When the Heart’s Desire Is a Little Backwards

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.

<cue scene>

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:

<insert the brrrrrrrpt of a needle being abruptly dragged across an LP>

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.

<deep breath>

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

Renovating the Funhouse

Having an eating disorder is a bit like living inside a funhouse.

funhouse1 (1)

Remember the funhouse at the local carnival?  You voluntarily handed over your ticket, and left all reality behind as you entered a world where gravity, balance, and perception shape-shifted, bent, and distorted, constantly causing you to question your instincts as you jumped, blinked, and were thrust unceremoniously into the wall.

funhouse2

Except this funhouse was, well, FUN, because it was temporary, and because eventually, someone would let you out and you’d go get a funnel cake and some cotton candy.

funhouse3As part of my attempt at recovery from the food-issue funhouse, I’ve tried a few different things.  But regardless of what I attempt, the well-established distortion I’ve been living with is difficult to work around.

For example – books.  I’ve read tons of books on eating disorders.  After story upon story of experiences with intubation, heart attacks, and grieving families, my reaction isn’t ANYTHING like “Oh. Wait.  This shiz could kill me if I did it right.”  Nope.  It’s more like “gosh, if I just had more willpower, I could finally, REALLY, be thin.”  And, I’m embarrassed to admit, occasionally I wonder if eating cotton balls really WILL fill me up.  (No, I haven’t tried it, and I don’t recommend you do it, either.  But part of the funhouse effect is that stuff that appears to be TOTAL craysauce to normal people starts to actually sound logical.  Think I’m joking?  How many of YOU have tried Slim-Fast?  Or the Cabbage Soup Diet?  See? SEE?!?)

I also have flirted with trying meditation.  In my quest for inner peace, I have discovered that

Wait, what is my cat doing over there? 

Can I get MY leg over my head like that?

I haven’t eaten chicken in awhile.  Maybe I’ll make paprikash next week.

Suffice it to say I sort of suck at meditation.  NEXT.

I did attend therapy for awhile, too.  Was it helping?  Hard to say.  Like exercise, it was exhausting and painful, so I didn’t exactly look forward to GOING.

Yet – also like exercise – once I finished a session, I was usually glad I had gone.

That didn’t make it any easier to keep scheduling appointments.  You don’t get the warm fuzzies until you’re done wringing out your brain…and you don’t exactly look forward to the inevitably draining part that has to come first.  The relief at the end is barely a consolation prize, much like a small lollipop for getting a tetanus shot.

So why did I quit?  It’d be easy to say “well, I was busy.”  But if I’m honest with myself, I think it’s more because I was actually making some progress – I was beginning to redecorate the funhouse.  Yet I wasn’t quite ready to part with that mental ottoman and its contrasting overstuffed sofa, nor start to repaint some of the walls I’d grown accustomed to seeing.

Not that therapy got me any further than the redecoration equivalent of picking out a toilet paper holder.  But it was a start, and starting is closer to finishing.  And I’m just not ready to let go of things like attaining my dream weight or wearing a certain size.  Nor am I ready to embrace the possibility of being comfortable wearing a few sizes BIGGER than what I wear now.  (Just typing that got a rousing “Oh HELL no” outta me.  Which got me some glances from my compatriots at the airport.  Move along, folks.  There’s PLENTY more interesting to see around here, trust me.)

Maybe I’m not quite ready to commit to recovery.  I have a lifetime of destructive habits, thoughts, and patterns to renovate – that’s a TON of work, and I’d be fooling myself if I thought for a moment that it’d be easy.  After all, I’ve been this way since I was 10 years old and one of my brother’s friends said I was getting as fat as he was.  I don’t remember caring ANYTHING about my weight before that.

But from that instant, it was all that mattered.  Well, for the most part.  Looking back, I did actually have a couple of periods in my life where I just didn’t CARE so much.  And I’m not entirely certain why I didn’t.

First up:  1993.  This was the year I got engaged and married (to my now-ex.)  I just wasn’t thinking about dieting, exercising, binging, starving…any of it.  I had just finished college (well, I finished GOING, anyway.  The actual degree came later, technically.  But that’s a story for another day.)  I ate what I want, when I wanted, and indulged frequently and often.  Fast food?  Yes please.  Fried food?  Why not?

Looking back, I wasn’t really binging – I was eating heartily and lustily, and enjoying it.

It was nuts.

I actually remember attending a family reunion with my then-newly-wedded spouse, and a relative of his commented on how many brownies I was eating.  I told her “Meh, I’m married now, it’s all good.”

<brrrrrrrrrp> WHAT.

I WASN’T EVEN DRINKING DIET SODA.

I’m more than a little horrified at how out-of-control this sounds.

Topping out at about 180 or so, I got married in a size 16 dress that nicely framed my hourglass figure, and kept up with the wed-and-fed bliss until about a year into the marriage, when I realized that the marriage sort of sucked, and to deal with that I lost about 65 pounds.

That actually brought me to a healthy weight for my height, and I maintained that weight before and after two pregnancies.

So I looked healthy…but the patterns were etching themselves back on the funhouse walls.  The thin wallpaper I had hung to disguise them was faded and torn.

Fast forward about thirteen years to the year my divorce was being finalized.  I started to date again…and dating typically means a LOT of happy hour beer, nachos, and cheesecake.  (I suspect the kids do it differently nowadays….?)  As I started to date the now-hubs, I wasn’t thinking about my weight all that much.  Yeah, if you asked me, I’d readily admit that I could lose some weight, sure.  But I was happy, and he certainly had no complaints.

During our courtship, I did gain weight, and this time, I got married in a Jessica McClintock halter-style number that again showcased my curves nicely.

I was about 150 pounds, and I felt beautiful.

So why now, at nearly 40 pounds below that figure, do I feel fatter, wider…bigger?  And why am I less satisfied with how my body looks?

It’s because the funhouse feels like home.

I really like wearing a small size.  When I go to a store, and the smallest size fits, it means I’ve won.  And next time, it should be too big for me.  #bossstage.

I want to be the smallest and thinnest.  Second place just isn’t good enough.  Try harder.  Eat less.  Run more.  Win.

I know that in my funhouse, the couch cushions are ripped. I’m aware of the chips in the end table.  I know the floors have a definite tilt to them; you can see it when you set down a glass or drop a marble.

But it’s home.

I’m not quite ready to get a modern sofa.  My TV will look outdated if I replace the carpet.

However, I know I desperately need to replace the windows so they keep in the heat and let in the light. The current ones are draining me dry.

But if I do this, will I adjust to the new view?  With more light in the room, what will I see?  What will I have to address?  What will cry out for repair?  What else will I need to replace?

Sigh.  With an older sofa, I don’t have to fret about spilling red wine, right?

I do recognize that all this mind-chatter is a complete waste.  I mean, with all that I could offer the world, why is THIS what I focus on as my life’s directive?  Given an alternative outlet, maybe I could have cured cancer by now.  Or at least given SOMETHING of value back to the planet.  Right?

Since I seem to have my butt firmly planted in this decrepit, ancient funhouse recliner, I’ll read you a fairly tale.

<blows dust off cover>

Once upon a time, there was a bright-eyed, energetic girl named Katie.

One day, someone gave Katie a cookie. 

With a smile, she politely said, “Thank you!” 

She ate the cookie and went on with her life as if nothing had happened at all.

THE END

I know.  It’s just a fairy tale. 

Midweek Marketing: Going Against the Grain

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

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

UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH

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

Blah.

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

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

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


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

encouraging1DA RULZ:

When you get this award, you can:

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

You cannot:

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

If you receive the award you should:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very, very bad.

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

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

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

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

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

Especially cereal.

Cereal is the WORST.

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

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

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

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

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

And they sounded…kinda dirty.

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

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

In Chicago Cutler’s Crispy Bits

New England:  Brady’s Frosted Patriot Power Os 

Denver Peyton’s Protein Clusters

Pittsburgh:  Big Ben’s Marshmallow Poofs

Seattle:  Wilson’s Brown Sugar Nut Toasties

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

Yum, yum.  Guten appetit!


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

A Kitten of Schrödinger

Remember Schrödinger’s cat?

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

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

And right now?  It’s kind of…both.

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

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

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

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

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

catnotdead

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

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

Or, I can accept him at his word.

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

In other words…it kinda looks like this:

decisiontree

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

hike1hike2hike3You just can’t waste a day like this, ya know?  And when the thinks and the thoughts try to smother your joy, there’s nothing like sunshine and giant rocks to bring your inner child out to play.

hike5

hike6

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

hikeshroom3

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

hikeshroom2hikeshroom1Some of the rock formations formed natural “potholes” (although they look more like tunnels to me):

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

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

hike16hike19hike20

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

hikesnake1hikesnake2

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

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

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

hike11

hike12

hike13hike14

hike15hike17I put my toe on the edge of a bluff.  Not ready to make a decision, this is as close as I can stomach to stand to the edge.

hike21

Yeah. I’m chicken.

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

hike18Every direction is intriguing.  I have all the time I need to choose which way to go, and if I take my time and plot my course carefully, I can easily turn around if I want some different scenery.

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

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

Humpday Chuckles: Photopourri

Have I mentioned that I’m not a fan of clutter?

Long before Hoarders became a watercooler topic, I had a Hoarder-like experience with my ex and his family.

The ex’s parents had a four-bedroom house crammed full of…stuff.  Clothes, books, shoes, more clothes.  The bedrooms were wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling piles with a narrow path from door to bed.  The family room was only half-useable; the rest was filled with “stuff we might need someday.”

His mom was a child of Depression-era parents, and she couldn’t bear to donate or toss anything that might have use.  His dad?  Well, he retired early and frequented garage sales, auctions, and flea markets, and accumulated an impressive collection of…

Guess.

No, really, c’mon.  Guess.

CAKE PLATES.

Were you close?

No, of course you weren’t.  Of all the things for a seventy-year-old man to collect, this probably wasn’t one of your first five thousand guesses.  But for some reason, this is what he always found – and brought home.  And he had HUNDREDS.  I’m literally being literal here. HUNDREDS.  Stacked along every wall, shelf, crevice, and ledge.

But I married his son anyway.  (And that wasn’t even the biggest red flag.  Not by a longshot.)

I should have known I was in trouble when he wouldn’t let me cancel the newspaper subscription – even when several weeks’ worth were found – not only unread, but still rolled up – under the couch.  The tipping point came several years later when we bought our second house – it came with a four-car garage, but we had so much stuff THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR ME TO PARK.  My reaction was to throw out an entire closet full of plastic Cool Whip and cottage cheese containers.  NONE OF WHICH HAD MATCHING LIDS ANYWAY BUT FOR SOME REASON WE HAAAAAAAAAAAAD TO KEEP THEM

<breathes deeply into paper bag>

To this day I have an aversion to clutter.  When I relocated out West, and had to move from my three-bedroom, two-bath abode, the movers scheduled 8 hours and an empty tractor trailer to pack up the contents of the house.  They were finished by 11AM and had my life’s belongings in less than a fifth of the trailer.

Anyway.  I was thinking of this as I went to organize my Blog Pictures folder (which now has a sophisticated system of color-coded subfolders.)  As I was reorganizing, I found some…uh…gems…that I haven’t posted yet.

So before I file them, I thought I’d share them in one big honkin’ motley medley picture parade.


Let’s start with a billboard.  I pass this one on occasion when I’m traveling and it always makes me chuckle.  I mean….well, look at it:

billboard1Belle:  “Oh, Beauregard….of COURSE I’ll marry you!  Where ever did you FIND this GEM? It’s so…”

Bo:  “I giddyapped and went to Kirk’s!  YEE HAW!”

Belle:  <weeps softly into her sweet tea>


Today’s Weather:  Rain, yo.

That’s chill.

Word.

rain_word


Next, I’d like to share a religious symbol with y’all.

I may have mentioned that I sing in a band on occasion.  Normally, when we perform at a church, we’re up front, to the side of the altar, facing the congregation.  At this gig, we warmed up and started the service – so far, so good.  Then, as the pastor started to speak, I turned toward the altar to face him…

…and I saw…

This.

DoveUnfortunately, the keyboardist and I saw it at the same time, and turned into poorly-behaved schoolkids who could. not. stop. snickering.

(We haven’t been invited back to the church yet.)

I’m sure one of the church elders lovingly handcrafted this artifact and graciously donated it to the church, along with a significant endowment, resulting in no one wanting to offend the dude and his money by suggesting they display a nice spray of lilies instead.

One question.  If a dove bearing an olive branch is a symbol of peace, what is this supposed to symbolize?

Never mind.  I do NOT wanna know.


Here’s a feline edition of “Where’s Waldo?” adapted from my cat’s last trip to the vet. Can you find him?

CarrotVet


You know how cats like boxes?  Mine turned into one.

Olliebox


One more.  A little while back, I posted about my hair.  I really like my hair.  It’s really thick and wavy, and it’s supposed to look something like this:

FabHairYoBut wavy hair often has its own ideas.  Today it had something a bit more avant-garde in mind:

bedhead

#iwokeuplikethis LEGIT.

Thank goodness for hats.

becausehatsHave a great week, peeps.  😉   <MWAH>

Food Issues Aren’t Child’s Play

Remember the playground?

When your parents parked the car, or when the bell for recess FINALLY rang…where did you run first?

I was all about the swings.  Unlike the monkey bars, they didn’t require much athletic ability, and they didn’t scald the skin on your thighs like the metal slide did on a hot summer day.  Didn’t we all pinch our fingers in the chains at least once when we were lost in the challenge of swinging hard enough to fly all the way around the bar?

(I recognize that some of you are too young to remember a playground that had actual safety hazards.  But back in MY day <hitching up suspenders> we didn’t have plastic coatings over the chains.  We had shiny metal slides that heated up to skin-blistering, egg-frying temperatures in August.  Seat belts on the swings?  You have GOT to be kidding.  And we had NONE of that sissy-boy recycled-tire mulch at the bottom of the monkey bars.    We had good old-fashioned DIRT.  Soft landings = soft adults!  Got a boo-boo?  Pop that sucker back into joint, rub some gravel on it and get back outside!)

Anyway.

As adults, I think we look for that same thrill that the playground used to give us.  We all need to find our fun, right?

Some of us look to extreme sports (100-milers.  The Ironman.)  Others look to death-defying activities.  (Bungee jumping, anyone?  Skydiving?  That’s a big helping of NOT ME.  But you go on with yo’ bad self.)  And a few get way too absorbed in the drama of politics, Big Brother, or Facebook.

Some of us get a little lost looking for that playground thrill.  That’s where things like gambling and alcohol come into play.  And for me, obviously, food.

Recently, the hubs and I went to our local State Fair, where they historically feature diabetes and obesity “on a stick.”  (Delicious, delicious diabetes.  OMNOMNOM)  You can find something for every palate – pickle juice Popsicles, chocolate-covered bacon, funnel cake, and deep-fried everything from candy bars to cookie dough – even butter.  (But butter sort of terrifies me, so we are NOT having any of THAT.)

I joke occasionally that the State Fair is “the one day I allow myself to eat.”  Now, I’ve been trying desperately to get these last ten fifteen five few pounds off, and I’ve been trying to not go all eating-disorder starvation crazy about it.  For the last four weeks, I’ve conscientiously eaten 1200 calories a day and gone for a run 3-4 times a week, with long bike rides on the weekends.  Balanced.  Healthy.  Right?

So I knew the fair was coming up, and I know I like to eat fair food, so I decided to just have a day of “screw it” and eat what I felt like eating at the fair.  One planned afternoon of once-a-year treats.

And eat I did.  I had:

  • a blueberry/honey/chipotle muffin (they were gluten-free, so I had to try one)
  • a scoop of chocolate raspberry wine ice cream (fabulous)
  • a beer-battered fried brat (also gluten-free!)
  • a “triple peanut threat” milkshake (peanut butter, Reese’s pieces, and Butterfingers, which probably aren’t gluten-free, but my throttle was jammed firmly into don’t-give-a-s#it gear at this point.
  • a chocolate-coated pecan nut roll (gluten?  WHO CARES SUGAR SUGAR SUGARSUGARSUGARSUUUUUUUGAAAARRRR)

Now, that’s a lot of food, but trust me, in past years, when I didn’t need to worry about not eating wheat, I’ve done a LOT worse.  (Add not one, but TWO, orders of deep-fried cheese curds, and probably a chocolate sandwich, which YES, is as good as it sounds, and maybe some sweet potato fries with a small lake of ketchup.)  So, given that this was a planned indulgence, this wasn’t TOO bad for a full day of food, especially when you’re walking all day, too.

Right?

Right  If I’d have STOPPED there.

I had been having quite a time on the monkey bars, enjoying the view up high, until I slipped, fell hard, and whacked my elbow on the unforgiving pavement.  THUD.

Unable to do anything halfway, I gave moderation a hostile middle finger and ate half a king-sized pillow bag of popcorn once I got home.

And, despite sticking religiously to my diet for the rest of the week – zero weight loss.

Well, what did I expect, exactly?  I guess I should feel lucky that I didn’t gain from my dalliance with debauchery.  I know that one day off from diligence – one bad meal, actually – will cost me (I wrote about why here.)

But I also know it’s dangerous to dance close to the edge of that oh-so-slippery slope.  Because with eating disorders, there is no “just once.”  There’s no minor diversion.  No day off.  It’s black or white.  All or nothing.

It’s kind of ironic, actually.  I mean, when you’re starving yourself (alternating with periods of stuffing yourself senseless) you spend a lot of time on a scale.  And if you’ve ever waded in past your knees in the eating-issues pool, you have a food scale, too.

The scale.  A symbol of balance.  A precise measuring device calculating, gram by gram, the distance of an object from zero.  Calculating the mass between the amount of space you take up and the amount of space that’s acceptable to occupy.

Physically, you’re constantly working with this instrument to find balance.

Yet, when it comes to the food?  Mentally, we can’t get off the seesaw.  Up.  Down.  Back up.  Quickly down.  One minute, you’re briefly at the top, and in the next moment, you’re bouncing painfully off the ground when your partner bails from the ride.

It’s all or nothing.

And we all know how it SHOULD be, right?  Mentally, we should strive to be balanced, aiming mightily for that elusive “moderation” bullseye, while physically, the scale should be an occasional, twice-a-year checkup at the doctor’s office.

My relationship with food, and my weight, should look like this:

But it feels more like this (except picture the elephant tumbling @ss over teakettle to the ground in a thunderous crash):

Or this:

Or, more accurately, this:

Somehow, I need to move myself to the center of the seesaw.  It doesn’t HAVE to be all-or-nothing, right?  Most people eat when they’re hungry, stop when they’re not, and don’t burn up so much freaking mental energy on this stuff.

They just DO it.  It’s like breathing.

It’s not so automatic for me.  I have to keep reminding myself to find my balance.

Keep shifting to the center.

Try to balance.

Fall.

Get back up.  Rub some dirt on it.

Try again.

<sigh>

Anyone wanna go back to the swings with me?  Let’s leave all this food baggage in Mom’s purse on the ground, and just rock back and forth for a while.

If I lean back, and point my toes to the sky, I’ll go higher and higher, alternately reaching for the moon and gently floating back to earth, not having a care in the world.

For a moment.

See Saw, Margery Daw

Katie shall have a new master

But she shall lose just two ounces a day

Because she can’t starve any faster


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

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

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

DA RULZ:

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

So, about my future….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  Wait.

Forgive?

What was the crime, exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Liebster, Revisited: Part 3 of 3: How I Met the Hubs. And Shoes.

For those of you just tuning in now, this is the third and final installation of the challenge presented to me by sonofabeach96, who kindly nominated me for the Liebster Award:

liebster3(You can find Part 1, and Da Rulz, HERE.  Part 2 is HERE.)

Eleven simple questions, eleven long, convoluted answers.  Okay, I swear this is the final chapter in this disjointed series.  Then we can move along to something interesting, like politics, paint drying, taxes, or landscaping.

<snurk>

So, the rest of the questions:


What is your favorite vacation destination, and where would you want to travel if money were no object?

I actually haven’t really had many vacations, other than to see family.  Which, as much as I love them, doesn’t count, because being around family requires you to wear heavy, impenetrable armor, and after a few days, it just wears a gal down.

But I do have a couple of dream vacations.  I want to visit the West Coast (the last time I was there, I was sorely tempted to cancel my return ticket) and see mountains, ocean, and giant redwoods.  (Oh, and yeah, a few wineries.) I want to take a cruise to Alaska.  And I’d like to eventually visit Hawaii, because it’s both warm AND beautiful.

But the thought of being on a plane for four or five hours exhausts me – I’ve had several jobs where I’ve had to travel a lot – like 75% – and they’ve sucked all the glamour out of travel and basically ruined me for airports for life.

If money were no object, I’d sit in first class, and I expect it’d be a heckuva lot nicer.  Plus there’d be no hurry to return.  So maybe, in that case, I’d squeeze in a side jaunt to Australia.

BECAUSE KANGAROOS.


If you’re married, how did you meet your spouse?

The story behind my “starter spouse” is, unfortunately, not all that interesting.  We were in college together and married right after graduation.*  Very typical, very average.  And, just like everyone** else, we got divorced a few years later.

*Technically, I was three credits shy of graduation.  Details, details….I did finish three years later.

**I actually only know one couple who married right after college and stayed married.  Actually, she was my roommate and he was my ex’s roommate, so they spent a good bit of time together somewhat by default, and eventually decided to be a couple.  We always thought they were really odd together – culturally, spiritually, physically, personality-wise – they just never appeared as a matching set.  As the Brits would say – cheese and chalk.  But then again, who really had a good man-picker in college, anyway?  Clearly not EVERYONE ELSE who wound up divorced.  Twenty-plus years later, I guess they WERE the odd couple, at least in tenacity.

The story behind the hubs is much juicier.

Fast forward a few years.  I’m going through a divorce and juggling a new job.  In the midst of dividing up a life’s worth of possessions and trying to establish a “new normal”…I met someone.

It was a lousy time to begin a relationship – all the experts on divorce recovery will tell you “take time for yourself” and “don’t rush into something new.”  But I was never great at following a vague “they say” (or, for that matter, any voice of authority.)  Plus, I was enjoying my freedom – I had recently come to discover that my first spouse was mentally abusive (and likely suffering from some sort of personality disorder.  We flunked out of three therapists (which is a story for another time) so I never found out for sure.  Suffice it to say that if it walks like a duck, it ain’t a donut.)  

And this was not the relationship to start, for a number of reasons.  In addition to the fact that it was a long-distance relationship, he simply wasn’t available, and neither he nor I knew the difference between drama and love.  So while there was admittedly a lot of passion, it was the over-inflated extremist version that would rival any long-running soap on afternoon TV.  And I hadn’t learned enough about relationships to understand that while, on paper, he appeared to be the polar opposite of my ex (physically, politically, socially, etc.,) the reality was that they shared some startlingly similar personality traits (controlling, belittling, demeaning) that I failed to recognize until the bitter, melodramatic termination of the relationship.

And we pretty much had nothing in common, save loneliness.  Hard to build a long-term bond on the absence of something.

I didn’t marry that guy.  (Although, we looked at rings, and I bought a dress – which, after several moves, is currently sitting in a local consignment shop, tags still on it, ready to complete YOUR dream wedding!)  But I did endure about two years of emotional highs and lows, the soaring and plummeting of which would earn the envy and admiration of amusement park thrill ride engineers globally.

To further complicate matters, I had just been offered another job 900 miles away, in this guy’s metro area.

Kismet!  This was MEANT TO BE!

(Maybe.)

And then we broke up.  Again.

My sister decided that enough was enough, and perhaps I could try to meet someone else.  With renewed resolve, I reactivated my online dating profile (it had been created, utilized, and deactivated several times between our frequent breakups and reconciliations – you know, for added entertainment and histrionics -) and changed my location to my pending address.

Ahhhh.   A fresh start, a new city, a clean slate, a whole new buffet of man candy.   My sister and I clicked through profiles, evaluating and reviewing each one.  (Side note:  Online dating is like shoe shopping.  You can sift through a ton online, but until you walk in them a while, you really don’t have any idea whether they’ll actually work with your wardrobe and your lifestyle.)

A profile popped up.  “Ooh!  He’s cute. His ears are kind of big.  But he’s cute. Click him!”

So I did.  And I liked what I read:  He sounded intelligent and honest.  Plus, he was cute.  Waaaaay out of my league cute.  But…what the heck?  My last boyfriend was fond of saying, “You miss all the shots you don’t take.”  So I shot.

I composed a message – I commented on a few things he listed in his profile, and closed with, “I think peeling some mental onions with you could prove interesting.”

He said he fell for me right there.  (Aww.  <barf>)

So what happened to the other guy?  Well, he did try to get me back.  (No one saw THAT coming, right?)  His argument was – I kid you not – “We weren’t really broken up.  We were just taking a break.  We were supposed to get back together in a couple of months.  You weren’t supposed to meet someone else and fall in love.”

(Sorry.  Couldn’t resist.)

I’m embarrassed to admit that he and I briefly got back together one more time before the hubs and I became exclusive.  But our final breakup was empowering – I used my words, and my voice, and by ceremoniously dumping him, I was able to purge my soul of both him and my ex-spouse, and define how I deserved to be treated.

(Odd how it sounds like much of my eating disorder.  Like I “had” to stuff myself with pizza and ice cream one last time before I started The Official Diet.  Hmm.  Gonna have to think about that one.)

After the final fireworks died out and the audience went home, I emailed my now-hubs, told him I’d love to see him again, and the rest is history.  And while we’ve had some challenges over the last year, it would be unfair of me not to mention that he’s been absolutely amazing lately. He’s trying so very hard and has put in some tremendous effort after I was clear with him about what was so troublesome – especially lately.  (Funny how that works in healthy adult relationships….you rationally and calmly state what you need, and you get it.  It really can be that easy.)

P.S.  The dating site I used?  Don’t laugh.  Plenty of Fish.  It’s free.  Which means…well, you know what it means.  The hubs often tells people that he found me in the “FREE” box at a yard sale.  <snort>


Describe your personality and what type of people are you drawn to?

I think I’m drawn to people who have the traits I like in myself.  So, here’s my list:

  • I like funny people who can laugh at themselves, but not at the expense of others.  (Well, maybe a little.) <snurk>
  • I like people who have opinions they’re not afraid to use – as long as they use their ears and their brains as effectively as their mouths.
  • Bonus points if you have great shoes.  BECAUSE SHOES.

Speaking of which – here’s my latest haul.  Enjoy!

shoerunning

My most expensive shoes are my running shoes….

shoegold

GOLD SHOES. TWELVE DOLLARS. SCORE.

shoepinkpatent

These just make me happy. Lipstick for the feet!

Liebster, Revisited: Part 2 of 3: High School Never Ends, Cars, and Christmas Trees

This is a continuation of my last post, where I started responding to sonofabeach96’s  nomination of me for a Liebster Award:

liebster3Because I’m the verbal equivalent of Niagara Falls, I couldn’t get it all into one post.  So here are three more of the questions…and three more long-winded answers:


What were your high school days like?  Good, bad, or indifferent and why?

On the surface, high school wasn’t that bad.  I wasn’t really bullied.  I had friends.  I was involved in every music activity our small district had available.  I got excellent grades.

But it’s hard to reminisce about high school without noting, as a point of reference, where I was with my eating disorder.  It’s like having a sterile, undisturbing stock photo of a smiling family set inside a dusty, chipped, weather-beaten picture frame.

The story’s in the setting, not the scene.

Ninth grade started with a bang, because <dramatic pause> I met a boy.  When you’re fourteen, this is typical.  When you’re fourteen and chubby, and he likes you back, it’s life-changing.   He was older (by one year – oh, the SCANDAL!) and was (of COURSE!) as thin as a rail with a sky-high metabolism.  (Seriously – weren’t they all?)  I coasted through most of freshman year with a lot of “firsts” – first kiss, first date, first formal – and, for the first time since fifth grade, didn’t focus too much on my weight.

I ended my first year of high school wearing a size 11 and weighing about 145.

And then summer hit.  And with the heat came last year’s clothes that were way, way too small.  And by August, I was appalled to discover that my marching band uniform had shrunk.  Significantly.

Now, as an adult, I can objectively look back and see that truly, I was pretty much “normal.”  Probably a bit chubby, especially compared to the track stars and cheerleaders.  But surely I didn’t stand out as the fattest kid in the class.  I understand intellectually that I didn’t look all that different from my classmates – to this day, when I occasionally page through an old yearbook, it never fails to strike me how downright NORMAL I appear.

But at the time?  I was FAT.  And Something Had To Be Done About That.

I knew all too well what worked.  I quit eating.

I started tenth grade a good 25 pounds less than I had ended freshman year.  I walked into my first day of my sophomore year with my size 7 jeans hanging off me.

Bolstered by success and compliments from my classmates, I kept going.  I kept going despite occasional blackouts.  Despite a blood pressure of 80/40.  Despite lectures from the school nurse.  Despite missing family meals.  Despite peer praise turning to worry.  Despite bodily functions ceasing to exist.  Despite my (new) boyfriend begging me to eat.

I finally settled in at just barely over 100 pounds, logging every calorie and measuring every morsel of food (including mustard and Crystal Light – I was hardcore, bro).

This was my existence for the next two years.

Outwardly, things looked to be great – I was thin, I was active in music stuff, I had a boyfriend who loved me dearly and was going to take care of me ALWAYS, and as long as I controlled my body and the food I put into it, I was safe and secure.

Then, during my first semester as a senior, my boyfriend – my first love, the boy who swore he’d marry me one day and would love me forever – unceremoniously dumped me.  (Because college, ya know.)  Suddenly, after over two years of coasting in the shade, the sun was beating down on me, burning off the fog and forcing its bright, harsh light directly into my eyes, commanding my pupils to constrict as my eyes ached from pained, constant squinting.

With absolutely no idea how to cope, I started to eat.

Once the dam broke, it was impossible to stop the flood.  I gained fifty pounds the last half of senior year, as I filled the time with extracurricular activities (read: boys) trying to find my self-worth while simultaneously feeding my starving soul with anything I could get my hands on.  (Unfortunately, I was feeding it the equivalent of onion rings and Twinkies.  But I had to start somewhere.)

I left for college in the fall with the Bright Future of weighing 170 pounds and having absolutely no idea what to do with my life.

So…yeah.  High school was…high school.

KatieSeniorPic

And here I am, twenty-five over twenty years later, still wrestling the same pigs and getting just as dirty.  True, I have cuter shoes and no boa.  But still….


What was your first car? 

The first car that was actually MINE was a 1991 Chevy Lumina.  I’d love to say it was a sweet ride, but the only people to say that about this car is the bluehair-and-Bingo set. 

I mean…just…gaaaah: 

Really makes a statement, doesn’t it?  In addition to its edgy, bad@ss look, it also featured a speedometer that pegged at a hairnet-blowing 85mph.  Which is totally un-American, and un-German, and un-everything-under-age-seventy.

So why did I have this?  Well, as is the case with most first cars, I wasn’t actually involved in picking it out.  It actually came into my possession courtesy of my now-ex-in-laws.

See, my former mother-in-law cleaned houses for a living – generally for the elderly.  Consequently, they often paid her in either quarters, baked goods, or castoff clothing.

Still, she persisted.  We think she was hoping that someday, one of her clients would kick the bucket and mention her in the will.

That never happened.

But, since most of her customers were in their late eighties, they did hop the heaven bus to harp lessons on occasion.  And, as the stereotypes dictate, they often left behind an older, low-miles vehicle – which she’d then volunteer to buy, at a bargain price, from the grieving family.

I kid you not.

(I guess it’s a small reward for choking down loaf after loaf of soggy, well-intentioned pumpkin bread.)

At the time, my then-spouse and I were newlyweds – and I had finally, after years of resistance*, learned to drive.  So we needed a second car, and this one met all of our requirements and qualifications (read:  it ran and it was cheap.)  It wasn’t exactly hip and trendy, but it was only a couple of years old with less than 15,000 miles on it.  SOLD!  I drove that sucker into the ground, tooling around in it until we eventually popped out some offspring and traded it in for a minivan.

*Side note:  I didn’t actually learn to drive until I was 24.  Why?  Well, if you asked me directly, I’d tell you, as I flipped my hair and narrowed my eyes coyly, “I always had a boy or two to drive me around.”  That was partially true; I also had an older brother and a younger sister who were more than happy to play chauffeur.  But the truth?  I’m hopelessly uncoordinated, easily distracted, and a champion procrastinator.  Plus, I wanted to spend my babysitting dinero on clothes and shoes, not gas and insurance.  Priorities, ya know.


What is the one thing that grates on your last nerve?

OK, there is NO WAY I can only pick only one thing.  I talked about a few Things I Hate in the Love/Hate Challenge (which took me SIX posts.  I am ridiculous.)

But out of all those posts, there was one thing I missed that absolutely drives me to shoot fire from my face holes and rant in unholy tongues.

It’s Christmas lights that BLINK IN SECTIONS.

They don’t twinkle.  They don’t flutter off and on to music.  They just ALL flip on and off AT THE SAME TIME, like some idiot minion is half-wittedly turning the switch off and on, off and on.

Off.  On.  Off.  On.

These are usually at the house that’s hung just one string, usually lining a roof or a window. Or part of a roof.  Or half a window.  Or until the string of lights just ran out.

THEY’RE LIGHTS THAT DON’T EVEN TRY.

And please note – when I say “you didn’t try,” I have a pretty high threshold for what I consider gallant effort.  Witness our family Christmas Tree a few years ago:

frogpoolnoodletree

Shout out to Problems with Infinity (http://problemswithinfinity.com/) – see? SEE?!?

Yes.  It’s a stuffed frog and a pool noodle.  BUT IT SAYS “TREE” SO IT’S LEGIT.  And I didn’t have to step on a single needle.  I WIN.

This tree is creative and unique (and affordable, I might add!)  But lights that blink in sections?  It’s like Christmas just gave up.  It’s Christmas sadness.

Don’t be that house.  Don’t be the Holiday Spirit Slayer.  Leave your lights on, in all their energy-sapping, glowing glory.  Your neighbors will shovel your walkways and bring you cookies, and there will be world peace and harmony.

Or, at least, I won’t have to violently hurl the Fruitcake of Christmas Past through your front window.

Liebster, Revisited: Part 1 of 3: History of My Career

Recently (OK, it’s been a couple of weeks, because summer, yo!) sonofabeach96 was kind enough to nominate me for a Liebster Award:

liebster3This feels a little bit like cheating, because I actually won one of these before, and wrote about aliens and my cat.  But this one is a different COLOR, and like shoes THAT MAKES IT TOTALLY DIFFERENT so I’ll make room.

Before I dig in, lemme tell ya about sonofabeach96 – he writes about life and family, and seasons his posts liberally with great music.  He’s a good read, so go check him out. kthx

DA RULZ:

  1. Make a post thanking and linking the person who nominated me and include the Liebster Award sticker in the post.
  2. Nominate 5-10 other bloggers and notify them of this in one of their posts.
  3. All nominated bloggers are to have less than 200 followers.
  4. Answer the 11 questions posed by your nominator and create 11 different questions for your nominees to answer.  Or, you can repeat the same questions.
  5. Copy these rules into your post.

And now for the questions, which are sure to provide fascinating insight into the mental supply closet that is my psyche….

(Some of these are repeats, so I hope y’all don’t mind some backwards links.  Actually, I think I’ll list those questions first, just to get them checked off.)

What is your favorite movie and why?  I have two:  Hitch and The Incredibles.  You can read why here. 

Do you believe in an afterlife and/or ghosts?  Oh yes indeedy.  Here’s THAT post.

Describe your family and its dynamic.  I think most of it, and how it plays into the hot mess accomplished, mature professional I am today, can be found HERE.  


And now, some new stuff:

What is your career and is it what you’ve always wanted to do or did you just fall into it?

I work in Human Resources.  NO ONE wants to work in HR when they grow up.  No one even really knows what that IS, honestly.  I think “human resources” comes from an ancient Gaelic term meaning “shoveling employee drama that stinketh like elephant droppings”.

ihatepeople

Getting into HR was a total accident.  The kind where you’re juggling hot coffee and a plate of danishes, and your stiletto catches in the sidewalk, thrusting you rather violently and ungracefully into the cement, resulting in 1) hot coffee all over your white blouse, 2) scuffing your heel up beyond any hope of repair*, 3) tearing holes in the knees of the ONE pair of pants that don’t make your thighs look like they need their own zip code, and 4) all the pastries you were carrying landing sticky-side down in the dirt.  (Krispy Kreme redefined.  Bleck.)

*what nail polish and a Sharpie can fix.  (Don’t judge.)

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a meteorologist.  (OK, to be fair, not a lot of kids have THAT dream, either.)

I started college with no idea what I wanted to do for a living, and ended up gravitating towards education.  (Hey, I’d spent twelve years in school, it was the one thing I knew about.  I really wanted to study diet and nutrition, since that was the OTHER thing I knew about, but as a fat freshman, I didn’t think I’d be all that believable, so…. Voila!  Education it is!)  Unfortunately, after a fairly significant investment of four years and 175 credits, I learned in my last semester (during student teaching) that, while I enjoyed the actual TEACHING part of the job, I just could not stomach school politics.

The last straw?  I gave a kid a D in music class, and his dad threatened to kill me.  Note – the kid EARNED that D, refusing to participate, or listen, or do anything.  Essentially, he was a little a$$hole.  And his dad came to the school and told me I’d better think twice about keeping his precious little groinfruit off the honor roll, because he’d hate for me to be found dead in the park across the street like that 13-year-old girl they found there six weeks ago….(and I’m like, yeah…that totally just happened.)

I’m SURE this kid is enjoying a lucrative career now, thanks to Daddy’s stellar influence.  Somewhere that serves french fries.  If he’s not in prison.

The kicker?  The principal said I should consider the guy’s offer.  Uh no.  Little Lucifer got his D, and I washed my hands of the mess of trying to mold tomorrow’s society.  (Epilogue:  it broke all by itself without my help.) 

Unfortunately, when you study teaching but decide to pursue other careers, you really don’t have too many other readily marketable skills.  However, I had worked in college for the Conference Services department, managing the ins and outs of various camps and classes in the summer. (Yes…”band camp”.  And cheer camp and choir camp and art camp and robotics camp and football camp and pretty much everything else camp.)  So, with the handy skills of distributing keys, collecting payment, and working holidays under my belt, I got a job working the front desk at a hotel.

Hotels are crazy businesses.  Because people stay there, and people are nuts, especially after dark, and times fifty when you add in “I’m on vacation!” and alcohol.  For example – did you know that the reason there’s no roof access from hotel stairwells is because people go there to jump off?  There’s a whole book of “wow, people are totes craybeans” procedures around all kinds of stuff like that.

Unfortunately, employees aren’t much better, so eventually we had to fire someone for absenteeism or stealing food or sleeping with a guest or something, and no one wanted to deliver the message.  Which stumped me.  I mean, with all the crazy sauce the guests were slinging everywhere, employee discipline seemed like a fairly logical progression:

flowchartfiredSimple.  No guesswork here; I was just telling them they had arrived at the end of the chart, right?  This wasn’t complicated, or difficult…yet no one wanted to do it.  I guess they were afraid the person would be…angry?  Cry?  <eyeroll>  Whatever.  Just gimme the phone, Nancy-pants.

And that is how I got into HR.

Quickly, I became a pro at terminations.  Which served me well, career-wise – after working in manufacturing for 20 <gulp> years, and with all the ups and downs of the economy, and its myriad permutations of rightsizing and downsizing and layoffs and restructuring – not to mention the occasional employee bad behavior (and yes, there are some GREAT stories there…but we’ll save those for another day) I have had to fire literally hundreds of people.

At one company, we (read:  I) went through six rounds of layoffs in fourteen months.  And I sat through them all.

One by one.

It was…sucktacular.


If you could be anything, career-wise, what would you choose to do and why?

HR, of course.

frognope

I actually have a plan for this.  Once I can afford to retire HAHAHA who am I kidding win Powerball and become independently wealthy, I’m totally quitting HR for good.  I’ve told my coworkers, and my boss, this very thing – the moment I can afford to no longer work, Kate will turn into a puff of smoke and a screech of tires.  <poof>

My actual exit will be more subtle, though.  Because once I’m a bazillionaire, I need to fade into the sunset so people aren’t hitting me up for cash.  So one day, I’ll leave for lunch (which I have done maybe three times in as many years) and simply won’t come back.  My coworkers will start to miss me later in the afternoon:

“Uh…where’d Kate go?”

“Gosh, you know, I haven’t seen her in a few hours….Wait.  Didn’t she say she was going to lunch?”

“Yeah…which is weird because she, like, never goes to lunch.  She usually eats her six Cheerios at her desk.”

Eventually, one of them will text me, and I’ll simply reply “still at lunch.”  Which, a week later, will be freaking hilarious.  Right??

But I digress.

So my dream job?  I’ll learn to play guitar and sing folk songs in coffee houses and wine shops around the city.  I guess that isn’t really a job.  But I don’t care, because I’m independently wealthy now, and your rules no longer apply to me.  Neener neener.


I’ll continue answering the rest of the questions in another post….because by now, your nether-regions have likely fallen asleep, and you probably need to get up and stretch.

But without further ado…here are my nominees:

NOTE:  This is a zero-obligation nomination.  I swear my feelings will not be hurt if you don’t do this.  It’s just a way to give y’all a shout-out and say thanks for hanging your mental skivvies out on the line for all of us to gawk at.  Heh.  😉

But if you’re game….here are YOUR eleven questions – certain to provoke riveting and inspiring trinkets for conversational fodder…. 😉

  1. Describe for me your favorite piece of jewelry.
  2. Regarding #1, tell me where you got it, and who gets it in the will.
  3. What food should be made illegal, and why?
  4. In exactly fourteen words, tell me how you feel about clowns.
  5. Tell me how you got that scar.  (Pick your favorite.)
  6. What’s something you enjoy eating that others might find odd?
  7. What’s your favorite thing to look at/see in the sky?
  8. What’s the most interesting thing you’ve found while outside?  Jewelry, money…?
  9. What’d you do with what you found in #8?
  10. Have you ever stolen anything? Besides my heart.  <barf>
  11. Have you ever won anything?

Enjoy, kids.  😀