The Clarity of the Crystal Ball

Posted on May 7, 2016 by KatieComeBack

In my last post, I mentioned that my sister and I had tarot card and palm readings while she was out to visit.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve had various readings done from time to time. I don’t use them as the final word in setting my life’s course or anything. They’re more like those endless Facebook quizzes – entertaining (and fun to see how all your friends score), and they often validate your own insight into yourself. When you get feedback that resonates, it feels a bit like you have permission to be exactly who you’re meant to be.

And with my issues, I’ll take all the permission I can get.

But sometimes, what they tell you is so spot-on accurate, it’s jarring. That was my prior experience with Jeff Tyler:

This is Jeff. Read more about him here.

When I met him before, he solidly nailed some things:

* He asked about my career. When I told him that I work in HR, he said, “Yes, but not the way most people are in HR. It’s different, and I like you there, because you can do HR the way you want to do it.” This is actually really accurate. I’m not the stereotypical HR person; I like creating sense from the chaos at small companies, where I can roll up my sleeves and put in place just enough structure to function. In contrast, I find large, well-organized companies completely suffocating. (Plus, my company is privately owned…by a family – which adds a flavor of…uniqueness. More on that brand of crazy later.)

* He asked if we had been doing construction or remodeling. Again, spot on. At the time, we’d spent much of the last two years fixing up the short sale property we’d purchased – in addition to remodeling the kitchen, we’d repainted nearly every room, redone two bathrooms, and put an addition on the back. So yeah, I was all spackle-and-drywalled out by this point. He suggested that I take a break from that particular chaos, and “take time to just enjoy what you’ve built.” Although there was a bit more to be done, for now it was time to just be in our house – at least for a while.

* He then talked about creative energies. He said he saw me active in “some kind of art – music, words, something….that’s the only time you’re all there and real. That’s where you can BE.”

At that time, my blog was six months old, and I was finding it to be quite therapeutic. And I’m also a musician – I sing in a band, and while I’m no Sandi Patty, I don’t completely suck:

And he was right, again. I’m totally absorbed in the moment when I’m singing. Gone are the little gnats that cloud my happiness and nip at my joy and buzz distractions at me about my weight. It’s just the music and me.

And when I write, I drop the cloak that shields my soul from the social crows who might otherwise pick at it. I expose my jugular. OK, yeah, sort of anonymously, but still. Emotional vampires aren’t picky eaters; it’s still a risk, and feels a bit like I’m dabbing steak sauce on my pulse points…but when writing, I throw caution to the wind, and get real.

So it was a great reading, and I really dug this guy’s direct, no-dancing-delicately-around-the-tulips approach – and I thought my sister would, as well. She was receptive to give it a go, so off we went.

And once again, I got some solid insight. Some of my highlights from this round:

* Your workplace is kind of a mess. Yep….as I mentioned before, it’s a privately-held, family-owned company. And we have a new CEO, who is NOT family, so the resulting change in diet has given the drama llama more than a little intestinal distress…which alternates between noxious stink and hilarity.

* You’ve been working on spiritual growth, and you’re outgrowing who you were. But when you’re challenged, you revert back to who you used to be…and you don’t like that person very much. This was interesting to think about. Over the last year, I’ve been working on personal and spiritual healing, and trying to quiet the mental voices around my food issues. But prior to that, I worked myself out of a relationship that was mentally abusive. It took considerable strength to do that – leaving a marriage is hard, hard work; it’s even tougher if you’ve been mentally whittled down to nothing.

He had a point, though – in the struggles I’ve found in my current marriage, do I face them head-on? Not initially, no. I tend to revert to the same person I was in my prior marriage – timid, hesitant, reluctant to start conflict.

And he was correct in saying that I don’t like being that person. It isn’t me. It’s like jamming your feet into shoes that don’t fit. You feel pinched and uncomfortable and can’t WAIT to kick them off, and they don’t really go with your whole spiritual outfit, anyway.

* You have some toxic older friends that you need to move away from to preserve your energy.

I scratched my head on that one for a bit. I don’t really have close friends…sure, there are my Facebook connections, and my many “virtual” online buddies….but none of them are toxic energy leeches.

I shrugged it off as a “miss” in the reading.

My sister also got some interesting tidbits:

* You work really hard to hide your emotions. But you shouldn’t. You have really strong emotions, and you are a good person BECAUSE of those strong emotions – not because you hide them.

My sister’s always been a “feeler.” When we were kids, she was convinced that inanimate objects, like stuffed animals, had feelings.

Which reminds me of the Cabbage Patch story:

Anyone else remember Cabbage Patch dolls? My sister really, really wanted one. She didn’t get one for Christmas, because Cabbage Patch Kids were the It Toy of the year, and since people were generally losing their collective minds in their efforts to get one, Mom wisely opted out of the public stampedes and fistfights. So sis saved up her own money, until FINALLY she had enough stashed away. Off to the mall we went, making a beeline for the toy store. (This was a few months after the holiday rush, so the shelves were sufficiently stocked at this point. No taser required.)

My sister had her eye on a redheaded doll. She spotted one in the second row, behind a blond, curly-haired one. She moved the first doll to the side…

…and I said something to the effect of “aw, that doll’s going to be sad that you didn’t choose her.”

Looks heartbroken, doesn’t she.

My sister felt so bad about hurting the toy’s feelings that she LITERALLY BOUGHT THE BLOND DOLL INSTEAD.

And my brother spent the next several years torturing her with it. He gave her a voice, and whenever the doll wasn’t sitting next to my sister, he’d make it call out, “MOMMA! MOMMA! COME GET ME! I’M LONELY! She was prone to mischief, frequently body-slamming teddy bears and pinning dolls belonging to overnight guests too. (And sometimes our cousins, if they dared nap at our house. They’d wake up underneath a Cabbage Patch kid who you’d swear had a smug look on her face….)

“Antonia Larina”clearly had self-control issues. (Ah, siblings. Ain’t they great?)

Anyway. One of the reasons I wanted to have my sister see this guy was because of this stressful life situation she’s dealing with. Interestingly, he had some insight into that:

* You’re struggling with making a big decision. Perhaps you need to make a decision NOT to make a decision right away. Take this time to heal and fix YOU instead.

(For the record, this is EXACTLY WHAT I TOLD HER. Validation for my spiritual gift right there, folks. But wisdom is wiser when it comes from a third party. That’s why consultants are so expensive, right?)

* You need to stop beating yourself up. You’re hearing your mother’s voice of disapproval in your head…you need to stop listening to that and do what’s right for YOU.

Hmm. That didn’t feel quite right. Mom was never one to be overbearing with an opinion. Apparently (I found this out later) HER mother was pretty up front with how she felt about things, and was none too shy about making sure her offspring knew her stance. On EVERYTHING. And don’t we always swear to do EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE of what our parents did?

So we grew up with a lot of this:

Me: Mom, what do you think of my current boyfriend?

Mom: It doesn’t matter. I’m not the one dating him.

Sis: Mom, do you think I should cut my hair?

Mom: It’s your hair. Do what you want with it.

Afterwards, my sister and I debriefed about our readings a bit (yes, while we were shopping – at the outlet mall this time to mix it up a bit.)

And as we were searching for the best slip-on walking shoes and the perfect jeans, we realized something.

The damaging influences he had referenced – the toxic relationships, the disapproving parents – these weren’t playbacks of external experiences.

They were internal.

In my sister’s case, Mom never really frowned on her life choices. But my sister is so adept at self-flagellation, she was creating her own voice of disapproval. RIGHT INSIDE HER HEAD.

It wasn’t Mom’s voice she was hearing – it was her own.

And with me – the “toxic relationship” is, in reality, with…myself. It’s with the person who has food issues. It’s the condescending voice hissing insults at me while I walk around with a BMI of about 18, telling me I’m too fat to eat back the precious few calories I burned on my morning run. It’s that internal judge that hands out the verdict of “unacceptable” every time I look in the mirror and catch sight of my thighs.

The challenge? It’s really, really hard to divorce your brain. It’s awfully tough to break old thought patterns – to jackhammer out the long-ago-set concrete and haul the heavy chunks to the garbage dump.

It’s exhausting.

But if I move one piece at a time, and keep at it, eventually I’ll get there.

I had a small taste of what that might look like just this week. I was sporting some of my new stuff – a new top, and what I thought were decent jeans (I can never be sure – I get myself thinking they look OK in the dressing room, but once I get home and look at them in MY mirror…well, ugh. Thighs again.)

And you know what? I thought I actually looked pretty good.

Throughout the day, I reminded myself that I looked just fine.

(Even now, I’m hesitating to post this picture, because I’m still second-guessing those damn thighs.)

But some of the time? I think, maybe, I’m starting to believe it.

I’m OK.

I hereby give myself permission to BE. Just the way I am. A work in progress.

I hope my sister does, too.

Your Fate in One Date

Posted on April 15, 2016 by KatieComeBack

Last Friday, the hubs and I attempted to go on a date.

I don’t know how often married people are SUPPOSED to date…but what relationship experts and the interwebz dictate is that you should go on an actual date periodically. You need to break away from the routine of work and cleaning and taxes and laundry and bills and kids and all the AAAAAAUUUUGGGHHHH in life and spend some time just existing as a couple.

Right?

I’ve mentioned before that I travel quite a bit; this takes me out of town a couple weekends a month. Over the last few months, the hubs and I have been on opposite schedules – he’s been out of town when I’ve been back home, and vice versa. The result is that we haven’t had a weekend together since January.

Finally, last weekend, the stars briefly realigned, and we found ourselves expecting a few days at home together.

All week, the hubs expressed how much he was looking forward to our weekend…to spending time together. He texted me daily with his anticipation, and told me again when I arrived home from work in the evenings.

But the weekend got closer and closer, and although the hubs had thoroughly communicated how much he was looking forward to it…we hadn’t actually gotten around to planning anything.

When Thursday came around, I broached the subject. My “so…what shall we do this weekend?” was met with “I don’t know. What do YOU want to do?”

Gaaaaaah.

!@#($*#$!!

I haaaaaate that answer.

Because we ALL know that it means, “I don’t really want to come up with any suggestions or ideas, but if I don’t like what YOU pick, I don’t have to take any blame for not enjoying it all that much.”

I went through that on my birthday last summer. And I experienced this REPEATEDLY with my ex’s family….

Me: So where do you want to go for dinner?

Ex’s Family: I don’t care. Anywhere is fine.

Me: Any suggestions? Preferences?

Them: Nope, anything will be good.

Me: Seriously. What do you people feel like eating?

Them: Whatever you want will be fine, I’m sure.

Me: OK. How about Chinese food?

Them: Eh. I don’t really care for that.

Me: Well, what about <insert local family restaurant that is mediocre at best, but I’m flipping STARRRRVING so I’ll take a sadness sandwich with flaccid fries at this point>

Them: Well, that’d be OK, I guess…but we just ate there Tuesday.

Me: Pizza, then. Everybody likes pizza!

Them: Pizza gives us heartburn. But if YOU want it….

Me: <explodes into guttural caveman war cry; whips out machete and Lizzie Bordens them all into confetti and dances on their entrails>

(Side note: Don’t eff with me when I’m hungry.)

Now, I know some spouses don’t “do” planning – perhaps you know a couple like this, or maybe you’ve lived this role. No, it’s not fair, but that’s just the dynamic you get sometimes, and you can choose to be mad for a lifetime over something that will never, ever change, or you can accept your fate as the household travel agent and at least ensure you book the hotel chain that actually washes the blankets.

But for those weekends where I’ve been out of town, and he’s been home, the hubs has managed to fill his dance card to the brim with things to do, places to go, and people to see.

So it’s obvious he’s perfectly capable of planning something.

If it’s important.

So I started the weekend kind of dejected that I didn’t make the priority list. And it was apparent that if we were going to have plans, I was going to have to be the one to come up with them.

So I figured I’d try to salvage the date a bit by picking something I’d enjoy. I decided to look at comedy clubs. I live in a pretty large metro area, and we have several to choose from. And we’d never been to one, and this might give us a chance to laugh together. Plus… booze. Comedy + alcohol HAS to be promising…right?

I poked around online and found that Pete Correale was performing at the club closest to us. I’d never heard of the dude (because I don’t have cable, and I live in a cave), but the comedy club PROMISED it was a hot act, and the trailer looked OK. So I bought tickets, put on ~~something sexy~~ a thick sweater and jeans, because even though it’s April, it’s freaking sleeting outside (come ON, Mother Nature, catch up here, my Christmas tree is finally put away so you can let Spring in now) and waited for the hubs to come home so we could start our date.

He came home a bit early, which was great. The show wasn’t for another four hours, so he suggested we head over early to eat (the club is on the top floor of one of our local highbrow malls; there were plenty of great food options there), and then we could just browse around until the show started.

(In hindsight, this is where it started to go south. A good writer would call this “foreshadowing.” The hubs HATES the mall, generally. He swiftly loses patience with the lollygaggers, aisle-hoggers, and aimless tourists who lack both general direction AND peripheral vision, and quickly bores with the sport of elbowing people out of his way. Yes, he was the one suggesting we go early, but dangit, I KNOW this song, and the ending is the same every time it plays.)

The hubs went to change out of his work clothes. And he came out – for our date – for our first evening together in MONTHS – in one of THOSE shirts. One of those shirts that states his beliefs boldly across his chest – right at eye-level for me. One of the shirts that blasts like an LED-powered billboard how spiritually far apart we are.

The shirt looked something like this:

Shirt from cafepress.com

On the surface, I know this isn’t that bad. He has every right to state his beliefs publicly. And it’s not in-your-face offensive, like a lot of the shirts he agreed to throw away.

But still. It’s a public testimony to all the things not OK about this marriage. It’s a reminder that he and I might not work this relationship out.

And he chose THAT to wear on our date.

And I chose to say nothing.

I mean, I don’t want to gut the mood, right? I’ve been looking forward to this evening all week – no reason to start it on a sour note.

Shake it off, Kate. Put on your happy hat.

We head to the mall, and I lead him to a pizza place that I’d recently tried. Dinner actually went well – pizza is kind that way. Plus, I was absolutely ravenous – I hadn’t eaten all day, because, you know, dinner out has more calories than I normally get in a ~~week~~ day.

So. Dinner. Then we had three hours to kill before the show started.

We walked the mall, checking out the tchotchke shops. Things were…pleasant, I guess.

It wasn’t overly romantic. It wasn’t hostile or tense.

It was just…kinda flat.

About an hour into our strolling, he sneered. Made a sound.

“What?”

“That guy down there. The one selling pillows. He had to pull his cross out of his shirt just now, so everybody could see it, I guess. Look, the guy in the poster has it too. I don’t know why he needs to do that.”

Um. Dude. May I direct your attention to your shirt?

The one with HERETIC in bold letters?

Hello?

The irony phone’s ringing, but his cell’s clearly on vibrate.

And I chose – again – to say nothing.

Because it’ll put a damper on the mood. Because I don’t want to pick a fight. Because I don’t have the energy to address the issue, not at the end of a busy week in a crowded shopping mall. Because I’m afraid the next straw will be the last one, and this delicate, fragile relationship we’re whispering and tiptoeing around will shatter into tiny splinters, irreparably and permanently broken.

We headed up to the show, and thankfully, it was good for some hearty laughs – and some yummy drinks. I enjoyed the break from the tension, as well as my personal “sunset”:

Alcohol saves the day.

But, despite the laughs…the evening left me disappointed.

Hollow.

Empty.

I reminisced about our early dates, where we’d talk and laugh over beer and nachos well into the wee hours; where we’d hold hands and just be content with each other’s company.

And I realized something.

If tonight had been our first date, it probably would have been our last. I would have seen that, although the evening was pleasant enough, and he was a generally likeable guy, we just had differences too big to ignore.

How does a couple go from being so crazy in love, so absolutely CERTAIN of their insanely aligned compatibility, to “I don’t know if I can do this”?

How does the landscape shift so violently in such a short time? And when it does, why is no one able to identify exactly where the volcano started or where the meteor fell?

And how does this happen to two intelligent, emotionally stable, experienced adults?

We could try to blame the whole Ashley Madison “incident.” But…that’s a symptom. Not a cause.

People change. They’re constantly changing. And they don’t always change together.

I feel like I’m on an island, watching him standing on a boat docked just out of my reach.

He’s drifting farther and farther away.

If I go to him – if I jump onto the boat – will it tip over, drowning us both?

If I don’t vault high enough, far enough…how long will I stay afloat in the icy water?

The boat sways.

Dips.

Lurches.

Do I have the faith to leap?

A Jawful of Sweet Tooth

Posted on April 8, 2016 by KatieComeBack

“Don’t you have a sweet tooth?”

This question was posed to me over dinner on Saturday. I was at the in-laws with the hubs, and we were enjoying one of my mother-in-law’s delicious home-cooked meals.

Let me preface this a bit by explaining that when it came to in-law assignment, I hit the absolute jackpot. Most in-laws, after all, are fodder for many a gripe, complaint, and vent. The very phrase “mother-in-law” is pretty much stand-alone comedy; no one has to actually SAY anything to quantify it, because, well….

Let’s try it:

Mother-in-law.

Right?

After a lifetime of hearing horror stories from friends, relatives, and the internet, I know I am very blessed to be able to say that this is NOT the case with my mother-in-law. The hubs is an only child, and when I married her son, she adopted me as her daughter. And my kids get the same love, affection, and holiday presents as the blood grandchildren. On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law actually sends ME a card – AND a gift. (Which is kind of wrong. But… I like presents.)

In addition to being an excellent cook, she’s also been gifted with the crafting gene. She’s knitted me (and the kids, of course) many quality sweaters, hats, and scarves. And to clarify, these are not your grandmother’s creations featured on the Goodwill rack of Ugly Christmas Sweaters. These are things THAT PEOPLE ACTUALLY WANT TO WEAR IN PUBLIC. Case in point: A few months ago, I went to a local women’s art festival wearing a sweater and matching knit hat she had made me. I received no fewer than a dozen unsolicited compliments on the set. (And, incidentally, three phone numbers. From women. Hey, when ya got it, ya got it. <strut strut> ) Seriously, though – is there a higher compliment in the knitting world than accolades from legit professional artists?

And she really, really outdoes herself at Christmas. She doesn’t just include my kids – she incorporates them as equals. When her grandsons were born, she made them each a very elaborate Christmas stocking. I don’t speak craft-ese, but I believe they’re made from felt, cross-stitching, wishes, and pixie dust. Anyway, they are beautiful and look like they were a hella-tonna work. And the Christmas after her son and I got engaged, there were two new stockings hanging on the deer antlers* over the fireplace for my little cherubs.

*Yes, they decorate the deer head. Antlers are perfect for holding lights and stockings. (And other things.) Besides, the mantle was full of Christmas cards and the holiday letters that spell “LEON.” They’re meant to say “NOEL,” but I visit too often for tradition to stand unblemished. You’ve seen my Christmas tree angel. And the manger scene? Sometimes, if he’s really good, Baby Jesus gets a party hat or a stogie, or a visit from Batman, a giraffe, and some Disney celebs.

(Side note: I hope I didn’t offend anybody with that. But I’m of the camp that thinks Jesus appreciates a good sense of humor. I mean, platypus. And how babies are made. Followed by how they actually get OUT. Come on, man, that’s stand up GOLD right there.)

(Side B note: We just took down our Christmas tree earlier this week, after lighting it up one last time on April Fool’s Day. Yeah…I’m THAT neighbor.)

Suffice it to say that meals at my mother-in-law’s house are the furthest thing from “everyday.” When we’re up, she heartily takes on the challenge of feeding two carnivores, a very picky vegetarian, AND a gluten-free person. She plans detailed menus AHEAD OF TIME. She uses the oven AND the stove. Not just in the same day, but FOR THE SAME MEAL. And her meals have a main dish, several sides, fresh fruit, and a couple veggies.

And dessert.

There is always, always dessert.

Dessert is a treat, and since she’s a people-pleaser, she wants to ensure that everyone has a treat that they like. You would imagine that having a homemade dessert present at EVERY lunch and dinner would be an amazing act of baking heroics. But she knocks all expectation out of the park by offering two (or three!!!) homemade desserts. It’s become standard operating procedure to have pumpkin pie, apple pie squares, AND chocolate pudding available. Of course, there’s vanilla ice cream AND whipped cream. And this doesn’t even count the two or three flavors of homemade cookies just sitting on the counter – because cookies aren’t dessert, silly, they’re a snack.

Oh, and guess what? THAT ENTIRE FAMILY IS TALL AND THIN. If they weren’t such sweethearts, I would really, really, hate this so hard I can’t even tell you. But they’re all gazelles, willowy and lanky and lean as can be. At their family get-togethers, I feel like the dumpy garden gnome who married into a clan of pink flamingos.

(WARNING: I wanted to insert a picture here, but…. Let me just say you should NOT, for the love of all that is holy and good, Google image-search “gnome with pink flamingo.” You canNOT unsee that.)

(You did it anyway, didn’t you.)

Having food issues can be tough: you struggle with the dichotomy of wanting to be slender, but wanting, craving, NEEDING to eat the very foods that prevent you from getting there. After years of alternating dieting/starvation with binges of Thanksgiving-meal proportions, you and the elusive concept of moderation are, as the Brits say, like chalk and cheese. You’re just not coexisting in the same harmonious stew.

Now imagine marrying into a family where they serve you three full meals a day, with a small buffet of desserts at two of them, and in-between you’re surrounded by cookies and other snacks and (of course!) beer and wine, and EVERY PERSON IN THE ROOM EATS ALL THIS SCRUMPTIOUS, FATTENING FOOD AND NEVER GAINS A POUND.

Every person except you.

I’ve handled these meals much as you’d expect an OSFED eating-disordered person to handle them: randomly and illogically. My approach on any given visit is one or more of the following:

* I’ve eaten two big platefuls of food, followed by two desserts. (Commonly known as the “F it” approach.)

* I’ve feigned a migraine and “slept” through dinner. (Avoidance.)

* I’ve eaten only vegetables and fruit for dinner. (Restriction.)

* I’ve eaten one small, sensible plate of mostly healthy food at the table, followed by an ENTIRE (!!) batch of chocolate chip cookies at 10PM when everyone else was asleep. (Or peanut butter cookies. Or snickerdoodles. BECAUSE ALL OF THEM ARE AVAILABLE ALL THE TIME.) (I believe this is called the “hot mess” method.)

* I’ve brought my bike and put in 15 miles on the road in the morning…and then polished off several servings of pie a la mode: one slice at the table, one slice while pretending to clean the kitchen, and a third slice on the way home in the car while remembering I was SUPPOSED to be on a diet. (A permutation of “hot mess.” There are several.)

But most of the time – at least in the last year or so – I don’t have dessert. I’ve been learning that sugar is the gateway drug to a bigger binge; it flips my inner switch from “calm” to “anxious”, which has the domino effect of flinging my self-esteem into the virtual Port-o-Potty. After all, as any dieter knows, once you’ve had dessert, you’ve FAILED, and further efforts at calorie regulation are moot.

And, as I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been on a roll with keeping my eating in check, and I’m seeing actual PROGRESS, reflected in a weight I haven’t seen since 2009 (and not since high school before THAT.) So I don’t want to risk cracking the dam even a little bit, no matter how fabulous that ice cream cake looks.

(By the way? It. Was. Beautiful. <sniff> )

So my mother-in-law hasn’t seen me eat dessert in awhile. I typically munch on some fresh fruit while the rest of the family heartily digs in.

So last Saturday, as she’s spooning hot fudge sauce over the ice cream cake (half chocolate, half vanilla, just in case you have a preference) that I once again politely decline, she asks me the question:

“Don’t you have a sweet tooth?”

Do I have a sweet tooth? Inside my head, an answer screams.

Yes. As Godiva is my witness, dear Mother of Milkshakes, YESYESYESYES YES! I want to rip the spatula out of your hand and shovel that delicious chocolatey goodness directly into my gaping pie hole. I want to smother your home-baked cookies in both peanut butter AND that homemade fudge sauce and eat them until the snap from my jeans pops off at a velocity that takes out a window. I want pancakes and cotton candy and deep-fried Oreos and doughnuts, all frosted with buttercream frosting and topped with coconut.

But I can’t.

I can’t have any of this, because my self-worth is tied up with my self-control. Because every time I use the washroom, I look up at the mirror and judge my thighs. Because no matter how good I feel about myself today, the scale will be there in the morning, just like she is EVERY morning, tapping her foot and waiting to issue me a failing grade. And even on that rare day when even she can’t find anything negative to say, there’s always a store window or glass door to reflect my current valuation back at me.”

Sigh.

I don’t say any of this, of course.

I quietly shake my head and help myself to some watermelon (45 calories a cup.) I bite my tongue, paste a serene smile on my face, and silence my wistful soul.

I pretend to be satisfied.

I pretend to be happy.

(Cover image source)

Weight for It…

Posted on April 3, 2016 by KatieComeBack

I started this blog to help me deal with two things – my food issues, and the challenges with my marriage. As of late, though, I haven’t posted on either of those things, so I’m probably due to provide an update.

Sigh.

It is entirely possible I’ve been avoiding the subject. Because that’s how I handle things. I don’t. Instead, I eat (or don’t eat) to turn my focus on something I’m good at vs. the thing I really need to handle.

It’s like seeing a hungry alligator in your garden, and thinking, “Hmm…the tomatoes are wilting…I’d better get some water.”

Yeah. Pretty much that.

But I’m at the airport. (Again.) And my flight is delayed. (Again.) Because of my mad travel skills, I did manage to devise a plan that just might get me home tonight: At 4:45, I switched my delayed-by-nearly-two-hours 5:31 flight to the 3:13 which was delayed by three hours and is now leaving at 6:18, so I’ll land exactly forty-seven minutes before my connection leaves. (Didja follow all that? Forget that controversial Common Core – airport math is what y’all SHOULD be teaching nowadays.)

So I have some time to kill. I can fill this time with food, of course – but the “gourmet” options here really aren’t worth the calories (see my posts here and here for the not-so-delicious details), and I can’t choose which kid will need to forfeit college just so I can afford to snack.

Since I’m cheap, I still have a couple of pounds to lose, and the Wi-fi is free here….writing wins.

First, the weight. I’ve been waffling around about 5-10 pounds higher than I want to be for – yikes – nearly a year now. (And, if I’m completely honest with myself, for like two years before that.) It’s been a roller-coaster – I’d have periods of deprivation worthy of sainthood, followed by a sudden seismic shift where I’d fall face-first into a Smartcar-sized bag of kettle corn and eat until my insides kersploded. So I’ve kept gaining and losing the same couple of pounds.

Since January, though, I’ve been solidly disciplined about eating 1200 calories a day. Every day. I have literally only had four days where I exceeded that limit. Well, OK, there were like 3 days I was at 1202 or 1210. But the fact that I allow myself that much flexibility is progress in this whole recovery, or pseudo-recovery, dealio. I realize how absolutely bonkers this sounds. But the beauty of EDNOS, or OSFED as it’s PC to call it nowadays, is that you are frequently eating in a manner that is contradictory and illogical. Allow me to illustrate some of the typical behaviors of this madness:

* Go out to dinner with friends and order a garden salad with no dressing. Arrive home and eat an entire bag of potato chips and a pint of ice cream.

* Treat yourself to ONE brownie. Then another. Then, since the day is ruined, finish the ENTIRE PAN of brownies, six spoonfuls of peanut butter, and the 1/3 bottle of leftover wine in the fridge. That way you can “start over” tomorrow.

* While shoving the aforementioned brownies into your mouth, carefully weigh and measure out exactly 28 grams of pistachios and 237 grams of fat-free Greek yogurt for your lunch tomorrow.

* The next day, log a killer workout. End the day six calories below goal, successful but starving out of your FREAKING MIND. Ah…gum! But wait…ten calories. Tell yourself you’ll chew off the surplus, because four calories, come on, man. Chew the gum and regret it five minutes later, because NOW YOU’VE GONE OVER. AGAIN. Do twenty jumping jacks and go to bed grumpy and dejected, vowing to do better tomorrow.

After reading the above, you likely fall into one of two camps. Some of you are nodding along like it’s a well-loved tune from your high school days, waving lighters and saying, “Yes! EXACTLY!” And the rest of you are shaking your heads sadly, staring in much like you would at a mangy deer at the petting zoo, wondering why the thing just sits there allowing itself to decompose from apathy and grubby, sticky hands versus taking a flying leap over the fence and catapulting itself to freedom.

But like I said, I’ve been on a roll here. I’ve been super-strict with myself, mostly because I HAVE to be in order to actually lose weight. My basal metabolic rate is low enough that even occasional dalliances can totally destroy a week or two’s worth of progress (I blathered on about that here. But don’t click it if you’re a woman over 40 trying to lose weight, because it’s effing depressing, and while chocolate and wine improve most situations, they do taste much better without tears in them.)

Another speedbump: I haven’t been able to exercise much. Inexplicably, one morning in December, I woke up one day and was slapped with a big “nope” sticker from my right hip. After a few months of physical therapy, it seems that I’ve been leaning on that hip to pick up the slack from a bum left knee, so, frustrated by the unfair burden, it quit without notice. (Can’t blame it, really.)

Now that the hip is stronger, the knee is complaining to its union steward that I’m forcing it to perform tasks outside its previous job function. After the grievance was filed and dismissed, the knee is now functioning, sporadically and unenthusiastically, like a disgruntled employee copping a bit of an attitude. So, I’m slowly and gradually trying to re-increase my running, but I’ve had frequent setbacks and roadblocks. I’m up to 3/4 of a mile at a time now, on most days, anyway. It’s not where I was, but it’s better than I’ve been. It’s maddening that it takes me an extra fifteen minutes to burn the same number of calories – I mean, that’s fifteen minutes of precious, precious sleep I could be having here, people! If you know how I get along with mornings, you’ll understand that there are LIVES at stake here….

Side note – The hubs used to think it was cute to call my first-thing-in-the-morning persona “Fluffy.” He wasn’t that far off:

From thefairytaletraveler

But, although progress is slow, and not always steady, I’m down 9.5 pounds since the first of the year (yes, the cliché diet. I KNOW you did one too) and am now the lowest weight I’ve been in two years – even a half pound lower than I was at the conclusion of the very stressful Ashley Madison diet, where I lived off adrenaline and fury and lost six pounds in a week. But there’s been no binging, very little deviance from The Plan, and while I have a few random days where a couple of pounds sneak back on in the middle of the night, the general trend is downward.

So, Kate, how’s your marriage these days?

Well…hmm. I haven’t packed my things and relocated to Arizona yet – so, while we’re in remission, the jury’s still out on the life expectancy.

We’ve had some really, really good days. When I focus on our relationship as we have it today, and filter out all the white noise from the spiritual differences and the now-infamous indiscretion, things are actually pretty good. We’re generally compatible. He picks up after himself. He’s supportive and affirming.

But when I look closely, I can still see the cracks. A T-shirt will appear in the wardrobe rotation, and while his current collection isn’t nearly as inflammatory as some of the shirts he used to have, they still highlight the chasm of differences between us. We’ve attempted to begin discussions on spiritual issues – I want to understand his viewpoint, but I find it challenging to listen from a neutral position, especially when he struggles to present his thoughts without anger.

It’s exhausting. Having these discussions is like working with Jillian Michaels.

Photo from jillianmichaels.com

We get started on a conversation, and after an hour or so of defending, diffusing, and explaining, I’m wrung out. Spent. Badly in need a break. But the hubs insists on one more point, one more thought, and I can’t just lie there and let that stuff go without a response, so I push myself to the point of mental sports injury, leaving me feeling bruised, depleted, and desperately needing some Gatorade. (And by Gatorade, I mean wine. But I’ve already had my 1200 calories for the day, so no wine for you. Sorry.)

So, some progress, but no final prognosis. Definite cracks, but not completely broken. It’s quite easy on some days to relax my focus and pretend I can’t see the damage through the thick layer of glaze resetting the pieces.

Holding together.

Holding promise, but not quite ready to hold water.

Salvageable, with work and care.

Still a vessel that we both feel is worth preserving.

As long as that’s true – and as long as I still have fuel – I’ll keep firing the kiln.

‘My Wife is Irrational, Therefore She’s Wrong’

Posted on January 31, 2016 by KatieComeBack

My first marriage ended for a number of reasons…but if you asked my ex what happened, he’d tell you – and I quote – “Everything was fine, then one day, she just went nuts and left.”

This post here is a more accurate rendition of what went down. (The author is not, to my knowledge, my ex.) 🙂

One thing to keep in mind here: Intelligence is not linear. It’s more like buckshot. Just because you’re really, really smart in one area of human complexity does NOT mean you will intuitively understand all of the others. So open your mind and read this with the intent of honing your emotional intelligence skills and broadening your acceptance of neurological diversity.

(Had to work an HR reference in there….) 🙂

Despite some of the issues the hubs and I have had lately, I do have to say that, for the most part, the hubs is pretty good at this. I’m really fortunate in that regard….

Must Be This Tall To Ride

light bulb in sunset (Image/freewhd.com) I know it’s hard, guys.

I’ll never be confused for a genius or scholar, but I’m reasonably bright in a Get B+ and A- Grades Without Trying kind-of way. And I made all of the same arguments you’re making. I repeated them until I was blue in the face, sometimes in my best dickhead voice while my wife and I volleyed shots at each otherin another fight in which no winner would emerge.

I agreed with you so much that I unknowingly bet my entire family on it. Andlost.

Maybe some of you guys are really tough and stoic. Maybe when bad things happen to you, you brush it off like it’s no big deal and move on gracefully.

That’s not how it went for me.

I could barely breathe when my wife and littleson weren’t homeanymore. This isn’t some “evil monster entitled man-hating feminist” I’m talking about, raging…

View original post 1,639 more words

Dissecting the Funk Frog

Posted on January 9, 2016 by KatieComeBack

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.

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:

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.

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

Posted on December 24, 2015 by KatieComeBack

(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…

(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.

Procrastination Station: Seven Rando Factoids

Posted on December 6, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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

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!

Quiche Me and Tell Me You Love Me

Posted on November 15, 2015 by KatieComeBack

“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.”

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 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! 😀

Carrots in My Carryon

My emotional baggage is packed with food

Tag Archives: marriage

The Clarity of the Crystal Ball

Your Fate in One Date

A Jawful of Sweet Tooth

Weight for It…

‘My Wife is Irrational, Therefore She’s Wrong’

Dissecting the Funk Frog

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

Procrastination Station: Seven Rando Factoids

Quiche Me and Tell Me You Love Me

Soul Shopping: Walking the Marketplace

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