Sharing the Joy Bauble

Posted on December 25, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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 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.

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

Posted on December 23, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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.

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.

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 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!

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

Posted on November 27, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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…

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

…or the odd weather we’ve been having…

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.

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.)

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.

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:

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:

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 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! 😀

Fueling the Food Beast

Posted on November 1, 2015 by KatieComeBack

Have you ever monitored a toddler’s diet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That must be so very…freeing.

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

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

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

But what does “normal” even LOOK like?

Maybe I can learn something from my toddler days?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My fridge be all like:

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

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

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

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

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

That’s hott.

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

Right?

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

Anyone? Anyone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…look a bit menacing.

ROASTED RED PEPPER REVENGE YO

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

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

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

The Artificial Tang of Banana Candy

Posted on October 25, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bananarama / Banana Runts - Bulk:

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s supposed to taste just like a banana.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now THAT is one big-azz banana.

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

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

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

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

I hate feeling this way.

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

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

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

When the Heart’s Desire Is a Little Backwards

Posted on October 18, 2015 by KatieComeBack

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

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

<cough> Anyway.

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

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

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

Can I eat this many calories today?

Will the sodium bloat me for a week?

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

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

How long will it take to run this off?

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

Um…What’s for dessert?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. What?

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s kept me from truly living.

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

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

That sounds like a nice change. Soothing. Healing.

If only I could tear this mirror out.

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

I’m holding a sledgehammer and preparing to swing.

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

Carrots in My Carryon

My emotional baggage is packed with food

Tag Archives: mental health

Sharing the Joy Bauble

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

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

Procrastination Station: Seven Rando Factoids

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

Quiche Me and Tell Me You Love Me

Soul Shopping: Walking the Marketplace

Fueling the Food Beast

The Artificial Tang of Banana Candy

When the Heart’s Desire Is a Little Backwards

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