shiz goes down, from an HR perspective:

First, you get info from your carrier about how much they want to jack up your rates.  If they’re going easy on you, the screwing starts at 20%.  And this year, we have the plot twist of the Affordable Care Act (a.k.a. “Obamacare”.) Regardless of how you feel about that from a political standpoint, many of the insurance carriers are blaming it for additional increases of 5-10% ON TOP OF WHAT THEY WERE GONNA CHARGE YOU ANYWAY.

Yay progress.

So you negotiate frantically between your broker, your carrier, and your executive team to try to patch together a plan that balances a value-added benefit with what the company can afford to offer.  In other words, you have to offer a plan that the shareholders will agree to AND won’t result in a parade of flaming torches and pitchforks when you roll it out to employees.

Basically, you need the Tooth Fairy to bring you a purple unicorn who speaks French and juggles.  Preferably a vegan one.

Next you schedule meetings and assemble books to explain benefits changes and rates.   You hold your meetings, hand out the materials.  Any questions?  Nope, we’re good, kthxbye.

Two and a half weeks go by.  Nothing else happens.  A tumbleweed blows by as you frantically fix the most garish typos and correct gender pronouns on the last of the performance reviews.  (You’d like to do a more thorough scrub, but the battle of too/to, your/you’re, and the over-apostrophication of every.freaking.word ending in “s”  has left you exhausted and stamping them with the seal of “Close Enough.”  Uncle already, UNCLE!)

Two days before Open Enrollment ends, people start to realize that the deadline is looming, and the monsoon hits.  You quickly shift gears to spend fourteen hours a day explaining the difference between an HSA and an FSA and an HDHP and a PPO in between complaints about “my benefits went up 5% but my raise was only 2%.” (Which I get, but these two things are totally unrelated.  Insurance is not a buy/sell retail item and it is NOT cheap for a company to offer.  Want proof?  Ask for your COBRA rates – that’s the true cost of the plan for the company.  Then come back and complain.  Oh, and you’re free to shop the marketplace and pay more for a plan with a higher deductible.  Really, have a look at how “affordable” the marketplace plans are.)

</rant>

Suffice it to say I’m in the thick of my annual “lost all faith in humanity” period.

Just in time for the Thanksgiving weekend.

Which I spent eating popcorn in the airport watching the Eagles get totally spanked.

So is it any wonder that I’m out of wine?

Side note:  I drank this last week, too. It’s soooo gooooooood.  It’s mead.  I don’t know what mead is, other than I think Shakespeare drank it, or Monty Python did, or something, and it tastes like beer and wine made a baby that totally went to Harvard, yo.  So go get some. You’re welcome.  P.S.  Don’t let the hornet on the label scare you.  After getting about 1/3 of the way through the bottle, you’ll realize the bee isn’t menacing, but merely misunderstood, and really just needs a big ol’ hug.

meadyummo

The brewer is Nectar Creek.  Sorry the pic is a bit blurry. It’s a big bottle. <hic>

But let me be clear about one thing.  When I’m texting you?  I’m not drunk.  It’s simply that my phone HATES ME.

I know I’m not alone in unfortunate autocorrects.  Part of the title of this post was actually from a comment on an older post – Chelise from Caterpillar to Butterfly posted “That’s my note atheist!” in a comment.

Any guess what she meant to say?

Clearly, the context cues lead you to “That’s my vote at least.”  Right?

This was easy for me to translate, because my phone has given me PLENTY of practice.  Let me show you.

Here’s a text sequence.  I was out with Kid #1, shopping.  We agreed to meet Kid #2 for dinner, and apparently he was getting hungry….

(He’s gray, I’m blue.)

text1

OK, that wasn’t too bad.  I got there, eventually.

So my son went out and shot a squirrel (GOOD, because squirrels SUCK), and it’s “later” now and he is most definitely STARRRRRRVINGGGG.  I ask him where he wants to go for food.  He suggests Taco Bell; I helpfully suggest some delicious alternatives.

text2

Bonus points to him – he’s so confused, he actually used punctuation. If you have teenagers, you know how significant – and rare – this is.

Since he was a little scared to guess what I was suggesting,  he stuck with leftover Chinese.  (I swear, I was only asking him if he wanted something from Sheetz or from this local place called NY Deli.  OBVIOUSLY.)

Later that night, Sis is out on a date.  He’s trolling YouTube videos on different gamer hacks, but now he can’t find his headphones.  He swore up and down he left them RIGHT HERE ON THE TABLE next to his sister’s phone charger…which was, of course, with her on her date.  We’d been running around all day, so they could have been anywhere.  I tell him to text Sis (in purple) to see if she has any ideas:

text3

I’m not even going to tell you what I was trying to say here.  I’ll let you guess.  (OK, because I actually forgot.  Even I can’t figure it out.)

But I didn’t give up.  Daughter is on another date tonight, so, being the superhip mom I am,  I tried one more time to text her.  (Oh, and I called her boyfriend “Nemo” because he has an arm in a sling and I am a horrible person who told everyone at lunch today that he hurt it wrestling off a senior citizen in a Black Friday fight for the last $2.00 cami.  HAHAHAHA.)

Anyway, we ordered Chinese (which, apparently, we do a lot) and I wanted to see if we needed to save her anything:

text

NOW I give up.  Again…uncle.  UNCLE, SIRI, UNCLE.

But, like I said, it’s been a rough week.  In Chicago, even the pastries seem to be having some sort of identity crisis:

cakeconfused

Actual pastry display in yet another actual airport.  THE CAKE IS A LIE.  A delicious, delicious lie.

So technology may lead me to some awkward communications, but a world where carrots taste like chocolate is a world worth hanging out in for a while.

Especially if THIS is how you airport:

suitcase

(Smart kid.  Seriously, why didn’t I think of that?)

 

Quiche Me and Tell Me You Love Me

Posted on by
19

“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

Posted on by
10

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!  😀