I used to be an overzealous resolution-maker. Every year, without fail, I would resolve to stop biting my nails, to lose 15 pounds, and to somehow get fabulous hair.
Then, in my early thirties, I shunned the resolution. Banned it. Kicked it to the curb.
It had no place in my life. I was just gonna live, and do the best I could, all year. I wasn't going to vow to change every January. The whole idea of it was ridiculous.
In January 2013, I cautiously re-introduced the resolution, and vowed to start doing yoga again.
It worked. All year.
So in January 2014, I upped the ante and started attending Nevada Fitness Club. Suddenly, things like Insanity and Combat Cardio were not only within reach, but mountains I climbed and obstacles I conquered.
And now, here we are on the cusp of 2015, and it's almost too much.
Because there is real shit happening in 2015.
And although I'm going to try a 21-day-to-sugar-elimination program, and although I got a Fitbit and am fascinated with how many sets of stairs I climb every day, there are more pressing things on my 2015 plate.
You see, in 2015, I will stop working three jobs and 60 hours a week.
In 2015, I will turn 40 years old.
And in 2015, my son, the light of my life, will finish high school and start college.
The year 2015 will bring more change than I'd care to think about. I have really enjoyed being a mom, way more than I thought I would when I told people that having kids wasn't really my thing.
I LOVED raising this child. I loved every bit of it, even the post-age-16 years, when I realized that I wasn't going to get out of the difficult times after all.
I remember getting my last driver's license renewal, seeing that it expired in July 2015, and thinking, wow, Hunter will be out of high school by then...that's so far away!
And now it's here. The second half of his last year of public school. It still feels like he should be that little boy with the giant backpack walking into preschool for the first time while I held back tears.
There's a lot to do. Like, actually get him to fill out all the scholarship applications. Like, actually get him to go to school. Like, actually get him to look objectively at more than one college.
But that's a job for 2015 Jen. Right now, I'm still in 2014, trying to remember that although there was a lot of bad in the last 12 months, there was a lot of good, too.
In a few short hours, I will welcome in the year of my son's graduation. And not just my son, but all of the other kids I watched grow up these last thirteen years.
Damn it, you guys. Why are you doing this to us?
Congratulations, anyway.
I'm still going to try that 21-day-to-sugar-elimination plan, though.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Things I Learned From Nevada Fitness Club, Part Four.
I consider myself in good shape...for me.
That means that I'm equal parts desire to look bangin' and desire to lay in bed and have all the great foods (read: cobbler, cookies, chocolate, and anything else delicious that starts with C...or the other letters) teleport to me, where I will then consume them all until I feel completely disgusting and start crying that "This is why I will be alone the rest of my life!" until I fall asleep amid the crumbs.
But I digress.
The point is, I'm in much better shape than I was a year ago. Joining Nevada Fitness Club kicked my ass, don't get me wrong, and did so on a regular and unrelenting basis.
But for the first time since I played competitive tennis all summer long in the broiling mid-day heat on purpose (aka the early 90s), I felt like I was in shape.
Until Wednesday night.
The first time I did Insanity, a girl with a bad ankle out-performed me while I lay sprawled on the gym floor, dazed and wheezing and generally questioning both how I had let myself get this out of shape and what the hell I was doing there.
The first time I did Asylum (Insanity Part Deux), I swore I tasted blood in the back of my throat through the last half of the workout.
The first time I did Insanity Max, I thought there was something wrong with the DVD.
It would have been comical if I hadn't been fighting so hard to suck air. As it was, these people were not human. If this DVD wasn't Insanity on speed, I don't know what would be. It was as if the DVD had been set on fast-forward. The entire thing was people going so fast it seemed like there had to be something underhanded going on. People don't MOVE that fast. I don't even think Olympic athletes can go that fast.
If it hadn't been for the three 30-second water breaks, I would have "maxed" about seven minutes in.
It was hard to explain. Imagine just going through speed drills as fast as you can for 30 minutes straight, with the exception of those three water breaks. Burpees, squats, running in place, jumping, push-ups, mountain climbers, and GO FASTER! GO! GO! GO! GO!
I made it until the 22 minute mark. And then the 23 minute mark. And then 25. By the end, I really had no idea what was going on. My eyes were full of sweat. Or tears. Whatever, they stung. My mouth was Sahara-dry.
And there was so. much. sweat.
I would like to say I left and consumed a completely reasonable, low-carb dinner.
But that would be a lie. Instead, I ate a fourth of an apple cobbler, six pumpkin Oreos, and a loaded baked potato.
The second time I did Insanity Max, I told myself I was ready.
And it didn't seem as bad.
I'm just kidding. It was pretty bad.
Because JUMPING AND LANDING INTO SQUATS.
Because BRING YOUR KNEES UP TO YOUR HANDS, NOT YOUR HANDS DOWN TO YOUR KNEES.
Because JUMPING PUSH-UPS.
A push-up that you do, then "jump" your entire body (like the WHOLE body, including hands and feet, leaves the ground and lands a few inches away), IN PUSH-UP FORM, and then you repeat it.
What saved me in Insanity Max's night two was that I can handle ab work a lot better because I get to lay down, and I can handle tricep work pretty well because that's always been one of my favorite things to work (read: easy for me).
It wasn't quite as miserable.
I'd like to say I left and consumed a completely reasonable, low-carb dinner.
But that would be a lie. Instead, I ate two Poptarts, part of a chicken fried steak with gravy, fried green beans, and two beers.
So yeah, all the Insanity Max in the world doesn't make up for a completely garbage diet.
But it was pretty badass anyway.
That means that I'm equal parts desire to look bangin' and desire to lay in bed and have all the great foods (read: cobbler, cookies, chocolate, and anything else delicious that starts with C...or the other letters) teleport to me, where I will then consume them all until I feel completely disgusting and start crying that "This is why I will be alone the rest of my life!" until I fall asleep amid the crumbs.
But I digress.
The point is, I'm in much better shape than I was a year ago. Joining Nevada Fitness Club kicked my ass, don't get me wrong, and did so on a regular and unrelenting basis.
But for the first time since I played competitive tennis all summer long in the broiling mid-day heat on purpose (aka the early 90s), I felt like I was in shape.
Until Wednesday night.
The first time I did Insanity, a girl with a bad ankle out-performed me while I lay sprawled on the gym floor, dazed and wheezing and generally questioning both how I had let myself get this out of shape and what the hell I was doing there.
The first time I did Asylum (Insanity Part Deux), I swore I tasted blood in the back of my throat through the last half of the workout.
The first time I did Insanity Max, I thought there was something wrong with the DVD.
It would have been comical if I hadn't been fighting so hard to suck air. As it was, these people were not human. If this DVD wasn't Insanity on speed, I don't know what would be. It was as if the DVD had been set on fast-forward. The entire thing was people going so fast it seemed like there had to be something underhanded going on. People don't MOVE that fast. I don't even think Olympic athletes can go that fast.
If it hadn't been for the three 30-second water breaks, I would have "maxed" about seven minutes in.
It was hard to explain. Imagine just going through speed drills as fast as you can for 30 minutes straight, with the exception of those three water breaks. Burpees, squats, running in place, jumping, push-ups, mountain climbers, and GO FASTER! GO! GO! GO! GO!
I made it until the 22 minute mark. And then the 23 minute mark. And then 25. By the end, I really had no idea what was going on. My eyes were full of sweat. Or tears. Whatever, they stung. My mouth was Sahara-dry.
And there was so. much. sweat.
I would like to say I left and consumed a completely reasonable, low-carb dinner.
But that would be a lie. Instead, I ate a fourth of an apple cobbler, six pumpkin Oreos, and a loaded baked potato.
The second time I did Insanity Max, I told myself I was ready.
And it didn't seem as bad.
I'm just kidding. It was pretty bad.
Because JUMPING AND LANDING INTO SQUATS.
Because BRING YOUR KNEES UP TO YOUR HANDS, NOT YOUR HANDS DOWN TO YOUR KNEES.
Because JUMPING PUSH-UPS.
A push-up that you do, then "jump" your entire body (like the WHOLE body, including hands and feet, leaves the ground and lands a few inches away), IN PUSH-UP FORM, and then you repeat it.
What saved me in Insanity Max's night two was that I can handle ab work a lot better because I get to lay down, and I can handle tricep work pretty well because that's always been one of my favorite things to work (read: easy for me).
It wasn't quite as miserable.
I'd like to say I left and consumed a completely reasonable, low-carb dinner.
But that would be a lie. Instead, I ate two Poptarts, part of a chicken fried steak with gravy, fried green beans, and two beers.
So yeah, all the Insanity Max in the world doesn't make up for a completely garbage diet.
But it was pretty badass anyway.
Friday, December 5, 2014
OREOS MAKE YOU FAT.
...and that was what I took from the passage, back in my Wannabe Beatnik period of early 1995. I was going to Cottey College, trying to figure out who I was, recovering from a bad breakup, going through that "Oh yeah? Watch me lose weight and be all like Sandy in Grease and then there's a carnival and guess who's in skintight black and feeling sassy? Oh, and I can sing now" phase that girls go through when they're deeply hurt and deeply disillusioned thanks to unrealistic movie plots.
So there we were, on the cusp of 1995, and a friend of mine shows me a copy of The Portable Beat Reader.
That was IT. I decided that these beatniks were me, that I was them, that we're all the same deeply tortured soul deep down, man, and isn't life an awful trip when it comes down to it, and Everybody Hurts...sometimes.
...and on and on. Sure, I didn't live in a stripped-down, rat-infested room in Manhattan, and, fine, maybe I wasn't running from the law and trying to find myself in a warm bottle of tequila in Mexico, but this Beat Generation really GOT it.
But there was one piece that resonated with me more than anything else, and it wasn't by Kerouac or Corso or Ginsberg or Cassady.
It was by a woman named Diane DiPrima, and the paragraph that so captivated me, that WAS 19-year-old me, that cut through my early-college pretentiousness to my vulnerable core, went a little something like this:
*Credit, Diane DiPrima, Dinners and Nightmares: What I Ate Where*
i remember the winter the january i ate nothing but oreos...to get through january in manhattan is hard, to get through january and february the same year almost impossible.
one of the best ways to get through i found was this of eating oreos. except it makes you fat. really fat. even if you don't eat anything else and you think, shit, how can i get fat i haven't had breakfast or lunch or anything like that, but don't kid yourself. OREOS MAKE YOU FAT.
And even though I wanted to look like Sandy and blow everyone away at the carnival, even though I wanted to do all of the amazing things and be rich and famous before I exited my teens and maybe date Brian from NBC's Wings, the reality was that I went to class and worked full time and came home at 10 p.m. with a box of donuts from Ramey's and watched Jerry Springer until I fell asleep next to a by-then-empty donut box.
So it was that essay that spoke to me, and provided a strange comfort that I reached for, like a security blanket, again and again. It was THAT essay I returned to, not Ginsberg's Howl or Burroughs' Naked Lunch, which were amazing, true, but a little intimidating.
DiPrima, man, she GOT me.
And it all came crashing back to my consciousness today, when I got off work, came home, made a Peach Caramel Butterscotch cobbler, mindlessly ate a row of Oreos...
...and I was 19 again, reaching absently into the box of donuts before realizing it was empty, listening to the crowd chant for Jerry and wondering what exactly I was going to do with my life.
It's mind-blowing, because my son is almost to that age of all questions and no answers, and he's experiencing some of those same feelings that were trapped and fluttering in my rib cage, that I tried to smother with those Oreos and donuts and Springer, and it just reminds me how really, really hard it can be to be on that cusp of adulthood and feel that pressure to know what you're supposed to do with the rest of your life, that it's time to be a grown-up and there's nothing you can do about it, and where are you going to go to college and what's your major and where will you live and who will you room with and here's a new town and oh by the way classes are all over campus and you don't know every single person you see and these are the best years of your life, kid, cherish them!
How RIDICULOUS is that? I wouldn't go back to that uncertainty and that confusion for anything, even if it meant being young and free again. Because it wasn't until I was older that I was set free.
You can HAVE 15-21. I don't WANT those years back. Give me 39 any day.
To the Class of 2015 that I watched grow up, I wish the very best for you. But it is this uncertainty, this fear, that make the good times feel so much better. Out of the darkness comes the dawn, insert your own cliche here, but they're true.
It WILL get better. High school isn't going to be the best time of your life. You have so many experiences ahead, good and bad, light and dark.
FEEL it. Collect those life experiences, because these are the things that you learn from, and that is far more than you'll ever learn in a college classroom.
I'm proud of you guys.
And it's okay to admit that maybe you don't know everything.
Illustration courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half, Allie Brosh (check her out!)
So there we were, on the cusp of 1995, and a friend of mine shows me a copy of The Portable Beat Reader.
That was IT. I decided that these beatniks were me, that I was them, that we're all the same deeply tortured soul deep down, man, and isn't life an awful trip when it comes down to it, and Everybody Hurts...sometimes.
...and on and on. Sure, I didn't live in a stripped-down, rat-infested room in Manhattan, and, fine, maybe I wasn't running from the law and trying to find myself in a warm bottle of tequila in Mexico, but this Beat Generation really GOT it.
But there was one piece that resonated with me more than anything else, and it wasn't by Kerouac or Corso or Ginsberg or Cassady.
It was by a woman named Diane DiPrima, and the paragraph that so captivated me, that WAS 19-year-old me, that cut through my early-college pretentiousness to my vulnerable core, went a little something like this:
*Credit, Diane DiPrima, Dinners and Nightmares: What I Ate Where*
i remember the winter the january i ate nothing but oreos...to get through january in manhattan is hard, to get through january and february the same year almost impossible.
one of the best ways to get through i found was this of eating oreos. except it makes you fat. really fat. even if you don't eat anything else and you think, shit, how can i get fat i haven't had breakfast or lunch or anything like that, but don't kid yourself. OREOS MAKE YOU FAT.
And even though I wanted to look like Sandy and blow everyone away at the carnival, even though I wanted to do all of the amazing things and be rich and famous before I exited my teens and maybe date Brian from NBC's Wings, the reality was that I went to class and worked full time and came home at 10 p.m. with a box of donuts from Ramey's and watched Jerry Springer until I fell asleep next to a by-then-empty donut box.
So it was that essay that spoke to me, and provided a strange comfort that I reached for, like a security blanket, again and again. It was THAT essay I returned to, not Ginsberg's Howl or Burroughs' Naked Lunch, which were amazing, true, but a little intimidating.
DiPrima, man, she GOT me.
And it all came crashing back to my consciousness today, when I got off work, came home, made a Peach Caramel Butterscotch cobbler, mindlessly ate a row of Oreos...
...and I was 19 again, reaching absently into the box of donuts before realizing it was empty, listening to the crowd chant for Jerry and wondering what exactly I was going to do with my life.
It's mind-blowing, because my son is almost to that age of all questions and no answers, and he's experiencing some of those same feelings that were trapped and fluttering in my rib cage, that I tried to smother with those Oreos and donuts and Springer, and it just reminds me how really, really hard it can be to be on that cusp of adulthood and feel that pressure to know what you're supposed to do with the rest of your life, that it's time to be a grown-up and there's nothing you can do about it, and where are you going to go to college and what's your major and where will you live and who will you room with and here's a new town and oh by the way classes are all over campus and you don't know every single person you see and these are the best years of your life, kid, cherish them!
How RIDICULOUS is that? I wouldn't go back to that uncertainty and that confusion for anything, even if it meant being young and free again. Because it wasn't until I was older that I was set free.
You can HAVE 15-21. I don't WANT those years back. Give me 39 any day.
To the Class of 2015 that I watched grow up, I wish the very best for you. But it is this uncertainty, this fear, that make the good times feel so much better. Out of the darkness comes the dawn, insert your own cliche here, but they're true.
It WILL get better. High school isn't going to be the best time of your life. You have so many experiences ahead, good and bad, light and dark.
FEEL it. Collect those life experiences, because these are the things that you learn from, and that is far more than you'll ever learn in a college classroom.
I'm proud of you guys.
And it's okay to admit that maybe you don't know everything.
Illustration courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half, Allie Brosh (check her out!)Thursday, November 13, 2014
Things I Learned From Nevada Fitness Club, Part Three: I Got Moves
Saturday night, November 8, was the annual Vernon County Cancer Relief fundraiser. This is a fun event, but for members of the board it's a night of tightly-executed moves to ensure things go without a (huge) hitch.
This year, I was put in charge of rounding the waiters up and making sure everyone got plates of food. Not as easy as one might think, in spite of the fact that most of the waiters were seasoned veterans at this event. So that happened, and then the usual whirlwind of the plate-clearing and auction, counting the waiters' tip money to see who won, etc.
But this was no run-of-the-mill fundraiser. There were a few loose-cannon situations that, when brought together, caused what I have learned in nine months of Nevada Fitness Club training to save my ass.
Loose Cannon Situation Number One: The Band
We had trotted out the same basic format for easily the last several years of this fundraiser, because it essentially worked. However, with some fresh new ideas in our new board members, a round of brainstorming was set off in one of our meetings that led to the booking of a band, Sober as a Judge, for this year's event.
These guys? Seriously pretty awesome. Do yourself a favor and look them up. They blew the roof off of that place. Kick-ass, for real. But, more importantly to this story, they started the ball of this whole thing rolling.
Loose Cannon Situation Number Two: Childhood friend Misty Caldwell
Misty had not been to one of these events before, but was there repping the amazing woman her mother had been before stupid cancer took her from us way, way too soon. Misty is no stranger to shaking her ass on the dance floor, and as the night went on and the drinks flowed, and the music continued to be righteous, she got out there.
Loose Cannon Situation Number Three: The New Waiter
We had a maverick this year in new waiter Corey Johnson. Mr. Johnson came to win, and said as much to me when I introduced myself to him in the beginning-of-the-night waiter roundup. This guy? Crazy as hell, and super effective. He won, just as he promised he would, and then decided that it was time to celebrate on the dance floor.
These three ingredients mixed together led to a moment of horror when Misty pulled me out onto the dance floor shortly after the winner of the waiter tip-off was announced. Waiter champion Johnson was in a mood to celebrate, and his dancing was very high energy.
Cue the horror music, because I was stone. cold. sober.
I'm not much on dancing when I'm sober. When I've been drinking, oh my gosh, call Star Search, because I will pop and lock myself to champion status...in my mind.
I probably look more like this, though.
But let me say again, this time I was sober. And when I'm sober I pretty much know I suck. I had to think fast, and act faster.
Cue: Nevada Fitness Club.
My advantage was that everyone else had been drinking, and therefore didn't care at all. So I basically did a fit club routine. A little up-center-back-center, a little hop-hop-squat, a little up-and-over, a little one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight, and - BAM! - I'd incorporated T25, Combat Cardio, Insanity, AND Asylum.
It got me through without incident, anyway.
And I forgot about the whole thing, until a couple days later at work when our marketing director called me about one of my cases. Before she hung up, she said, "Oh, by the way...you're quite a dancer! I tried to video you, but it was too dark. You've got some moves!"
Later that day, her boss stopped in and said, "I hear you're quite a dancer!"
I demurred, of course, but on the inside, I turned to the hidden camera and said, "Thanks, Nevada Fitness Club!" *winky face*
My point is, you should come work out.
It totally saved my ass.
This year, I was put in charge of rounding the waiters up and making sure everyone got plates of food. Not as easy as one might think, in spite of the fact that most of the waiters were seasoned veterans at this event. So that happened, and then the usual whirlwind of the plate-clearing and auction, counting the waiters' tip money to see who won, etc.
But this was no run-of-the-mill fundraiser. There were a few loose-cannon situations that, when brought together, caused what I have learned in nine months of Nevada Fitness Club training to save my ass.
Loose Cannon Situation Number One: The Band
We had trotted out the same basic format for easily the last several years of this fundraiser, because it essentially worked. However, with some fresh new ideas in our new board members, a round of brainstorming was set off in one of our meetings that led to the booking of a band, Sober as a Judge, for this year's event.
These guys? Seriously pretty awesome. Do yourself a favor and look them up. They blew the roof off of that place. Kick-ass, for real. But, more importantly to this story, they started the ball of this whole thing rolling.
Loose Cannon Situation Number Two: Childhood friend Misty Caldwell
Misty had not been to one of these events before, but was there repping the amazing woman her mother had been before stupid cancer took her from us way, way too soon. Misty is no stranger to shaking her ass on the dance floor, and as the night went on and the drinks flowed, and the music continued to be righteous, she got out there.
Loose Cannon Situation Number Three: The New Waiter
We had a maverick this year in new waiter Corey Johnson. Mr. Johnson came to win, and said as much to me when I introduced myself to him in the beginning-of-the-night waiter roundup. This guy? Crazy as hell, and super effective. He won, just as he promised he would, and then decided that it was time to celebrate on the dance floor.
These three ingredients mixed together led to a moment of horror when Misty pulled me out onto the dance floor shortly after the winner of the waiter tip-off was announced. Waiter champion Johnson was in a mood to celebrate, and his dancing was very high energy.
Cue the horror music, because I was stone. cold. sober.
I'm not much on dancing when I'm sober. When I've been drinking, oh my gosh, call Star Search, because I will pop and lock myself to champion status...in my mind.
I probably look more like this, though.
But let me say again, this time I was sober. And when I'm sober I pretty much know I suck. I had to think fast, and act faster.
Cue: Nevada Fitness Club.
My advantage was that everyone else had been drinking, and therefore didn't care at all. So I basically did a fit club routine. A little up-center-back-center, a little hop-hop-squat, a little up-and-over, a little one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight, and - BAM! - I'd incorporated T25, Combat Cardio, Insanity, AND Asylum.
It got me through without incident, anyway.
And I forgot about the whole thing, until a couple days later at work when our marketing director called me about one of my cases. Before she hung up, she said, "Oh, by the way...you're quite a dancer! I tried to video you, but it was too dark. You've got some moves!"
Later that day, her boss stopped in and said, "I hear you're quite a dancer!"
I demurred, of course, but on the inside, I turned to the hidden camera and said, "Thanks, Nevada Fitness Club!" *winky face*
My point is, you should come work out.
It totally saved my ass.
Monday, November 10, 2014
A Job for Future Jen...
I like to jokingly say that my biggest strength is that I'm fully aware of my weaknesses.
It's kind of true, by the way. I mean, I have other strengths, like I can read fast, and sometimes I think of the right thing to say at the right time. But more often I think of the wrong thing to say. Like the time the customer at the theater complimented my scarf. What I fully INTENDED to come out of my mouth were words along the lines of, "Thank you, scarves are so easy! You just throw them on and BAM! It looks like you tried."
What came out of my mouth instead was, "Thanks! I like to tie things around my neck."
That customer has avoided me ever since. I'm not even kidding. He comes to the movies kind of a lot, and every time, wide circle around me.
Can you blame him? I can't. And it's even worse when I see him and I have a damn scarf on again.
What was I even talking about? OH! Weaknesses.
So, one of my biggest weaknesses, if not THE biggest, is that I'm super, super impulsive. Like, in sometimes dangerous ways, but more often, in completely mind-numbingly stupid ways. Like the time I was a Verizon customer for six hours before realizing they have no signal in Sheldon. Or the time(s) that I ate an entire pound of chocolate in something like 30 minutes. Or the large pizzas.
All the times I spent a lot of money that really would have been better served not being spent, but the sale ended TODAY, or it could be COMBINED with a sale, or something.
When people muse about how many of us live in the past, or live in the future, and how few of us fully embrace the present, well, I kind of don't understand that.
I am a fully-in-the-present kinda girl. All the time. I seize moments on the reg. Or procrastinate on the reg. And every time I recognize that I'm making poor decisions (and I always do when it's happening, because, like I said, it's my biggest strength), I think to myself, that sounds like a problem for Future Jen.
Future Jen hates Present Jen. But then again, Future Jen is by that point Present Jen, and Present Jen is Past Jen, and it's all a little confusing, but the end result is that I'm often filled with regret, and whatever food I can't stop eating at the time.
And, even worse, people can rarely talk me out of my poor decision. My sister, bless her heart, tries all the time. She knows how I'll feel afterward, so she acts as my own little Jiminy Cricket. And even though it almost never, ever works, she just keeps plugging away.
But, again, this is something that I struggle with. I don't dwell on the past, and I don't worry a lot about the future. I basically just try to completely embrace this moment. Yes, this one. Right here.
This past Saturday night, Vernon County Cancer Relief had their annual fundraiser at the Eagles lodge. I love this organization, because I know for a fact that 100 percent of the money raised goes to benefit local cancer patients and families. That's pretty sweet, and a lot of people have benefited from those donations since the organization was founded in 1987.
We generally have a couple of speakers at our benefits, and this year my amazing childhood friend Misty Caldwell Shepherd was one.
Misty had this really, really cool mom. She was peppy and cute and happy all the time, just this petite little woman with enough life in her for someone twice her size at least.
Susie was just always happy. I never saw her mad, although I'm sure it happened. And she was so young and vibrant.
That's why it just absolutely sucked when she found out she had cancer the summer before last and only lived months after that.
The thing about Susie was that she seized every moment. She urged people to live life to the fullest, and she was the embodiment of that. She overcame great obstacles, and she just kept smiling.
We could all stand to be a little more like that. I see that spirit in her daughters, and I know that she will live on in all of the people she touched. And I don't ever, ever think that she had one wasted moment. She was fully present in every one of her days, and if that wasn't true, she sure had us fooled.
And that, THAT is what we should all strive to be. Live every moment, even the ones where you're super full and miserable from eating all the time, even the ones where your heart is absolutely shattered and you don't know how you're going to get through this moment, there's no way, it's too much...
you just gotta OWN those moments.
Because we're beautifully, brokenly, absolutely alive.
So I'm proud to live a life like Susie Caldwell, and be fully present every day. And I know I'm not the only one to take that lesson from her example. I'm going to seize this moment. And then I'm going to seize another.
Although I do need to work on my impulsivity.
It's kind of true, by the way. I mean, I have other strengths, like I can read fast, and sometimes I think of the right thing to say at the right time. But more often I think of the wrong thing to say. Like the time the customer at the theater complimented my scarf. What I fully INTENDED to come out of my mouth were words along the lines of, "Thank you, scarves are so easy! You just throw them on and BAM! It looks like you tried."
What came out of my mouth instead was, "Thanks! I like to tie things around my neck."
That customer has avoided me ever since. I'm not even kidding. He comes to the movies kind of a lot, and every time, wide circle around me.
Can you blame him? I can't. And it's even worse when I see him and I have a damn scarf on again.
What was I even talking about? OH! Weaknesses.
So, one of my biggest weaknesses, if not THE biggest, is that I'm super, super impulsive. Like, in sometimes dangerous ways, but more often, in completely mind-numbingly stupid ways. Like the time I was a Verizon customer for six hours before realizing they have no signal in Sheldon. Or the time(s) that I ate an entire pound of chocolate in something like 30 minutes. Or the large pizzas.
All the times I spent a lot of money that really would have been better served not being spent, but the sale ended TODAY, or it could be COMBINED with a sale, or something.
When people muse about how many of us live in the past, or live in the future, and how few of us fully embrace the present, well, I kind of don't understand that.
I am a fully-in-the-present kinda girl. All the time. I seize moments on the reg. Or procrastinate on the reg. And every time I recognize that I'm making poor decisions (and I always do when it's happening, because, like I said, it's my biggest strength), I think to myself, that sounds like a problem for Future Jen.
Future Jen hates Present Jen. But then again, Future Jen is by that point Present Jen, and Present Jen is Past Jen, and it's all a little confusing, but the end result is that I'm often filled with regret, and whatever food I can't stop eating at the time.
And, even worse, people can rarely talk me out of my poor decision. My sister, bless her heart, tries all the time. She knows how I'll feel afterward, so she acts as my own little Jiminy Cricket. And even though it almost never, ever works, she just keeps plugging away.
But, again, this is something that I struggle with. I don't dwell on the past, and I don't worry a lot about the future. I basically just try to completely embrace this moment. Yes, this one. Right here.
This past Saturday night, Vernon County Cancer Relief had their annual fundraiser at the Eagles lodge. I love this organization, because I know for a fact that 100 percent of the money raised goes to benefit local cancer patients and families. That's pretty sweet, and a lot of people have benefited from those donations since the organization was founded in 1987.
We generally have a couple of speakers at our benefits, and this year my amazing childhood friend Misty Caldwell Shepherd was one.
Misty had this really, really cool mom. She was peppy and cute and happy all the time, just this petite little woman with enough life in her for someone twice her size at least.
Susie was just always happy. I never saw her mad, although I'm sure it happened. And she was so young and vibrant.
That's why it just absolutely sucked when she found out she had cancer the summer before last and only lived months after that.
The thing about Susie was that she seized every moment. She urged people to live life to the fullest, and she was the embodiment of that. She overcame great obstacles, and she just kept smiling.
We could all stand to be a little more like that. I see that spirit in her daughters, and I know that she will live on in all of the people she touched. And I don't ever, ever think that she had one wasted moment. She was fully present in every one of her days, and if that wasn't true, she sure had us fooled.
And that, THAT is what we should all strive to be. Live every moment, even the ones where you're super full and miserable from eating all the time, even the ones where your heart is absolutely shattered and you don't know how you're going to get through this moment, there's no way, it's too much...
you just gotta OWN those moments.
Because we're beautifully, brokenly, absolutely alive.
So I'm proud to live a life like Susie Caldwell, and be fully present every day. And I know I'm not the only one to take that lesson from her example. I'm going to seize this moment. And then I'm going to seize another.
Although I do need to work on my impulsivity.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Anchor, Man!
As we hit the month in which we declare our gratitude, I can't help but think back over my 2014.
It's been what I would call a series of...shifts.
A couple were good, like hitting Nevada Fitness Club and sticking with it, or starting to take fish oil when I realized my cholesterol rivaled that of a chronic smoker twice my size.
A couple were bad, and made a mockery of who I thought I was. My identity, or what I had considered it to be, took two major hits, pop pop!, one after the other. When I regained figurative consciousness, I realized that I was suddenly, to put it in terms a Cubs fan might understand, in a rebuilding period. Everything I thought I was, everything I planned to do, all of it was...just gone.
It was weird as hell.
Over the weekend, I finally picked up a book that my friend Johanna loaned me roughly two months ago and started reading. It's called "It's Kind of a Funny Story" by Ned Vizzini, and is about a 15-year-old kid who spends five days in a psychiatric facility. I'm drawn to these types of stories, because I spent seven days in a similar facility when I was a teenager, and for the same reason as the protagonist...depression.
This book was pretty true to my own experience. These places are made up of an interesting collection of personalities, and the real lessons aren't always learned in therapy.
About two-thirds through the book, the main character, Craig, is talking to his therapist, Dr. Minerva. She asks him what his anchors are, what calms him when things around him are anything but. He muses out loud that maybe his friends, or this girl he just met. She stops him, and reminds him that people, and their personalities, are fluid. They're ever-changing. People cannot be anchors, Craig. What else?, she asked him.
I've been thinking about Dr. Minerva's words a lot, because I have been guilty of considering people my anchors. And I have lost those anchors. I know music is one. I know writing is one. But when I returned to Fit Club tonight after a week-long absence, I realized that I felt like I was back home. Better yet, we were doing my FAVORITE workout, Combat. If you have any kind of personal El Guapo in your life, do a Combat workout.
Punching the crap out of your invisible enemy is very therapeutic.
But the best part, the most amazing part, of the workout tonight was that when I walked in, my dad was there waiting for me.
I have a really great dad, and I had a really great childhood. Part of my kid identity was following my dad around softball parks and basketball courts until I was old enough to play. He, and my other dad, Leon, were my coaches, and I was secure in the knowledge that I could count on them for anything.
Practice really kind of sucked.
Running really, REALLY sucked.
Don't even get me started on line drills.
But I was secure in who I was on the court or on the field. I had a role. I knew what I had to do.
Sports, and exercise, were my anchors.
To walk in tonight and see my dad meant everything. Suddenly it was 1992 again, and we were in that same gym, doing aerobics with Sherry Bickel to stay in cardio-shape in between weight workouts.
And I realized that I'm starting to get my identity back. I have my anchors again.
What are your anchors? What are the things that calm you, the things that focus you, the things that bring you back to that happy place in your soul? What makes you feel like you felt when you were a child and everything was an adventure?
Find it. Find it, and get back to it.
It's been what I would call a series of...shifts.
A couple were good, like hitting Nevada Fitness Club and sticking with it, or starting to take fish oil when I realized my cholesterol rivaled that of a chronic smoker twice my size.
A couple were bad, and made a mockery of who I thought I was. My identity, or what I had considered it to be, took two major hits, pop pop!, one after the other. When I regained figurative consciousness, I realized that I was suddenly, to put it in terms a Cubs fan might understand, in a rebuilding period. Everything I thought I was, everything I planned to do, all of it was...just gone.
It was weird as hell.
Over the weekend, I finally picked up a book that my friend Johanna loaned me roughly two months ago and started reading. It's called "It's Kind of a Funny Story" by Ned Vizzini, and is about a 15-year-old kid who spends five days in a psychiatric facility. I'm drawn to these types of stories, because I spent seven days in a similar facility when I was a teenager, and for the same reason as the protagonist...depression.
This book was pretty true to my own experience. These places are made up of an interesting collection of personalities, and the real lessons aren't always learned in therapy.
About two-thirds through the book, the main character, Craig, is talking to his therapist, Dr. Minerva. She asks him what his anchors are, what calms him when things around him are anything but. He muses out loud that maybe his friends, or this girl he just met. She stops him, and reminds him that people, and their personalities, are fluid. They're ever-changing. People cannot be anchors, Craig. What else?, she asked him.
I've been thinking about Dr. Minerva's words a lot, because I have been guilty of considering people my anchors. And I have lost those anchors. I know music is one. I know writing is one. But when I returned to Fit Club tonight after a week-long absence, I realized that I felt like I was back home. Better yet, we were doing my FAVORITE workout, Combat. If you have any kind of personal El Guapo in your life, do a Combat workout.
Punching the crap out of your invisible enemy is very therapeutic.
But the best part, the most amazing part, of the workout tonight was that when I walked in, my dad was there waiting for me.
I have a really great dad, and I had a really great childhood. Part of my kid identity was following my dad around softball parks and basketball courts until I was old enough to play. He, and my other dad, Leon, were my coaches, and I was secure in the knowledge that I could count on them for anything.
Practice really kind of sucked.
Running really, REALLY sucked.
Don't even get me started on line drills.
But I was secure in who I was on the court or on the field. I had a role. I knew what I had to do.
Sports, and exercise, were my anchors.
To walk in tonight and see my dad meant everything. Suddenly it was 1992 again, and we were in that same gym, doing aerobics with Sherry Bickel to stay in cardio-shape in between weight workouts.
And I realized that I'm starting to get my identity back. I have my anchors again.
What are your anchors? What are the things that calm you, the things that focus you, the things that bring you back to that happy place in your soul? What makes you feel like you felt when you were a child and everything was an adventure?
Find it. Find it, and get back to it.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
postsecret
My sister is a big PostSecret fan. She remembers to check it every Sunday, and will occasionally text me, telling me to read them all and guess which one made her think of me, or guess which one made her cry?
She's a soft touch. Don't let that resting bitch face fool you.
And I have often wondered, over the years, what my secret would be. What is the darkest thing in my soul, the thing I dare not tell anyone?
And how would I phrase it when I don't even know what words exactly to assign to it?
So yeah, I don't have much of one. There is nothing so bad in my life that I haven't shared it with at least one other person.
But there are some that provoke such deep and instant emotion within me that I have to wonder...
Is it possible that I have a secret so deep that I don't even know it?
My marriage is ending. It's ending, and it's a slow-motion train wreck, or a car crash, ithurtspleasemakeitneverhavehappened, and I have known it was ending for over a year, more like, wow, 18 months, and I didn't want it to, I wanted to hang on so tight, I wanted to never let go, I wanted to hold on to my marriage like a kid holds on to a new puppy or kitten.
But squeezing that tightly can cause whatever you're holding onto to die.
The other thing with my marriage was that almost everyone I knew saw the writing on the wall from the beginning. Everyone but me.
Who am I kidding? I saw it. I knew. I knew when I was 18 years old and he called me out of nowhere, told me to come over without any underwear on, and we had sex for about 10 seconds while he looked out the window to make sure his girlfriend wasn't coming home for lunch. With their baby.
I knew it when he told me they broke up, and then my doorbell rang one day and I answered it to find her, her sister, and her cousin standing there staring at me.
I knew it when he called me when I was engaged, then when I was married. One or two or several times a year, every year. Always to ask if I would meet him on some road to have sex.
I knew it when I finally acquiesced, 11 years later, and had an affair while my husband sat, stoned and watching porn, in his man cave.
She's a soft touch. Don't let that resting bitch face fool you.
And I have often wondered, over the years, what my secret would be. What is the darkest thing in my soul, the thing I dare not tell anyone?
And how would I phrase it when I don't even know what words exactly to assign to it?
So yeah, I don't have much of one. There is nothing so bad in my life that I haven't shared it with at least one other person.
But there are some that provoke such deep and instant emotion within me that I have to wonder...
Is it possible that I have a secret so deep that I don't even know it?
My marriage is ending. It's ending, and it's a slow-motion train wreck, or a car crash, ithurtspleasemakeitneverhavehappened, and I have known it was ending for over a year, more like, wow, 18 months, and I didn't want it to, I wanted to hang on so tight, I wanted to never let go, I wanted to hold on to my marriage like a kid holds on to a new puppy or kitten.
But squeezing that tightly can cause whatever you're holding onto to die.
The other thing with my marriage was that almost everyone I knew saw the writing on the wall from the beginning. Everyone but me.
Who am I kidding? I saw it. I knew. I knew when I was 18 years old and he called me out of nowhere, told me to come over without any underwear on, and we had sex for about 10 seconds while he looked out the window to make sure his girlfriend wasn't coming home for lunch. With their baby.
I knew it when he told me they broke up, and then my doorbell rang one day and I answered it to find her, her sister, and her cousin standing there staring at me.
I knew it when he called me when I was engaged, then when I was married. One or two or several times a year, every year. Always to ask if I would meet him on some road to have sex.
I knew it when I finally acquiesced, 11 years later, and had an affair while my husband sat, stoned and watching porn, in his man cave.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Crock it to Me!
And just like that, it was over.
Week Four dawned, and with it, my hope. I thought, hey. Hey. It's almost over.
And then I got all excited, and it was almost like Week One again.
Oh, but that I could have known what was ahead. Before I get too excited, let's start with:
Week Four, Night One: Chicken Fiesta!
I did that thing on the dry erase board where you put the upside down exclamation mark in front of the word, but I can't find that option on my keyboard, so screw it. I thought that the simple addition of said exclamation mark made the whole thing infinitely more exotic (read: Spanish). My real goal was to hide the fact that I had fully INTENDED to make white chili again, but realized after I started that I didn't have close to the ingredients that were necessary to close the deal.
So what I did instead was put shredded chicken, white corn, green salsa, fire roasted salsa tomatoes, black beans, chicken broth, and green chilies in the crock and back away slowly. Hunter was taking a nap, so when it was done I tiptoed into his room, eased the bowl next to the bed, and booked it right out of there before he awoke and discovered that there was nothing chili about that dinner.
He ate it, but pronounced it too soupish for his refined palate. He asked what happened to the chili.
Whatever, kid. This ain't the Taj Mahal. You get what you get and you don't throw a fit. Basic kindergarten rules.
Week Four, Night Two: It's Over.
I remember the moment it happened well. I had clocked off and was in the process of thinking about standing up from my desk chair when I got the text. I had, that morning, asked Hunter what he wanted for dinner that night. At some point in the day, and who even knows what goes on in his mind, he had made a monumental decision.
The text read: I'm doing Paleo diet now.
And just like that, it was over. Sure, it was roughly only 12-14 meals, but it was over. Our month-long adventure had come to an end after three weeks.
So I did what any mom would do, and feverishly crammed on Pinterest to learn the Paleo way. I decided that I could master this. I could make this happen. I decided I'd pull something together by Wednesday.
Wednesday morning, Hunter and I had our little morning routine. We were both leaving the house earlier than usual. He left at about 7:15, and I was on my way out the door a few minutes later, when my phone started to buzz in that way that means it's an actual phone call.
It was Hunter. I remember thinking that it was lucky I was still home, because he had forgotten something.
But what he said instead was, "Mom? I got in an accident."
I remained fairly calm. Until I fully realized how close he came to not being okay. My anti-texting-while-driving crusader had reached over to move things out of his passenger floorboard and run right into a culvert, tapping a utility pole, which then split in half. The top half, containing the transformer, got caught up in a tree over his windshield. Wires came down in front of his car, but not on it.
His worst injury was an arm rash from the airbag deploying. He had exited the car, like a big dummy, but had not gotten electrocuted.
Therefore, dinner was not on my mind Wednesday night. So that night was out.
By the next night, he had purchased one of those hot plate things and a lot of eggs, and had determined that eggs would be the go-to staple of his new caveman diet.
But I threw some chicken and veggies in the Crock, as a last huzzah.
He ate them all, and while they didn't get an individual rating, I'd say the overall Crocksperience got the following nod:
But some good came from it. I realized that I was capable of putting together meals that weren't dessert-based. And if anyone wants any of the recipes, hit me up. I'm totally cool with it.
Week Four dawned, and with it, my hope. I thought, hey. Hey. It's almost over.
And then I got all excited, and it was almost like Week One again.
Oh, but that I could have known what was ahead. Before I get too excited, let's start with:
Week Four, Night One: Chicken Fiesta!
I did that thing on the dry erase board where you put the upside down exclamation mark in front of the word, but I can't find that option on my keyboard, so screw it. I thought that the simple addition of said exclamation mark made the whole thing infinitely more exotic (read: Spanish). My real goal was to hide the fact that I had fully INTENDED to make white chili again, but realized after I started that I didn't have close to the ingredients that were necessary to close the deal.
So what I did instead was put shredded chicken, white corn, green salsa, fire roasted salsa tomatoes, black beans, chicken broth, and green chilies in the crock and back away slowly. Hunter was taking a nap, so when it was done I tiptoed into his room, eased the bowl next to the bed, and booked it right out of there before he awoke and discovered that there was nothing chili about that dinner.
He ate it, but pronounced it too soupish for his refined palate. He asked what happened to the chili.
Whatever, kid. This ain't the Taj Mahal. You get what you get and you don't throw a fit. Basic kindergarten rules.
Week Four, Night Two: It's Over.
I remember the moment it happened well. I had clocked off and was in the process of thinking about standing up from my desk chair when I got the text. I had, that morning, asked Hunter what he wanted for dinner that night. At some point in the day, and who even knows what goes on in his mind, he had made a monumental decision.
The text read: I'm doing Paleo diet now.
And just like that, it was over. Sure, it was roughly only 12-14 meals, but it was over. Our month-long adventure had come to an end after three weeks.
So I did what any mom would do, and feverishly crammed on Pinterest to learn the Paleo way. I decided that I could master this. I could make this happen. I decided I'd pull something together by Wednesday.
Wednesday morning, Hunter and I had our little morning routine. We were both leaving the house earlier than usual. He left at about 7:15, and I was on my way out the door a few minutes later, when my phone started to buzz in that way that means it's an actual phone call.
It was Hunter. I remember thinking that it was lucky I was still home, because he had forgotten something.
But what he said instead was, "Mom? I got in an accident."
I remained fairly calm. Until I fully realized how close he came to not being okay. My anti-texting-while-driving crusader had reached over to move things out of his passenger floorboard and run right into a culvert, tapping a utility pole, which then split in half. The top half, containing the transformer, got caught up in a tree over his windshield. Wires came down in front of his car, but not on it.
His worst injury was an arm rash from the airbag deploying. He had exited the car, like a big dummy, but had not gotten electrocuted.
Therefore, dinner was not on my mind Wednesday night. So that night was out.
By the next night, he had purchased one of those hot plate things and a lot of eggs, and had determined that eggs would be the go-to staple of his new caveman diet.
But I threw some chicken and veggies in the Crock, as a last huzzah.
He ate them all, and while they didn't get an individual rating, I'd say the overall Crocksperience got the following nod:
But some good came from it. I realized that I was capable of putting together meals that weren't dessert-based. And if anyone wants any of the recipes, hit me up. I'm totally cool with it.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
The Hardest Blog.
I've been putting this off for over a week, because to write it is to truly acknowledge it.
To acknowledge it is to admit it.
And I don't want to.
But I guess I'll start...at the beginning. And that's hard, because I don't remember a moment that WAS the definitive beginning.
You were just always there. I don't remember you NOT being there. It wasn't every day, although sometimes it did seem like it. It wasn't on a regular timetable; you didn't come for dinner every Sunday, or anything like that.
You were just a major part of my life, from early childhood well into my high school years. It was heavily concentrated around my participation in the sports you helped my dad coach, but prior to that, it was you and my dad participating in assorted sports leagues together, and me hovering on the periph, wanting desperately to be a part of this camaraderie and knowing that my ticket in was to show an interest, put in the time, and become an athlete myself.
Totally worked, by the way. But with you? I know I had a ticket in regardless.
You just loved me. You loved me so much I felt like you were kinda my other dad. While I know now that you had that impact on easily hundreds of other kids over the years, at the time I truly believed it was just me.
I was fascinated with you from the beginning. I hadn't been taught that people were different, but in Nevada, faces were a sea of white. Yours was much, much darker. Your skin was like nothing I had ever seen, and I couldn't stop staring at you. What made me realize some people saw that as anything other than a cool thing was the looks on some of those white faces when you would introduce me as your daughter. To their credit, most laughed, but the occasional expressions of confusion and something else I couldn't quite place made me realize that it must be very lonely for you in a town like this. And I was just so happy that you spent so much time with my family that I kind of wanted you to myself, anyway.
Kids don't think much beyond what they see.
I don't remember how old I was...seven? when you showed up one Christmas morning. You were on your way to see your actual daughter, but you came by our house first, with a present.
"I'm on my way to see my daughter," you explained, "but I wanted to come see my other daughter on the way."
You gave me a little pewter container. The lid was also a brooch, and there were two earrings that were part of the design and could be removed and worn.
It was fabulous. You had thought of me, gotten something for me, and brought it to me on the most sacred of all days.
I was all yours after that.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes I didn't want to be all yours. When I did join that echelon of people who chose to play sports, and my dad started coaching my first AAU basketball team, you were right there as his assistant. By then I had acquired all of the hormones associated with being a girl of a certain age. I was awkward. I had bad hair. I had braces. I had acne.
I wasn't the same cute little girl who had first attached herself to you physically and emotionally, and nobody was more aware of that than me.
But you would never know it to look at you. You treated me just the same as you always had, even when I got moody and shut you out. You were patient, and you never, ever stopped trying to teach me. About sports, yes, but also about life.
My favorite moments were the ones in which you dropped that almost-always-present patience with us as a team and showed us some passion. The jumping up and down in a circle of fury on the sidelines. The starting to yell, and then stopping yourself mid-syllable, before you got carried away.
You and my other dad were quite a pair. I don't know how many ejections there were in my years as your basketball student, but I know that none of them were players on the team.
And I loved it. I never fouled out of one game...just not aggressive enough. But my coaches made up for it.
Then my sophomore year concluded, and with it, my basketball career. You had gotten married by then, and you had your own family to fill up your days. You were no longer my coach. And, you know, life happens. People drift apart.
When I did see you, though, it was like not one day had passed. We were right back to the way it had always been, and even when I acted annoyed, I secretly loved it.
Then there were a lot of years when I didn't see you at all. Until our paths crossed again in what would prove to be a shitty, shitty battle for us both, although you took the biggest hit.
I was undergoing treatment for cancer when you found me on Facebook. You coached me again, through messages. You told me you loved me, you told me you were so sorry I was going through this, and you told me I could beat it.
When I had made it through to the other side, it was your turn to get hit with the news. Only you didn't have the cotton-candy version of Cancer Lite that I had. You got hit in a bad spot. I knew it when I heard it, and I know you knew it, too.
And I froze. I tried to encourage you, but I was so blindsided and shell-shocked that I could not be, and was not, the comfort to you that you were to me.
That was inexcusable.
But my mom stayed in touch with you, and would tell me how you were, and that you had sent your love, and I felt like we were connected. And I told myself that so many people loved you that you didn't need me.
And then I heard you had made a comeback. And then I didn't hear anything else for a long time, and I told myself that was a good thing.
But I should have remembered who I was talking about. You were never one to play the victim.
So it was with shock that I took the news Friday that you were very suddenly in a coma.
I went home after receiving the coma news and got the news that you were gone that same night.
I handled it badly. I cried until a noise I didn't even know I could make, a noise I didn't even initially realize was coming from me, shattered the air. A half carton of eggs that had the misfortune of being on the counter died that same night. Some Oreos were severely injured.
I left the house and drove in a blind fury until I ended up, completely spent, back in my driveway.
And none of it made any difference. You were still gone. I read your Facebook wall, which filled up with message after message from your former kids, all of whom had very similar stories to mine.
You had that way about you. You had that way of making every single person feel like they were the most important, hell, the ONLY, person in your life.
How could you do that? How could you possess such a gift and share it so freely, so selflessly, with the world, and not be granted 100 years to keep changing lives?
And THAT is what I hate about life. That's what isn't fair. That's what I will never be okay with.
At the funeral Friday, I stood in line to sign your book, trying to shut out the voices around me, each with its own story of your love and light.
My dad approached me, stretching his arm out for a side hug. As he pulled me in, I expected words of comfort. Instead, he said, "Did you get those time cards dropped off?"
He, too, wasn't ready to think about this cruel finality. Denial is so much easier.
My mother was the same way. As a man walked past to find a seat, she whispered to me that he had 10 kids, and did I know that? She had dried tears on her face, but she was desperately warding off the feelings that hovered like an oppressive smog just overhead, threatening to close in and overwhelm us.
We were willing to grasp at anything that might help us forget the reason we were all there.
It worked for awhile. The pastor made the service feel like a church sermon, which lulled me into believing it was nothing more than that. A speaker had so many humorous anecdotes that each and every one of us could relate to that it became easy to get carried away in the memories.
But then, the end. The pictures overhead. The music.
When "Over the Rainbow" by IZ Kamakawiwo'ole - aka the ukulele version - started, that's when the smog descended.
How could you be gone? How could we not be that little girl and that strong, laughing man anymore? How could it be over in what felt like the blink of an eye?
WHY?
So many people loved you, and so many people mourn you like they have lost their best friend.
And they are all right. You were everyone's best friend. But more importantly, as the funny speaker said, everyone believed that he or she was YOUR best friend.
I love you, dad. See you later.
To acknowledge it is to admit it.
And I don't want to.
But I guess I'll start...at the beginning. And that's hard, because I don't remember a moment that WAS the definitive beginning.
You were just always there. I don't remember you NOT being there. It wasn't every day, although sometimes it did seem like it. It wasn't on a regular timetable; you didn't come for dinner every Sunday, or anything like that.
You were just a major part of my life, from early childhood well into my high school years. It was heavily concentrated around my participation in the sports you helped my dad coach, but prior to that, it was you and my dad participating in assorted sports leagues together, and me hovering on the periph, wanting desperately to be a part of this camaraderie and knowing that my ticket in was to show an interest, put in the time, and become an athlete myself.
Totally worked, by the way. But with you? I know I had a ticket in regardless.
You just loved me. You loved me so much I felt like you were kinda my other dad. While I know now that you had that impact on easily hundreds of other kids over the years, at the time I truly believed it was just me.
I was fascinated with you from the beginning. I hadn't been taught that people were different, but in Nevada, faces were a sea of white. Yours was much, much darker. Your skin was like nothing I had ever seen, and I couldn't stop staring at you. What made me realize some people saw that as anything other than a cool thing was the looks on some of those white faces when you would introduce me as your daughter. To their credit, most laughed, but the occasional expressions of confusion and something else I couldn't quite place made me realize that it must be very lonely for you in a town like this. And I was just so happy that you spent so much time with my family that I kind of wanted you to myself, anyway.
Kids don't think much beyond what they see.
I don't remember how old I was...seven? when you showed up one Christmas morning. You were on your way to see your actual daughter, but you came by our house first, with a present.
"I'm on my way to see my daughter," you explained, "but I wanted to come see my other daughter on the way."
You gave me a little pewter container. The lid was also a brooch, and there were two earrings that were part of the design and could be removed and worn.
It was fabulous. You had thought of me, gotten something for me, and brought it to me on the most sacred of all days.
I was all yours after that.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes I didn't want to be all yours. When I did join that echelon of people who chose to play sports, and my dad started coaching my first AAU basketball team, you were right there as his assistant. By then I had acquired all of the hormones associated with being a girl of a certain age. I was awkward. I had bad hair. I had braces. I had acne.
I wasn't the same cute little girl who had first attached herself to you physically and emotionally, and nobody was more aware of that than me.
But you would never know it to look at you. You treated me just the same as you always had, even when I got moody and shut you out. You were patient, and you never, ever stopped trying to teach me. About sports, yes, but also about life.
My favorite moments were the ones in which you dropped that almost-always-present patience with us as a team and showed us some passion. The jumping up and down in a circle of fury on the sidelines. The starting to yell, and then stopping yourself mid-syllable, before you got carried away.
You and my other dad were quite a pair. I don't know how many ejections there were in my years as your basketball student, but I know that none of them were players on the team.
And I loved it. I never fouled out of one game...just not aggressive enough. But my coaches made up for it.
Then my sophomore year concluded, and with it, my basketball career. You had gotten married by then, and you had your own family to fill up your days. You were no longer my coach. And, you know, life happens. People drift apart.
When I did see you, though, it was like not one day had passed. We were right back to the way it had always been, and even when I acted annoyed, I secretly loved it.
Then there were a lot of years when I didn't see you at all. Until our paths crossed again in what would prove to be a shitty, shitty battle for us both, although you took the biggest hit.
I was undergoing treatment for cancer when you found me on Facebook. You coached me again, through messages. You told me you loved me, you told me you were so sorry I was going through this, and you told me I could beat it.
When I had made it through to the other side, it was your turn to get hit with the news. Only you didn't have the cotton-candy version of Cancer Lite that I had. You got hit in a bad spot. I knew it when I heard it, and I know you knew it, too.
And I froze. I tried to encourage you, but I was so blindsided and shell-shocked that I could not be, and was not, the comfort to you that you were to me.
That was inexcusable.
But my mom stayed in touch with you, and would tell me how you were, and that you had sent your love, and I felt like we were connected. And I told myself that so many people loved you that you didn't need me.
And then I heard you had made a comeback. And then I didn't hear anything else for a long time, and I told myself that was a good thing.
But I should have remembered who I was talking about. You were never one to play the victim.
So it was with shock that I took the news Friday that you were very suddenly in a coma.
I went home after receiving the coma news and got the news that you were gone that same night.
I handled it badly. I cried until a noise I didn't even know I could make, a noise I didn't even initially realize was coming from me, shattered the air. A half carton of eggs that had the misfortune of being on the counter died that same night. Some Oreos were severely injured.
I left the house and drove in a blind fury until I ended up, completely spent, back in my driveway.
And none of it made any difference. You were still gone. I read your Facebook wall, which filled up with message after message from your former kids, all of whom had very similar stories to mine.
You had that way about you. You had that way of making every single person feel like they were the most important, hell, the ONLY, person in your life.
How could you do that? How could you possess such a gift and share it so freely, so selflessly, with the world, and not be granted 100 years to keep changing lives?
And THAT is what I hate about life. That's what isn't fair. That's what I will never be okay with.
At the funeral Friday, I stood in line to sign your book, trying to shut out the voices around me, each with its own story of your love and light.
My dad approached me, stretching his arm out for a side hug. As he pulled me in, I expected words of comfort. Instead, he said, "Did you get those time cards dropped off?"
He, too, wasn't ready to think about this cruel finality. Denial is so much easier.
My mother was the same way. As a man walked past to find a seat, she whispered to me that he had 10 kids, and did I know that? She had dried tears on her face, but she was desperately warding off the feelings that hovered like an oppressive smog just overhead, threatening to close in and overwhelm us.
We were willing to grasp at anything that might help us forget the reason we were all there.
It worked for awhile. The pastor made the service feel like a church sermon, which lulled me into believing it was nothing more than that. A speaker had so many humorous anecdotes that each and every one of us could relate to that it became easy to get carried away in the memories.
But then, the end. The pictures overhead. The music.
When "Over the Rainbow" by IZ Kamakawiwo'ole - aka the ukulele version - started, that's when the smog descended.
How could you be gone? How could we not be that little girl and that strong, laughing man anymore? How could it be over in what felt like the blink of an eye?
WHY?
So many people loved you, and so many people mourn you like they have lost their best friend.
And they are all right. You were everyone's best friend. But more importantly, as the funny speaker said, everyone believed that he or she was YOUR best friend.
I love you, dad. See you later.
Things I've Learned from Nevada Fitness Club, Part Two
I decided to keep going back to Nevada Fitness Club after that disastrous first night, because I felt great afterward. And that feeling of greatness continued through post-workout Night Two, my introduction to T25.
T25 was great, because even though it is an intense cardio workout, it's only 25 minutes in length, and that's my dream length of time when I'm doing any kind of intense physical activity.
And then there was Night Three: The First Night of Insanity.
Sure, I had heard about Insanity, but only by description, and that description was pretty much always brief and limited to the same wording: "It sucks."
But the same guy who founded T25 created Insanity, so I thought, well, T25 wasn't TOO bad, so Insanity should be doable, as well.
It's that kind of logic that makes me a better creative-type thinker.
It's not like I didn't KNOW what I was going into. But retroactively, I didn't know what I was going into.
The best way I can phrase it is, "It sucks."
I went without Regan, and when I got there I saw one of my new theater employees right next to my favorite spot on the back row. She had recently suffered an ankle injury, so I thought, well, if she's here with an ankle injury, I can definitely handle this. I had NO ankle injury.
Like I said, logic - not my bag.
She basically mopped the floor with me.
"Mopped the floor" was also the position I favored that night, because that's what you could have done with my prone body as I literally covered it in a face-down, spread-eagle type position. I made it through about eight minutes straight and then melted to the ground in a lake of my own sweat.
What kind of monster would come up with this workout? And then act all peppy throughout that many straight minutes of hell?
Hmm, I just don't know. Could it be....SATAN?
It was strange that I limped through a quarter of the workout and still felt so absolutely destroyed afterward. How could anyone get through that entire thing? That many pushups!? That much running and lunging and running and pushing up and who the hell invented the Burpee? Yes, all of these signs pointed to this being Satan's work.
And yet, I continued to go back. And then, slowly, very, very slowly, I lost some weight.
And then some more. We're talking, like, five pounds. But in addition to that five pounds, I started to see some definition. For the first time, I had semi-defined abs. I had sculpted arms. I didn't realize it until I re-connected with a very dear former friend over the summer and he couldn't stop talking about my arms. And then my oncologist, during my annual "Feel-Up in July" event, asked me if I had been working out. It was during a very awkward part of the exam, but still, she asked. And then followed it with a comment that she could really tell in my arms, and that I looked good.
So that was really awesome. By July I had lost 12 pounds, as well, although that was probably too much. I'm only saying that to justify the seven I've gained back, really.
And now, 10 months later, I breeze through (and by that I mean I remain mostly upright throughout) Insanity.
So I have learned that being almost 40 does NOT mean that I can't be in pretty good shape.
The biggest struggle, though, is continuing to find time. And sometimes, with two jobs, that's really, really hard. I'm learning to make this a priority. And I find that it's getting easier and easier to do.
Seriously, come hang with us.
T25 was great, because even though it is an intense cardio workout, it's only 25 minutes in length, and that's my dream length of time when I'm doing any kind of intense physical activity.
And then there was Night Three: The First Night of Insanity.
Sure, I had heard about Insanity, but only by description, and that description was pretty much always brief and limited to the same wording: "It sucks."
But the same guy who founded T25 created Insanity, so I thought, well, T25 wasn't TOO bad, so Insanity should be doable, as well.
It's that kind of logic that makes me a better creative-type thinker.
It's not like I didn't KNOW what I was going into. But retroactively, I didn't know what I was going into.
The best way I can phrase it is, "It sucks."
I went without Regan, and when I got there I saw one of my new theater employees right next to my favorite spot on the back row. She had recently suffered an ankle injury, so I thought, well, if she's here with an ankle injury, I can definitely handle this. I had NO ankle injury.
Like I said, logic - not my bag.
She basically mopped the floor with me.
"Mopped the floor" was also the position I favored that night, because that's what you could have done with my prone body as I literally covered it in a face-down, spread-eagle type position. I made it through about eight minutes straight and then melted to the ground in a lake of my own sweat.
What kind of monster would come up with this workout? And then act all peppy throughout that many straight minutes of hell?
Hmm, I just don't know. Could it be....SATAN?
It was strange that I limped through a quarter of the workout and still felt so absolutely destroyed afterward. How could anyone get through that entire thing? That many pushups!? That much running and lunging and running and pushing up and who the hell invented the Burpee? Yes, all of these signs pointed to this being Satan's work.
And yet, I continued to go back. And then, slowly, very, very slowly, I lost some weight.
And then some more. We're talking, like, five pounds. But in addition to that five pounds, I started to see some definition. For the first time, I had semi-defined abs. I had sculpted arms. I didn't realize it until I re-connected with a very dear former friend over the summer and he couldn't stop talking about my arms. And then my oncologist, during my annual "Feel-Up in July" event, asked me if I had been working out. It was during a very awkward part of the exam, but still, she asked. And then followed it with a comment that she could really tell in my arms, and that I looked good.
So that was really awesome. By July I had lost 12 pounds, as well, although that was probably too much. I'm only saying that to justify the seven I've gained back, really.
And now, 10 months later, I breeze through (and by that I mean I remain mostly upright throughout) Insanity.
So I have learned that being almost 40 does NOT mean that I can't be in pretty good shape.
The biggest struggle, though, is continuing to find time. And sometimes, with two jobs, that's really, really hard. I'm learning to make this a priority. And I find that it's getting easier and easier to do.
Seriously, come hang with us.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Things I've Learned From Nevada Fitness Club, Part One.
In January of 2014, I had finished my fall semester of hell and had begun my spring semester, which, pre-thesis, made me feel like I had a LOT of free time. Free time for me is a disaster, as I tend to spend too much of it over-thinking. Although my over-thinking this time ultimately ended up being dead accurate, I didn't realize that then, and decided that I would try going to the Nevada Fitness Club a couple of nights a week with my brave and loyal friend, Regan.
We started on January 27, and almost quit that same night.
When you're used to doing yoga for 23 minutes, five nights a week, and spending roughly half of that balanced on one leg while playing Candy Mania, an actual workout with other people there to hold you accountable, a workout of ANY kind, is kind of a kick in the pants. This first night was Combat Cardio, and the instructor spent about 47 of the 50 minutes between Regan and I, but more toward me, telling me how much I sucked at all the ways of kicking. I felt like the Karate Kid when Mr. Miyagi first got a hold of him, only flabbier (side note: I actually spelled Mr. Miyagi right on the first try, which is crazy, or indicative of my level of fandom).
So while I should have felt defeated after that first night, instead I felt GREAT. I highly recommend Combat Cardio if you have any stress whatsoever. Just air-punch and curb-stomp whatever your personal El Guapo is, and I promise you'll feel better, or more tired. One of them.
I struggled that first week, only going two nights (one of the four nights I had night class, and one of them Regan worked, so we agreed that two of four wasn't bad for beginners).
The point is, I have learned a lot in the time since January 27, and I'm going to break it down into individual lessons that Fit Club has taught me.
Lesson One: I Got MOVES.
I am very, very clumsy. I trip over nothing. I bang into door frames, even specific ones that I've been through many, many, MANY times before and should well know. I fall down the last two to three steps regularly. And the only, only way I can dance is if I'm pretty drunk. I can't dance, is what I'm saying.
However, a little crisscross punch here, a little up-center-back-center there, and all of a sudden, my repertoire has expanded from the Bus Driver and the Knee Cross to like, five or six consecutive moves! I could even semi-choreograph a dance!
I'm just kidding. I'll leave that to the NHS Dance Team. But I have actual potential moves, should I ever want to dance sober. Which I undoubtedly won't.
And although those first weeks were very, very klutzy, I was able to eventually transition into anticipating and successfully completing even the trickiest footwork. Mostly. And if I can do that, you should definitely come try as well.
Monday through Thursday, Nevada Community Center, 6:30 p.m. I'm the one in the back, closest to the door.
We started on January 27, and almost quit that same night.
When you're used to doing yoga for 23 minutes, five nights a week, and spending roughly half of that balanced on one leg while playing Candy Mania, an actual workout with other people there to hold you accountable, a workout of ANY kind, is kind of a kick in the pants. This first night was Combat Cardio, and the instructor spent about 47 of the 50 minutes between Regan and I, but more toward me, telling me how much I sucked at all the ways of kicking. I felt like the Karate Kid when Mr. Miyagi first got a hold of him, only flabbier (side note: I actually spelled Mr. Miyagi right on the first try, which is crazy, or indicative of my level of fandom).
So while I should have felt defeated after that first night, instead I felt GREAT. I highly recommend Combat Cardio if you have any stress whatsoever. Just air-punch and curb-stomp whatever your personal El Guapo is, and I promise you'll feel better, or more tired. One of them.
I struggled that first week, only going two nights (one of the four nights I had night class, and one of them Regan worked, so we agreed that two of four wasn't bad for beginners).
The point is, I have learned a lot in the time since January 27, and I'm going to break it down into individual lessons that Fit Club has taught me.
Lesson One: I Got MOVES.
I am very, very clumsy. I trip over nothing. I bang into door frames, even specific ones that I've been through many, many, MANY times before and should well know. I fall down the last two to three steps regularly. And the only, only way I can dance is if I'm pretty drunk. I can't dance, is what I'm saying.
However, a little crisscross punch here, a little up-center-back-center there, and all of a sudden, my repertoire has expanded from the Bus Driver and the Knee Cross to like, five or six consecutive moves! I could even semi-choreograph a dance!
I'm just kidding. I'll leave that to the NHS Dance Team. But I have actual potential moves, should I ever want to dance sober. Which I undoubtedly won't.
And although those first weeks were very, very klutzy, I was able to eventually transition into anticipating and successfully completing even the trickiest footwork. Mostly. And if I can do that, you should definitely come try as well.
Monday through Thursday, Nevada Community Center, 6:30 p.m. I'm the one in the back, closest to the door.
The Crock Stops Here.
This afternoon, around 4:00 p.m. (or 1600 as we say in the industry), Hunter delivered some disturbing news. I can't bring myself to type it out, so screenshots will have to suffice.
And it goes a little somethin' like this.
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I had heard of this diet, of course, because I have heard of all diets. I'm pretty diet-obsessed like that. So I went with my first instinct, which was to try to walk away from my second responsibility as a parent: to keep my child fed (first is to keep him safe. I think. I'm foggy on the order).
Anyway, he didn't buy it, obviously, so my next step was resignation. He closed in for the kill.
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I tried to diffuse and distract with bribery.
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Long story short, it didn't work, and he said that since he was working and had no time to wait, he would grab his own dinner. I'm off the hook for now. But what this all means is, there may not be a Crockin', Week Four.
And it goes a little somethin' like this.
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I had heard of this diet, of course, because I have heard of all diets. I'm pretty diet-obsessed like that. So I went with my first instinct, which was to try to walk away from my second responsibility as a parent: to keep my child fed (first is to keep him safe. I think. I'm foggy on the order).
Anyway, he didn't buy it, obviously, so my next step was resignation. He closed in for the kill.
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I tried to diffuse and distract with bribery.
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Long story short, it didn't work, and he said that since he was working and had no time to wait, he would grab his own dinner. I'm off the hook for now. But what this all means is, there may not be a Crockin', Week Four.
Monday, October 13, 2014
I'm Still Jenny On The Crock
Week Three felt like, I don't even know. Like you're at the end of a pie-eating contest, and you already know you're not going to win, and the only thing you're really going to take away from this is five extra pounds, but you can't just quit like a little bitch, either.
I had a strong Week Two, score-wise, and don't get me wrong, that felt great. But I wasn't feeling it anymore. I wanted to make some wraps. I wanted to have eggs over easy and avocado slices. I wanted to have a night of cookies and ice cream. I wanted my old standby, the jar of Peter Pan Creamy with Honey and a spoon.
But then again, this wasn't just about me. I had a child to feed. He might be 18, and a little too judgy for my liking, but he was still my child. So I couldn't just blow this one off.
Even though I wanted to. A lot.
Let us begin.
Week Three, Night One: Chicken Bacon Chowder
I was PROUD of this one. I mean, it was exciting enough to think about consuming that I felt like I was back in the game. I cut up fried chicken tenders, I cut up fried bacon, I added bacon bits (the real ones, for class). I added my old standbys, garlic and green onions. I added a can of chicken broth, lots of sour cream, and a brick of cream cheese. Then I threw in some random stuff, like a little onion powder. I added shredded cheese later, because come on.
And it was amazing. I mean, to me, this was a slam dunk. I couldn't wait to see what Hunter scored it.
A seven. The little punk scored it a damn seven. Oh, I'm sorry, is chicken and bacon and cream cheese bad this week? How can I possibly keep up!?
Whatever. I loved it. And I decided I'd show him. The next night would be both chicken and bacon-free.
Week Three, Night Two: Cheeseburger Soup
I like cheeseburger soup, but what I never understood is why most recipes billed as cheeseburger soup have potatoes. There are no potatoes in cheeseburgers, amirite? Well. Maybe in fast food cheeseburgers, but nobody will ever know the true ingredients. Even when we think we do. The industry is full of lies, people.
So I made a cheeseburger soup that kind of turned into everything that looked good in my kitchen. I added hamburger and ground sausage both. I added like three different cheeses. One of them was a jar of "beer cheese" that I had recently found in the chip aisle at the store. I was pretty pumped, because I have this incredible Guinness and Cheddar fondue when I go to Springfield, and this was the closest thing Nevada has to it.
So yeah. It was largely meat and cheese, with, of course, a little garlic. And I cut up some tomatoes, because cheeseburgers have tomatoes sometimes. This was truly cheeseburger soup. It looked and smelled delicious. The problem was, I had allowed a little too much grease in when I added the meat. But sometimes you have to have a little grease in your life.
Hunter was working, so I took it to him. He took off the lid and said something like, whoa, how much garlic is in here?
There was like, half a spoon. I considered that the inclusion of beer cheese and garlic both may have been too much. Whatever. I ate some and thought it was great. He grudgingly decided it wasn't bad.
Here's where this whole thing goes south. I put some in a container to take to work. I left it in my car. I came back out to my car for a quick lunch, realized I had left it in the car, and thought, eh. I took it home, heated it up, ate it quickly, went back to work.
That night I had designated as leftover night, because we had leftovers. However, I felt a little guilty about that, so I went to Dairy Queen and got an Apple Pie Blizzard and a Pumpkin Pie Blizzard, because Dairy Queen had been billing this match-up as one of the most colossal in Blizzard history, and I had to know. (For the record, Hunter declared Pumpkin Pie the victor, and I remained undecided.)
About an hour later, I got really, really sick. The next morning, Hunter got even sicker. It turns out that he, too, had some of the cheeseburger soup. I could blame it on bad ice cream, but in my heart, I knew that it was the 'Crocking what did it.
Week Three, Night Four: Chicken Gyros
Screw the Crock. I made wraps. Cut up chicken, added spinach leaves, shredded cheese, Greek yogurt, and dill. Put it on flat wrap bread. Called it good. I took it to Hunter at work, wrapped in foil. He took one bite and said, "You MADE this?" incredulously.
I call that a win, and at the end of the day, isn't that what really matters?
So, while I have returned to the Crock tonight due to being seriously, horribly, head-cold-like sick, I think the challenge is close to over. It actually is, either way, as this begins Week Four, aka the "OHMYGODTHEENDISINSIGHT" week.
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I had a strong Week Two, score-wise, and don't get me wrong, that felt great. But I wasn't feeling it anymore. I wanted to make some wraps. I wanted to have eggs over easy and avocado slices. I wanted to have a night of cookies and ice cream. I wanted my old standby, the jar of Peter Pan Creamy with Honey and a spoon.
But then again, this wasn't just about me. I had a child to feed. He might be 18, and a little too judgy for my liking, but he was still my child. So I couldn't just blow this one off.
Even though I wanted to. A lot.
Let us begin.
Week Three, Night One: Chicken Bacon Chowder
I was PROUD of this one. I mean, it was exciting enough to think about consuming that I felt like I was back in the game. I cut up fried chicken tenders, I cut up fried bacon, I added bacon bits (the real ones, for class). I added my old standbys, garlic and green onions. I added a can of chicken broth, lots of sour cream, and a brick of cream cheese. Then I threw in some random stuff, like a little onion powder. I added shredded cheese later, because come on.
And it was amazing. I mean, to me, this was a slam dunk. I couldn't wait to see what Hunter scored it.
A seven. The little punk scored it a damn seven. Oh, I'm sorry, is chicken and bacon and cream cheese bad this week? How can I possibly keep up!?
Whatever. I loved it. And I decided I'd show him. The next night would be both chicken and bacon-free.
Week Three, Night Two: Cheeseburger Soup
I like cheeseburger soup, but what I never understood is why most recipes billed as cheeseburger soup have potatoes. There are no potatoes in cheeseburgers, amirite? Well. Maybe in fast food cheeseburgers, but nobody will ever know the true ingredients. Even when we think we do. The industry is full of lies, people.
So I made a cheeseburger soup that kind of turned into everything that looked good in my kitchen. I added hamburger and ground sausage both. I added like three different cheeses. One of them was a jar of "beer cheese" that I had recently found in the chip aisle at the store. I was pretty pumped, because I have this incredible Guinness and Cheddar fondue when I go to Springfield, and this was the closest thing Nevada has to it.
So yeah. It was largely meat and cheese, with, of course, a little garlic. And I cut up some tomatoes, because cheeseburgers have tomatoes sometimes. This was truly cheeseburger soup. It looked and smelled delicious. The problem was, I had allowed a little too much grease in when I added the meat. But sometimes you have to have a little grease in your life.
Hunter was working, so I took it to him. He took off the lid and said something like, whoa, how much garlic is in here?
There was like, half a spoon. I considered that the inclusion of beer cheese and garlic both may have been too much. Whatever. I ate some and thought it was great. He grudgingly decided it wasn't bad.
Here's where this whole thing goes south. I put some in a container to take to work. I left it in my car. I came back out to my car for a quick lunch, realized I had left it in the car, and thought, eh. I took it home, heated it up, ate it quickly, went back to work.
That night I had designated as leftover night, because we had leftovers. However, I felt a little guilty about that, so I went to Dairy Queen and got an Apple Pie Blizzard and a Pumpkin Pie Blizzard, because Dairy Queen had been billing this match-up as one of the most colossal in Blizzard history, and I had to know. (For the record, Hunter declared Pumpkin Pie the victor, and I remained undecided.)
About an hour later, I got really, really sick. The next morning, Hunter got even sicker. It turns out that he, too, had some of the cheeseburger soup. I could blame it on bad ice cream, but in my heart, I knew that it was the 'Crocking what did it.
Week Three, Night Four: Chicken Gyros
Screw the Crock. I made wraps. Cut up chicken, added spinach leaves, shredded cheese, Greek yogurt, and dill. Put it on flat wrap bread. Called it good. I took it to Hunter at work, wrapped in foil. He took one bite and said, "You MADE this?" incredulously.
I call that a win, and at the end of the day, isn't that what really matters?
So, while I have returned to the Crock tonight due to being seriously, horribly, head-cold-like sick, I think the challenge is close to over. It actually is, either way, as this begins Week Four, aka the "OHMYGODTHEENDISINSIGHT" week.
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Thursday, October 9, 2014
Week Two: Crocky Balboa
One of my greatest strengths is being realistic about my weaknesses. One of my greatest weaknesses is that I'm lousy on follow-through. I get super-excited about things, get started, then burn out quickly.
So I knew going in that Week Two was going to be the ultimate challenge in my crockery, especially since weekends are Crock Free.
Still, I sought out and pinned new Crock recipes enthusiastically enough, and went shopping for ingredients without grousing about it too loudly, so it was with that remaining glimmer of hope that I rolled up my sleeves and started throwing ingredients in as Week Two dawned.
Week Two, Night One: Chicken Burrito Bowls
I don't know why these are "Burrito" bowls, because there was not one hint of a tortilla. But it had the requisite Hunter-approved old standby ingredients: chicken and cream cheese. Also black beans, corn, and taco seasoning. Probably something else, but who has time to try to remember? Lack of time, as you may recall, is what made me Crock in the first place. And laziness (See? Told you I was realistic about my weaknesses).
Week Two, Night One was also the night of the day I impulsively became a Verizon customer for six hours before chickening out and taking several hundred dollars' worth of impulse buys back to the store and shamefacedly requesting a refund from the overly enthusiastic bodybuilder who waited on me. His name was Kip, which was so incongruous with his super-inflated muscles that it was hard to keep a straight face. It was harder for Hunter, who built Kip into his ratings system that night.
Chicken "Burrito" Bowl: Success.
Week Two, Night Two: Baked Potato Soup
I knew this was going to be a hard sell in the land of Hunter dream dinners, because he's not much on baked potato soup, and the name of this recipe left little to the imagination. He pretty much knew what was in store, and he wasn't excited about it. But what he didn't know was my plan to incorporate my super-secret secret ingredient: MORE BACON. I loaded the crap out of that thing. It was totally bacon'ed. And then I threw more green onions on the top because, you know, color. And I needed to get rid of them. Oh, and cheese. So much cheese. And sour cream.
Initially, he rated it one thing, and then remembered a critical part of Crock Pot Consumption: for God's sake, let it cool down. And when he did, oh, man.
Baked Potato Soup: SOUPER Good.
Week Two, Night Three: Pizza Pasta
I was apprehensive about this, because, for those of you keeping score at home, I had previously humiliated myself with a little something I called "Crockpasta." The memory was still fresh as I concocted this, which was bare-bones based off of a Pinterest recipe before I decided to build on it based on what sounded good and was also contained in my cabinets. Pizza pasta was the result.
I used garden rotini, because I'm (wrongly) convinced that it, unlike other pastas, has actual flavor. No matter, it's pizza-colored. Then I added both spaghetti and pizza sauces, ground sausage, pepperoni, Parmesan cheese, mozzarella, black olives, garlic, and mushrooms. Then I watched it like a damn hawk so it didn't turn black, like its pasta predecessor.
Hunter acted like this meal was the second coming. He almost rated it a perfect 10, then looked at me like I'd tried to pull over a fast one and informed me that if he gave me a perfect score, I would no longer have a goal. Still, we ate this like it was our last meal.
Pizza Pasta: Dangerously Delish.
Week Two, Night Four: Chicken and Dumplings
I have very, very fond memories of my mom's chicken and dumplings from my childhood. That's why I knew that this was going to be a disaster. No way could I top, or even approach, that perfection.
I shredded some chicken. Added chicken broth and cream of chicken soup. And cut up raw biscuit dough and threw it on top. Then I waited. Nervous. I had to leave for an hour to work out, and I just knew that was when things would go horribly wrong and the kitchen would somehow burn down and when we sifted through the charred remains, somehow the biscuits would still be raw. Don't even ask. I can't explain why the thoughts I have go through my head.
Anyway. Miraculously, it was awesome. It tasted of childhood, minus the disapproval and braces.
Chicken and Dumplings: Hello, 1980's!
And here is the Week Two Scorecard, because I knew you were curious:
Next Up: WEEK THREE, or the Week When it Became Not That Fun.
So I knew going in that Week Two was going to be the ultimate challenge in my crockery, especially since weekends are Crock Free.
Still, I sought out and pinned new Crock recipes enthusiastically enough, and went shopping for ingredients without grousing about it too loudly, so it was with that remaining glimmer of hope that I rolled up my sleeves and started throwing ingredients in as Week Two dawned.
Week Two, Night One: Chicken Burrito Bowls
I don't know why these are "Burrito" bowls, because there was not one hint of a tortilla. But it had the requisite Hunter-approved old standby ingredients: chicken and cream cheese. Also black beans, corn, and taco seasoning. Probably something else, but who has time to try to remember? Lack of time, as you may recall, is what made me Crock in the first place. And laziness (See? Told you I was realistic about my weaknesses).
Week Two, Night One was also the night of the day I impulsively became a Verizon customer for six hours before chickening out and taking several hundred dollars' worth of impulse buys back to the store and shamefacedly requesting a refund from the overly enthusiastic bodybuilder who waited on me. His name was Kip, which was so incongruous with his super-inflated muscles that it was hard to keep a straight face. It was harder for Hunter, who built Kip into his ratings system that night.
Chicken "Burrito" Bowl: Success.
Week Two, Night Two: Baked Potato Soup
I knew this was going to be a hard sell in the land of Hunter dream dinners, because he's not much on baked potato soup, and the name of this recipe left little to the imagination. He pretty much knew what was in store, and he wasn't excited about it. But what he didn't know was my plan to incorporate my super-secret secret ingredient: MORE BACON. I loaded the crap out of that thing. It was totally bacon'ed. And then I threw more green onions on the top because, you know, color. And I needed to get rid of them. Oh, and cheese. So much cheese. And sour cream.
Initially, he rated it one thing, and then remembered a critical part of Crock Pot Consumption: for God's sake, let it cool down. And when he did, oh, man.
Baked Potato Soup: SOUPER Good.
Week Two, Night Three: Pizza Pasta
I was apprehensive about this, because, for those of you keeping score at home, I had previously humiliated myself with a little something I called "Crockpasta." The memory was still fresh as I concocted this, which was bare-bones based off of a Pinterest recipe before I decided to build on it based on what sounded good and was also contained in my cabinets. Pizza pasta was the result.
I used garden rotini, because I'm (wrongly) convinced that it, unlike other pastas, has actual flavor. No matter, it's pizza-colored. Then I added both spaghetti and pizza sauces, ground sausage, pepperoni, Parmesan cheese, mozzarella, black olives, garlic, and mushrooms. Then I watched it like a damn hawk so it didn't turn black, like its pasta predecessor.
Hunter acted like this meal was the second coming. He almost rated it a perfect 10, then looked at me like I'd tried to pull over a fast one and informed me that if he gave me a perfect score, I would no longer have a goal. Still, we ate this like it was our last meal.
Pizza Pasta: Dangerously Delish.
Week Two, Night Four: Chicken and Dumplings
I have very, very fond memories of my mom's chicken and dumplings from my childhood. That's why I knew that this was going to be a disaster. No way could I top, or even approach, that perfection.
I shredded some chicken. Added chicken broth and cream of chicken soup. And cut up raw biscuit dough and threw it on top. Then I waited. Nervous. I had to leave for an hour to work out, and I just knew that was when things would go horribly wrong and the kitchen would somehow burn down and when we sifted through the charred remains, somehow the biscuits would still be raw. Don't even ask. I can't explain why the thoughts I have go through my head.
Anyway. Miraculously, it was awesome. It tasted of childhood, minus the disapproval and braces.
Chicken and Dumplings: Hello, 1980's!
And here is the Week Two Scorecard, because I knew you were curious:
Next Up: WEEK THREE, or the Week When it Became Not That Fun.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
What a Crock.
That's the name of the Pinterest board I have that deals exclusively with Crock Pot recipes. It's also what started me on the 30 Day Crock Pot Challenge, which was begun for the sole reason that Crock Pot cooking was made for someone like me: that is to say, someone who works a lot and feels vaguely guilty about not providing food for others in the household.
It went next-level when I realized that, sure, I pinned these Crock Pot recipes, but I had never owned my very own, as in 100% Jen-style owned, my own Crock Pot. I was like, yeah, right, what am I, Nelson Rockefeller? What do those cost, like 200 bucks?
As it turned out, I got a very respectable-looking (read: shiny) Crock for like, $24.99. It may have been $29.99. Who has time to check these days? If I had time to check that stuff, I'd probably have time to make an extensive, multi-course dinner, amirite? AMI!?
But I digress.
I can only eat so many peanut butter sandwiches (seriously, get the Peter Pan with Honey, and you don't even have to thank me. The world needs to know.) before I remember that I'm not the only one who lives in the house, and I don't want anyone else hogging my peanut butter. That eventually meant that I needed to get with the program and figure out some actual dinners.
You see, my specialty has always been, specifically and pretty much exclusively, baked desserts. Because I love them. Cakes, cookies, cobblers, assorted fruity, sweetened breads, and pies have always been my forte. They're delicious in every single stage, which puts them far above and beyond entrees.
One of the two to five dishes I had mastered in my time as a lackluster maker of dinners was Crock Pot lasagna, so that was my starting point. Then I thought, hey, remember that Pinterest board you have that's all about the Crock? Then I broached the subject with Hunter by casually asking him how he felt about white chili.
He was super pumped, and then took it extreme-style, saying that we had to ONLY have meals from the Crock Pot for the next 30 days. I negotiated, and it was altered to we (as in, I) could only prepare Crock Pot-based dinners for the next 30 days. Any other meal, we could slam sandwich-style, or just eat Monster Slim Jims, or whatev.
Meal Number One: White Chili
It called for white corn, which I could not for the life of me find. I tried to pass off hominy as white corn, which did not fool Hunter at all. I also broke our can opener trying to prepare this meal, which led to a mini breakdown and me briefly but passionately stabbing the top of a can of beans with a knife before realizing that 1) I was probably going to hurt myself and 2) It wasn't working.
I now own three can openers.
Meal One:
It earned a 9/10 on the Hunter Scale of Crock Judgment.
Meal Two: Chicken Bacon Ranch Breasts
This started as a recipe from Pinterest that pretty much involved chicken breasts, butter, and a lot of ranch dressing mix. I decided that looked kind of boring, and wrapped each chicken breast in bacon, then threw a bunch of green onions on top. It made the whole thing more colorful, anyway.
Where I messed up: temp too high, for too long. The chicken basically fell apart. Hunter initially rated this a 6 out of 10, which was harsh by my estimation, because I have absolutely no taste in food. I will eat out of a trash can, and I have, many times (if the candy is individually wrapped, is it really inedible?), so to me, it was pretty good.
He later changed his rating to a number that was a hybrid of 6 and 7, because, as he said, it was pretty good once it had simmered itself into a soup after several hours.
Meal Two:
Meal Three: Crockpasta
Crockpasta was my fancy name for what would have been crock pot lasagna if I had lasagna noodles on hand.
I did not. What I did have was rigatoni. But I had the other ingredients, so I thought hey, who cares?
I threw it together in the morning, thinking it would be just about perfectly done when Hunter got home from school.
I put it on high.
He came home from school. Then he left again. I say that he didn't check it, he says that he did and it wasn't done.
What ended up happening was that it sat, on high, for a couple of hours too long. And there was pasta involved. And sauce.
The official rating on the Scale of Crock Judgment said it all: "What happened?"
I still ate all of the sausage, in shame, directly from the Crock Pot, with a spoon because it was closer. I didn't even have the dignity to get a fork.
There is no picture of crockpasta, and justifiably so.
Meal Four: Chicken Cordon Bleu
Chicken Cordon Bleu was one of my staples in the tiny, tiny collection of dinners that I could make without having to remember ingredients or look anything up. That's because it's pretty much the easiest thing ever.
However, I had never made it in the Crock. I always baked it, in a covered dish. There were toothpicks involved.
I asked Hunter, and he remained firm on the rule that the 30 day Crock Pot Challenge meant that every dinner had to be in the Crock Pot.
I considered baking it, then dumping it in the Crock and saying, "Welp, all done!"
It would have probably worked. But I would know I was a big, fat cheater.
Turns out it was easier in the Crock Pot. Chicken, ham steak, Swiss cheese, dump sauce over it, walk away.
This time, the chicken didn't fall apart. I was pumped.
It tasted great. I became more pumped.
Hunter was less enthused.
"It probably would have been better, but why Swiss cheese?"
Hey, dummy. Why don't you look up what chicken cordon bleu is and then just admit I was right and you were wrong at any point after that, mmkay? Thanks.
Still, though, it rated "One Chicken" in the Mr. Cordon scale, which is a scale Hunter made up specifically for this dish. The key at the bottom of the white board told me that one chicken = great job.
Kids.
To the untrained eye, it's a lot of Swiss cheese.
Meal Five: Chicken Enchilada Soup
After the humiliation of Crockpasta and the lackluster response to Chicken Cordon Bleu, I wasn't really feeling it the next night. But I had green chilies, and green salsa, and chicken, and cream cheese, and green onions, and regular cheese, and so I threw it all in and thought, come on. I'm due here.
As it happens, pretty much any meal with chicken and cream cheese is a slam dunk in the Crock Pot Scale of Judgment, and not only did this one coast in with a rating of "HELL. YES.", Hunter also penciled it in for the next night's dinner.
We took the weekend off after all of that excitement. Next up: WEEK TWO!
The Scale of Crock Pot Judgment:
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It went next-level when I realized that, sure, I pinned these Crock Pot recipes, but I had never owned my very own, as in 100% Jen-style owned, my own Crock Pot. I was like, yeah, right, what am I, Nelson Rockefeller? What do those cost, like 200 bucks?
As it turned out, I got a very respectable-looking (read: shiny) Crock for like, $24.99. It may have been $29.99. Who has time to check these days? If I had time to check that stuff, I'd probably have time to make an extensive, multi-course dinner, amirite? AMI!?
But I digress.
I can only eat so many peanut butter sandwiches (seriously, get the Peter Pan with Honey, and you don't even have to thank me. The world needs to know.) before I remember that I'm not the only one who lives in the house, and I don't want anyone else hogging my peanut butter. That eventually meant that I needed to get with the program and figure out some actual dinners.
You see, my specialty has always been, specifically and pretty much exclusively, baked desserts. Because I love them. Cakes, cookies, cobblers, assorted fruity, sweetened breads, and pies have always been my forte. They're delicious in every single stage, which puts them far above and beyond entrees.
One of the two to five dishes I had mastered in my time as a lackluster maker of dinners was Crock Pot lasagna, so that was my starting point. Then I thought, hey, remember that Pinterest board you have that's all about the Crock? Then I broached the subject with Hunter by casually asking him how he felt about white chili.
He was super pumped, and then took it extreme-style, saying that we had to ONLY have meals from the Crock Pot for the next 30 days. I negotiated, and it was altered to we (as in, I) could only prepare Crock Pot-based dinners for the next 30 days. Any other meal, we could slam sandwich-style, or just eat Monster Slim Jims, or whatev.
Meal Number One: White Chili
It called for white corn, which I could not for the life of me find. I tried to pass off hominy as white corn, which did not fool Hunter at all. I also broke our can opener trying to prepare this meal, which led to a mini breakdown and me briefly but passionately stabbing the top of a can of beans with a knife before realizing that 1) I was probably going to hurt myself and 2) It wasn't working.
I now own three can openers.
Meal One:
It earned a 9/10 on the Hunter Scale of Crock Judgment.
Meal Two: Chicken Bacon Ranch Breasts
This started as a recipe from Pinterest that pretty much involved chicken breasts, butter, and a lot of ranch dressing mix. I decided that looked kind of boring, and wrapped each chicken breast in bacon, then threw a bunch of green onions on top. It made the whole thing more colorful, anyway.
Where I messed up: temp too high, for too long. The chicken basically fell apart. Hunter initially rated this a 6 out of 10, which was harsh by my estimation, because I have absolutely no taste in food. I will eat out of a trash can, and I have, many times (if the candy is individually wrapped, is it really inedible?), so to me, it was pretty good.
He later changed his rating to a number that was a hybrid of 6 and 7, because, as he said, it was pretty good once it had simmered itself into a soup after several hours.
Meal Two:
Meal Three: Crockpasta
Crockpasta was my fancy name for what would have been crock pot lasagna if I had lasagna noodles on hand.
I did not. What I did have was rigatoni. But I had the other ingredients, so I thought hey, who cares?
I threw it together in the morning, thinking it would be just about perfectly done when Hunter got home from school.
I put it on high.
He came home from school. Then he left again. I say that he didn't check it, he says that he did and it wasn't done.
What ended up happening was that it sat, on high, for a couple of hours too long. And there was pasta involved. And sauce.
The official rating on the Scale of Crock Judgment said it all: "What happened?"
I still ate all of the sausage, in shame, directly from the Crock Pot, with a spoon because it was closer. I didn't even have the dignity to get a fork.
There is no picture of crockpasta, and justifiably so.
Meal Four: Chicken Cordon Bleu
Chicken Cordon Bleu was one of my staples in the tiny, tiny collection of dinners that I could make without having to remember ingredients or look anything up. That's because it's pretty much the easiest thing ever.
However, I had never made it in the Crock. I always baked it, in a covered dish. There were toothpicks involved.
I asked Hunter, and he remained firm on the rule that the 30 day Crock Pot Challenge meant that every dinner had to be in the Crock Pot.
I considered baking it, then dumping it in the Crock and saying, "Welp, all done!"
It would have probably worked. But I would know I was a big, fat cheater.
Turns out it was easier in the Crock Pot. Chicken, ham steak, Swiss cheese, dump sauce over it, walk away.
This time, the chicken didn't fall apart. I was pumped.
It tasted great. I became more pumped.
Hunter was less enthused.
"It probably would have been better, but why Swiss cheese?"
Hey, dummy. Why don't you look up what chicken cordon bleu is and then just admit I was right and you were wrong at any point after that, mmkay? Thanks.
Still, though, it rated "One Chicken" in the Mr. Cordon scale, which is a scale Hunter made up specifically for this dish. The key at the bottom of the white board told me that one chicken = great job.
Kids.
To the untrained eye, it's a lot of Swiss cheese.
Meal Five: Chicken Enchilada Soup
After the humiliation of Crockpasta and the lackluster response to Chicken Cordon Bleu, I wasn't really feeling it the next night. But I had green chilies, and green salsa, and chicken, and cream cheese, and green onions, and regular cheese, and so I threw it all in and thought, come on. I'm due here.
As it happens, pretty much any meal with chicken and cream cheese is a slam dunk in the Crock Pot Scale of Judgment, and not only did this one coast in with a rating of "HELL. YES.", Hunter also penciled it in for the next night's dinner.
We took the weekend off after all of that excitement. Next up: WEEK TWO!
The Scale of Crock Pot Judgment:
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Monday, September 29, 2014
How Would YOU Define Vulnerability?
Not everyone has the asset that I do in my life: a kid who researches for the sheer fun of it.
That's not me being smug, or feeling superior, or talking about how smart my kid is and implying that I have anything to do with it. In fact, just minutes earlier, Hunter was playing MMMBop, the 1997 Hanson masterpiece, at full volume throughout the house, and eating his crock pot chicken burrito bowl in a way that slopped it all over his own face up to and including his eyelashes, in an attempt to make me wet my pants.
So, I'm far from smug. It's really just about the fact that my kid researches for fun, and teaches me about what he has learned.
He's also deeply intuitive, and can read me like a book. Tonight when we were having our nightly talk about how much the dinner I prepared did or did not suck, he sat me in front of my computer and pulled up a link. He made it full screen. He hit play. He dimmed the freaking LIGHTS. I knew that whatever I was about to watch, it was probably a big deal.
It was.
For those of you who have perhaps seen this, you know what I'm talking about. I went from thinking, okay, do I really have time to watch this? to thinking, oh my gosh, if this isn't a universal issue, I don't know what is.
Because no matter who you are on the outside, no matter what you project, no matter how you conduct your life, somewhere deep inside your very being lies what is part of every human's genetic makeup: vulnerability. You can deny it, you can try to justify your actions with a different color of paint and different line of defense, but the fact remains that we are all vulnerable.
Here is the link, which will take 20 minutes of your time. I'm not asking you to watch it. I'm just saying that if you should choose to watch it, do so with an open mind and no distractions. My phone is completely broken, so I was in an excellent position to devote the attention to the topic.
She had me from the beginning. Dr. Brown is a qualitative researcher, which is my kind of work, but she speaks the language of everyone. She touched me to the core, and I know that I'm not the only one, as this particular talk was in the most popular Ted Talks of all time.
Please do yourself a favor, and check it out.
That's not me being smug, or feeling superior, or talking about how smart my kid is and implying that I have anything to do with it. In fact, just minutes earlier, Hunter was playing MMMBop, the 1997 Hanson masterpiece, at full volume throughout the house, and eating his crock pot chicken burrito bowl in a way that slopped it all over his own face up to and including his eyelashes, in an attempt to make me wet my pants.
So, I'm far from smug. It's really just about the fact that my kid researches for fun, and teaches me about what he has learned.
He's also deeply intuitive, and can read me like a book. Tonight when we were having our nightly talk about how much the dinner I prepared did or did not suck, he sat me in front of my computer and pulled up a link. He made it full screen. He hit play. He dimmed the freaking LIGHTS. I knew that whatever I was about to watch, it was probably a big deal.
It was.
For those of you who have perhaps seen this, you know what I'm talking about. I went from thinking, okay, do I really have time to watch this? to thinking, oh my gosh, if this isn't a universal issue, I don't know what is.
Because no matter who you are on the outside, no matter what you project, no matter how you conduct your life, somewhere deep inside your very being lies what is part of every human's genetic makeup: vulnerability. You can deny it, you can try to justify your actions with a different color of paint and different line of defense, but the fact remains that we are all vulnerable.
Here is the link, which will take 20 minutes of your time. I'm not asking you to watch it. I'm just saying that if you should choose to watch it, do so with an open mind and no distractions. My phone is completely broken, so I was in an excellent position to devote the attention to the topic.
She had me from the beginning. Dr. Brown is a qualitative researcher, which is my kind of work, but she speaks the language of everyone. She touched me to the core, and I know that I'm not the only one, as this particular talk was in the most popular Ted Talks of all time.
Please do yourself a favor, and check it out.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Flashback, 1983
I have a pretty poor memory in terms of my childhood. I don't know if that's normal or not, but there aren't a lot of things that I can pull from the recesses of my mind and describe from the years of my youth. I have too much brain storage devoted to remembering every birthday from every person I ever knew to remember relevant details that likely played a critical role in shaping me into the hot mess that I am today.
However, some memories are sharp. Painfully sharp. One such occasion that I have not only not forgotten, but remember 31 years later with striking detail involved bleeding and yelling. Actually, most of my memories from childhood involve those two components. Let me break it down further.
THE CAST:
Myself: A ponytailed eight-year-old enjoying her last year before chubbiness and the first of a series of bad hairstyle choices.
Tom Thorpe: The Neighbor Boy, as well as my co-president in our neighborhood club.
My Mother: A frightening woman who would take none of my nonsense, amazing ponytail or not.
The Go-Kart: A beast of epic proportions
The Tree: The biggest tree in the world. I'm sure it was in Guinness, but I don't have a copy of the 1984 record book. Or any others.
The Thorpes were an amazing family. Mom, dad, three kids, and all the coolest gadgetry offered up in the early Eighties. They got stuff that was advertised on Nickelodeon, for God's sake. The mom actually called the number and ordered the merch, paid the shipping and handling, and the stuff arrived. Well, I assume that's how she did it. You could also send for it via mail, I guess. But it made more sense to order on the phone, because if you call within the next ten minutes, you can get TWO items. Or a cleaning kit. Something.
I digress.
One of the most amazing toys belonged to Tom Thorpe. It was a go-kart. For God's sakes, man, we can't even drive, and you're zooming around on a go-kart? What are you, above the law? What are you, related to the president? These were thoughts that probably went through my head as I watched from my side of the property line, mouth undoubtedly either hanging open or full of food, as Tom Thorpe zoomed around his circle drive, through the gates to his backyard, and around the perimeter of said yard, over and over. Finally, pity led him to me, and he offered to let me drive it.
I remembered pretty specifically what my mom had said on this topic when she had first seen Tom Thorpe defy space and time and the law, and what she had said was "NO."
But I had a reputation to uphold as the co-president of the neighborhood club, and even though I was scared enough to want to throw up, I choked it back down and agreed.
I got in. I sat down. I strapped in. Easy stuff so far. All I had to do was press down on the foot pedal and go. Straight shot, through the gates, around the yard, and back again.
I pressed the pedal and bucked forward, and I believe it was at that point that my brain short-circuited. I zoomed through the gates, started to turn left for the yard navigation, and then...THE TREE.
It was a thousand feet tall and could move, because suddenly it loomed above me out of nowhere. I remember hearing yelling behind me. And then feeling the impact. And oh, God, the sound.
You see, I had mastered the idea of the gas pedal, but had completely forgotten the pedal on the other side. The one that was used for stopping. I had gotten that beautiful machine, that go-kart from the future, stuck between the tree and the fence. I was shaken and battered, but not as much as the 'kart. I was bleeding.
Thankfully, I don't remember extricating myself from the wreckage, nor do I remember the look on Tom's face or his parents' reactions.
I do remember the blood pouring from my knee, and limping home.
My mom was sitting on the front porch. Seeing her, I immediately began to cry, pointing to my blood leg and trying to talk.
She was perfectly horrified and stood to take care of me, as a loving mother should. And then she asked the inevitable question:
"What happened?!?"
I choked out the fateful words: "Go-Kart."
Her lips pursed. Her gaze narrowed.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO RIDE ON THAT DAMN THING."
And she turned on her heel and marched into the house, shutting the door in my face.
That's where my memory fades. I assume I didn't die of blood loss, and I doubt I had to spend the night outside.
Fast-forward to September 2014, many bad hairstyles and go-kart-free years later. That's when I agreed to attend a bachelorette party for one of the most fiercely loyal and no-nonsense women I have ever met.
She's a bit of a country girl, so the party included a trip to Carousel Park in Joplin to ride the go-karts.
Being navigationally challenged, I was late due to a quick detour to Oklahoma. So when I arrived, most of the girls were 'karting already and I took up a spot safely in the spectators' area on the other side of the fence from the intimidating-looking, sharp-turn-laden course.
I stood by Tami, who couldn't ride because of her "neck".
The riders finished, with the bride-to-be winning (she would have beaten down anyone who dared to cross that line before she did, anyway) and rushed victoriously out of the gates for some pictures.
After we had all posed several times, she turned to me with a ticket.
"COME ON, JEN! I'LL BEAT YOUR ASS!"
"Oh, no," I demurred, "I'm not riding."
"YES YOU ARE! COME ON!"
And then the cacophony of voices from the others: "Go on, Jen!"
I slightly panicked. "My neck..."
Tami laughed. "Nice try."
Finally, I 'fessed up. I told them I had not been on a go-kart since I was roughly seven years old after a tragic accident.
Corie grabbed my hand. "TIME TO FACE YOUR FEARS!"
Then, full-blown flashback mode, with this voice from the 1986, scary-as-hell movie "Carrie" playing as background music.
I went, I strapped in. It was just the two of us. I committed to memory the vision of TWO pedals. And then it was go time.
I inched forward. Corie lunged ahead.
And then my competitive drive kicked in and I went full-throttle. We raced neck and neck, around and around the track. She was kind enough to let me stay in the lead at first, but then we had a collision and she was stuck for a bit while I raced ahead. For two laps, I maintained a healthy lead. Fear was gone. Victory would be mine. Why haven't I done this all my life!? I thought, laughing out loud like an idiot. Why haven't I checked into doing this professionally? Is it too la-
It was at that point that I was hit with some force, and spun nose-first into the guard rail. There was no reverse.
I was stuck. Stuck like a fool while Corie eventually lapped me, laughing like a maniac. And then again.
Finally, the attendant arrived to back me up and ask me if I had a concussion or whiplash.
Neither. And I wasn't bleeding!!!!!!
Sure, I lost. But really, didn't I also win?
No. I lost. But this 2014 contest had erased 31 years of fear.
On the way to the next stop of the party, I got cut off by some fool in a truck and tried to pass him just so I could return the favor.
The competitive go-kart spirit is strong in this one.
So now I challenge you. Is there something minor that possibly paralyzed you early in life? Something that you still avoid, even to this day?
Those years are over. Freakin' do it. You may end up stuck against the guardrail while you're lapped and mocked relentlessly, but come on, man.
Don't fear the reaper.
However, some memories are sharp. Painfully sharp. One such occasion that I have not only not forgotten, but remember 31 years later with striking detail involved bleeding and yelling. Actually, most of my memories from childhood involve those two components. Let me break it down further.
THE CAST:
Myself: A ponytailed eight-year-old enjoying her last year before chubbiness and the first of a series of bad hairstyle choices.
Tom Thorpe: The Neighbor Boy, as well as my co-president in our neighborhood club.
My Mother: A frightening woman who would take none of my nonsense, amazing ponytail or not.
The Go-Kart: A beast of epic proportions
The Tree: The biggest tree in the world. I'm sure it was in Guinness, but I don't have a copy of the 1984 record book. Or any others.
The Thorpes were an amazing family. Mom, dad, three kids, and all the coolest gadgetry offered up in the early Eighties. They got stuff that was advertised on Nickelodeon, for God's sake. The mom actually called the number and ordered the merch, paid the shipping and handling, and the stuff arrived. Well, I assume that's how she did it. You could also send for it via mail, I guess. But it made more sense to order on the phone, because if you call within the next ten minutes, you can get TWO items. Or a cleaning kit. Something.
I digress.
One of the most amazing toys belonged to Tom Thorpe. It was a go-kart. For God's sakes, man, we can't even drive, and you're zooming around on a go-kart? What are you, above the law? What are you, related to the president? These were thoughts that probably went through my head as I watched from my side of the property line, mouth undoubtedly either hanging open or full of food, as Tom Thorpe zoomed around his circle drive, through the gates to his backyard, and around the perimeter of said yard, over and over. Finally, pity led him to me, and he offered to let me drive it.
I remembered pretty specifically what my mom had said on this topic when she had first seen Tom Thorpe defy space and time and the law, and what she had said was "NO."
But I had a reputation to uphold as the co-president of the neighborhood club, and even though I was scared enough to want to throw up, I choked it back down and agreed.
I got in. I sat down. I strapped in. Easy stuff so far. All I had to do was press down on the foot pedal and go. Straight shot, through the gates, around the yard, and back again.
I pressed the pedal and bucked forward, and I believe it was at that point that my brain short-circuited. I zoomed through the gates, started to turn left for the yard navigation, and then...THE TREE.
It was a thousand feet tall and could move, because suddenly it loomed above me out of nowhere. I remember hearing yelling behind me. And then feeling the impact. And oh, God, the sound.
You see, I had mastered the idea of the gas pedal, but had completely forgotten the pedal on the other side. The one that was used for stopping. I had gotten that beautiful machine, that go-kart from the future, stuck between the tree and the fence. I was shaken and battered, but not as much as the 'kart. I was bleeding.
Thankfully, I don't remember extricating myself from the wreckage, nor do I remember the look on Tom's face or his parents' reactions.
I do remember the blood pouring from my knee, and limping home.
My mom was sitting on the front porch. Seeing her, I immediately began to cry, pointing to my blood leg and trying to talk.
She was perfectly horrified and stood to take care of me, as a loving mother should. And then she asked the inevitable question:
"What happened?!?"
I choked out the fateful words: "Go-Kart."
Her lips pursed. Her gaze narrowed.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO RIDE ON THAT DAMN THING."
And she turned on her heel and marched into the house, shutting the door in my face.
That's where my memory fades. I assume I didn't die of blood loss, and I doubt I had to spend the night outside.
Fast-forward to September 2014, many bad hairstyles and go-kart-free years later. That's when I agreed to attend a bachelorette party for one of the most fiercely loyal and no-nonsense women I have ever met.
She's a bit of a country girl, so the party included a trip to Carousel Park in Joplin to ride the go-karts.
Being navigationally challenged, I was late due to a quick detour to Oklahoma. So when I arrived, most of the girls were 'karting already and I took up a spot safely in the spectators' area on the other side of the fence from the intimidating-looking, sharp-turn-laden course.
I stood by Tami, who couldn't ride because of her "neck".
The riders finished, with the bride-to-be winning (she would have beaten down anyone who dared to cross that line before she did, anyway) and rushed victoriously out of the gates for some pictures.
After we had all posed several times, she turned to me with a ticket.
"COME ON, JEN! I'LL BEAT YOUR ASS!"
"Oh, no," I demurred, "I'm not riding."
"YES YOU ARE! COME ON!"
And then the cacophony of voices from the others: "Go on, Jen!"
I slightly panicked. "My neck..."
Tami laughed. "Nice try."
Finally, I 'fessed up. I told them I had not been on a go-kart since I was roughly seven years old after a tragic accident.
Corie grabbed my hand. "TIME TO FACE YOUR FEARS!"
Then, full-blown flashback mode, with this voice from the 1986, scary-as-hell movie "Carrie" playing as background music.
I went, I strapped in. It was just the two of us. I committed to memory the vision of TWO pedals. And then it was go time.
I inched forward. Corie lunged ahead.
And then my competitive drive kicked in and I went full-throttle. We raced neck and neck, around and around the track. She was kind enough to let me stay in the lead at first, but then we had a collision and she was stuck for a bit while I raced ahead. For two laps, I maintained a healthy lead. Fear was gone. Victory would be mine. Why haven't I done this all my life!? I thought, laughing out loud like an idiot. Why haven't I checked into doing this professionally? Is it too la-
It was at that point that I was hit with some force, and spun nose-first into the guard rail. There was no reverse.
I was stuck. Stuck like a fool while Corie eventually lapped me, laughing like a maniac. And then again.
Finally, the attendant arrived to back me up and ask me if I had a concussion or whiplash.
Neither. And I wasn't bleeding!!!!!!
Sure, I lost. But really, didn't I also win?
No. I lost. But this 2014 contest had erased 31 years of fear.
On the way to the next stop of the party, I got cut off by some fool in a truck and tried to pass him just so I could return the favor.
The competitive go-kart spirit is strong in this one.
So now I challenge you. Is there something minor that possibly paralyzed you early in life? Something that you still avoid, even to this day?
Those years are over. Freakin' do it. You may end up stuck against the guardrail while you're lapped and mocked relentlessly, but come on, man.
Don't fear the reaper.
Monday, September 15, 2014
I REALLY Love Food.
Today, my colleagues and I were discussing some work-related things in a very intellectual way. But in between those quick conversations, we talked about dumpsters. It doesn't matter why we were talking about dumpsters, mainly because I don't remember. However, the topic of eating out of dumpsters was broached.
I have been guilty of eating food directly off of floors. In high school, I used to do it as a dare. Double points for hoovering it directly off of the floor with my mouth. I was young and dumb, and I loved the looks of disgust and awe I would see on the faces of those in whatever class I was in when I did it. I was a weird kid.
Now, as the manager of a movie theater, I try to be a little more discerning. However, if there is a full bag of individually wrapped Reese's peanut butter miniatures, and it's on top of the pile, I mean, who DOES that? Was it an accident? Were you angry? Did you hate the person who bought them? Was it a date gone wrong? Was it your spouse, and oh my GOD, for the thousandth time, you asked for Reese's Pieces, he knows that, he only bought the cups because that's what HE likes, and he knew you'd just give them to him like you always do, but you've been listening to a lot of Pink on Pandora at work, and you don't have to put up with the man bringing you down anymore, because you're fine and sassy. I don't pretend to know your life. I just know that I'm not going to let a full bag of individually wrapped candy go to waste. Not once. Not ever. That also goes for Starburst, because they're the other individually wrapped candies we have.
Now, eating food out of a dumpster is a little different. Still, if there was a dumpster behind a bakery, I would totally check that out hard. Because, you know? I mean, what if they threw a whole pie in there? And like, I knew that they had JUST thrown it in. I would probably have to at least look it over.
These are issues I've always had. I remember going to a two-day seminar with a couple of girls in 2009 for work. We got there too late to eat at the motel restaurant, but as we were turning to leave I saw a whole pizza sitting, abandoned, on the bar. I asked the bartender nonchalantly whose pizza that was, and he said it was his, but he hadn't had time to eat it and it was cold, and he was just going to throw it out. I asked him if I could have it. He gave it to me. I ate it. Who cares, free pizza, amirite? But when I saw the looks on the faces of my co-workers, I thought, maybe I have a problem.
It's not a problem to the point where I take food off of abandoned tables at restaurants. But it IS a problem to the point where I THINK about taking food off of abandoned tables at restaurants.
So back to the conversation with my co-workers. I said that I would TOTALLY eat out of a dumpster at a bakery. Well, I clarified it to be either a pie shop or a donut place. But let's be honest, I would eat a cupcake out of a dumpster. If it was a fancy cupcake with a lot of frosting and it was still in a box. But when someone else threw out the idea of chicken wings, I had to draw the line. That's meat, man. There's like, bacteria issues in a dumpster meat situation that wouldn't be as present in a dumpster pie situation. Probably. I don't know.
And that's really where I'm at on that. And also, I really, really like pie. And donuts.
I have been guilty of eating food directly off of floors. In high school, I used to do it as a dare. Double points for hoovering it directly off of the floor with my mouth. I was young and dumb, and I loved the looks of disgust and awe I would see on the faces of those in whatever class I was in when I did it. I was a weird kid.
Now, as the manager of a movie theater, I try to be a little more discerning. However, if there is a full bag of individually wrapped Reese's peanut butter miniatures, and it's on top of the pile, I mean, who DOES that? Was it an accident? Were you angry? Did you hate the person who bought them? Was it a date gone wrong? Was it your spouse, and oh my GOD, for the thousandth time, you asked for Reese's Pieces, he knows that, he only bought the cups because that's what HE likes, and he knew you'd just give them to him like you always do, but you've been listening to a lot of Pink on Pandora at work, and you don't have to put up with the man bringing you down anymore, because you're fine and sassy. I don't pretend to know your life. I just know that I'm not going to let a full bag of individually wrapped candy go to waste. Not once. Not ever. That also goes for Starburst, because they're the other individually wrapped candies we have.
Now, eating food out of a dumpster is a little different. Still, if there was a dumpster behind a bakery, I would totally check that out hard. Because, you know? I mean, what if they threw a whole pie in there? And like, I knew that they had JUST thrown it in. I would probably have to at least look it over.
These are issues I've always had. I remember going to a two-day seminar with a couple of girls in 2009 for work. We got there too late to eat at the motel restaurant, but as we were turning to leave I saw a whole pizza sitting, abandoned, on the bar. I asked the bartender nonchalantly whose pizza that was, and he said it was his, but he hadn't had time to eat it and it was cold, and he was just going to throw it out. I asked him if I could have it. He gave it to me. I ate it. Who cares, free pizza, amirite? But when I saw the looks on the faces of my co-workers, I thought, maybe I have a problem.
It's not a problem to the point where I take food off of abandoned tables at restaurants. But it IS a problem to the point where I THINK about taking food off of abandoned tables at restaurants.
So back to the conversation with my co-workers. I said that I would TOTALLY eat out of a dumpster at a bakery. Well, I clarified it to be either a pie shop or a donut place. But let's be honest, I would eat a cupcake out of a dumpster. If it was a fancy cupcake with a lot of frosting and it was still in a box. But when someone else threw out the idea of chicken wings, I had to draw the line. That's meat, man. There's like, bacteria issues in a dumpster meat situation that wouldn't be as present in a dumpster pie situation. Probably. I don't know.
And that's really where I'm at on that. And also, I really, really like pie. And donuts.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
#WhyIStayed
The Ray and Janay Rice situation was heartbreaking, to be sure. Something more heartbreaking is
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Oh God...Am I Old?
A couple of weeks ago, I was working extra in my last week as a Certified Pharmacy Technician (or CPhT, if you want some free trivia with your reading) at Heartland Behavioral Health Services. I know, riveting, right? Anyway, we were going live with this new MedDispense system, and things were a little pretty damn stressful that day.
But two things turned my day around. The first was this really amazing coffee I was drinking. I mean, it was delicious. Dunkin' Donuts brand, coconut-flavored. It smelled incredible. I really, really love flavored coffees. Not the kind you add flavored creamer to, but the kind that are just flavored right out of the bag. Recently I saw a Peach Cobbler flavor. I love peach cobbler. But I wasn't prepared to commit to that weirdness. Come on, man. And then I was like, hey. You loved the jelly donut flavor. You loved the cake donut flavor. Donuts and cobbler are like, your favorite foods. So, using my brand of logic, I should love cobbler-flavored coffee.
But, just no. Not yet.
Okay, fine. I've also grown partial to flavored creamers in cases involving unavoidable, non-flavored-coffee situations. The two I love at the moment are Almond Joy and Brown Butter Sugar. Holy cow. Hey, and here's another aside to the aside...the best snow ice cream recipe I've ever had is the one in which you just take snow and a jug of your favorite flavored creamer and mix. No need for any of that extra stuff like vanilla or sugar, although I'm sure they would TOTALLY enhance your snow ice cream experience. But trust me on this one.
Anyway, back to the original point, which I almost lost. The coffee made for a happier morning, but by early afternoon I was back to full-blown stress mode. And then I remembered that I had a date that evening with my former advisor and thesis chair from Pitt State. That in itself was exciting, but even more exciting was the fact that, in addition to discussing writing, we would also be partaking in Wine Wednesday. And I love wine.
That's what stopped me cold. Because, you see, I used to hate both coffee and wine. I didn't drink either, ever, at all. What started the gradual change to my current coffee-loving status was the fact that it was free and readily available in Career Services when I was a Graduate Assistant. The first day I had a small cup, in February 2013, I felt like I could run down the stairs, outside, around the building, and back up the stairs for easily the remainder of the day. I felt INCREDIBLE...for about 27 minutes. Then I was normal again. But oh, those 27 minutes! They're like the best happy little pocket of time ever. So I kept doing that, because I'm a thrill-seeker that way.
About 13 months later, I started to write my thesis.
Writing a thesis seemed like a no-brainer to me. There were three options in my graduate program. I could write a thesis, do some sort of huge creative project, or take comprehensive exams.
I hate exams, and I really didn't feel up to producing a play or creating an event, and I love to write. Thesis, all the way.
The research took place over three days. The writing took place over three weeks.
The revising took place over three months.
Three months of hell. Three months of "Nope, you still aren't getting it" emails from my advisor. Three months of me thinking that comps sounded like heaven.
But at the end, my advisor told me, we would celebrate with wine.
Yuck. I don't even like wine, childish, internal-fit-throwing me thought, mentally kicking a chair leg and pouting with my bottom lip out and my arms crossed.
But I agreed, because any kind of celebration would mean I was done with that stupid thesis.
And finally the day arrived. I was done, and I only needed the required signatures. It was time to celebrate.
As I knew nothing about wine, my advisor ordered for us when we arrived at the restaurant, and while we waited, she made me a list of wines. She started with the most mild, the fruitiest, the girliest, and worked her way down to the hard-core wine for hard-core winers. Or whatever they're called. She made two columns, one for white and one for red. She told me that when she got back from her summer trip, she expected me to have found the bottom of the list.
I got stuck on Riesling, and had no desire to move further down. But the point is, I was enjoying wine. And by enjoying, I mean I had it probably a total of four times over the course of three months. But still.
So, fast-forward back to the day when I got excited about coffee and wine. Right after I identified my excitement, the horror descended.
Oh, my God, I thought. I'm OLD!
I knew I was old, because I loved coffee and wine.
I used to love pop and vodka. I used to love energy drinks. I used to never drink actual water. Drinking it made me feel like I was going to throw up. It actually did.
And now my days were coffee in the morning and water all day and evening. And the occasional wine. And I was HAPPY about this?
I was EXCITED about a day that involved coffee and wine? Who WAS I? Was this tied in to turning 40 next year?
Ultimately, I decided to stop being a whiner, and embrace being a winer.
And that evening, we had a really, really good something. It was some kind of wine, from a little further down on the list than Riesling.
I'm getting hardcore. And old. But mostly? Hardcore.
But two things turned my day around. The first was this really amazing coffee I was drinking. I mean, it was delicious. Dunkin' Donuts brand, coconut-flavored. It smelled incredible. I really, really love flavored coffees. Not the kind you add flavored creamer to, but the kind that are just flavored right out of the bag. Recently I saw a Peach Cobbler flavor. I love peach cobbler. But I wasn't prepared to commit to that weirdness. Come on, man. And then I was like, hey. You loved the jelly donut flavor. You loved the cake donut flavor. Donuts and cobbler are like, your favorite foods. So, using my brand of logic, I should love cobbler-flavored coffee.
But, just no. Not yet.
Okay, fine. I've also grown partial to flavored creamers in cases involving unavoidable, non-flavored-coffee situations. The two I love at the moment are Almond Joy and Brown Butter Sugar. Holy cow. Hey, and here's another aside to the aside...the best snow ice cream recipe I've ever had is the one in which you just take snow and a jug of your favorite flavored creamer and mix. No need for any of that extra stuff like vanilla or sugar, although I'm sure they would TOTALLY enhance your snow ice cream experience. But trust me on this one.
Anyway, back to the original point, which I almost lost. The coffee made for a happier morning, but by early afternoon I was back to full-blown stress mode. And then I remembered that I had a date that evening with my former advisor and thesis chair from Pitt State. That in itself was exciting, but even more exciting was the fact that, in addition to discussing writing, we would also be partaking in Wine Wednesday. And I love wine.
That's what stopped me cold. Because, you see, I used to hate both coffee and wine. I didn't drink either, ever, at all. What started the gradual change to my current coffee-loving status was the fact that it was free and readily available in Career Services when I was a Graduate Assistant. The first day I had a small cup, in February 2013, I felt like I could run down the stairs, outside, around the building, and back up the stairs for easily the remainder of the day. I felt INCREDIBLE...for about 27 minutes. Then I was normal again. But oh, those 27 minutes! They're like the best happy little pocket of time ever. So I kept doing that, because I'm a thrill-seeker that way.
About 13 months later, I started to write my thesis.
Writing a thesis seemed like a no-brainer to me. There were three options in my graduate program. I could write a thesis, do some sort of huge creative project, or take comprehensive exams.
I hate exams, and I really didn't feel up to producing a play or creating an event, and I love to write. Thesis, all the way.
The research took place over three days. The writing took place over three weeks.
The revising took place over three months.
Three months of hell. Three months of "Nope, you still aren't getting it" emails from my advisor. Three months of me thinking that comps sounded like heaven.
But at the end, my advisor told me, we would celebrate with wine.
Yuck. I don't even like wine, childish, internal-fit-throwing me thought, mentally kicking a chair leg and pouting with my bottom lip out and my arms crossed.
But I agreed, because any kind of celebration would mean I was done with that stupid thesis.
And finally the day arrived. I was done, and I only needed the required signatures. It was time to celebrate.
As I knew nothing about wine, my advisor ordered for us when we arrived at the restaurant, and while we waited, she made me a list of wines. She started with the most mild, the fruitiest, the girliest, and worked her way down to the hard-core wine for hard-core winers. Or whatever they're called. She made two columns, one for white and one for red. She told me that when she got back from her summer trip, she expected me to have found the bottom of the list.
I got stuck on Riesling, and had no desire to move further down. But the point is, I was enjoying wine. And by enjoying, I mean I had it probably a total of four times over the course of three months. But still.
So, fast-forward back to the day when I got excited about coffee and wine. Right after I identified my excitement, the horror descended.
Oh, my God, I thought. I'm OLD!
I knew I was old, because I loved coffee and wine.
I used to love pop and vodka. I used to love energy drinks. I used to never drink actual water. Drinking it made me feel like I was going to throw up. It actually did.
And now my days were coffee in the morning and water all day and evening. And the occasional wine. And I was HAPPY about this?
I was EXCITED about a day that involved coffee and wine? Who WAS I? Was this tied in to turning 40 next year?
Ultimately, I decided to stop being a whiner, and embrace being a winer.
And that evening, we had a really, really good something. It was some kind of wine, from a little further down on the list than Riesling.
I'm getting hardcore. And old. But mostly? Hardcore.
Friday, September 5, 2014
What Holds YOU Back?
A couple of weeks ago, my kid did what he always does, and educated me on a topic in such a way that I felt like a complete idiot afterward.
On this occasion, the topic was the philosopher Alan Watts, and I listened to his lecture on our stereo, my mind first cracking, then blowing open as he continued to speak like the words he was delivering were totally no big deal. I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open.
I continued to listen until I received a phone call informing me that the wedding I had performed 10 days prior was probably not legal, but let's save that topic for another time. The point is, the introduction of the wedding fiasco put Alan Watts right out of my mind until another 10 days later, when this link showed up on my Facebook news feed.
Comic Strip of Alan Watts' Lecture: What If Money Was No Object?
Hey, kids, check this link out if you like your lessons delivered with no sides of bullshit. This cuts to the chase in such a way that even I retained the information. If you know me at all, you know that I always MEAN to remember things, but I rarely (read: pretty much never) do. Many times I have been almost finished with a book when I realize that I've already read it.
But I digress. The point I was trying to make was that I retained this information, and then thought about it. And then started to put it into action.
One of my favorite sayings is that it's important to have goals. The way I use it is all wrong, though. I'll say it jokingly as I finish an entire sleeve of Nutter Butters, or Oreos, or as I tally up the resulting weight gain. I use it sarcastically, okay? But my mouth is usually full when I do, and I'm usually alone, crying, so does it really count?
Totally kidding. I never cry when I'm eating cookies. That's a happy occasion every time. By the way, did you hear about Pumpkin Spice and Caramel Apple Oreos? I think it's a real thing this holiday season. Oh my gosh, can you even imagine? Well, I'm on the fence about the Caramel Apple, but not so much on the fence that I wouldn't obligingly hop off and sample a full sleeve.
(source: consumerist.com, theimpulsivebuy.com)
Back to Alan Watts. The comic strip essentially says to do what you like. Which you should know, because you totally clicked on the link and read it, because you're like me and prefer lectures in comic book form only. The evening I read it, I walked to the Community Center and did some Les Mills Combat Cardio, then walked home. And as I walked, it occurred to me that there were two things that I am absolutely passionate about that make me feel great every time I practice them. This is what keeps eating off of the list, because although I'm passionate about it, it makes me feel like junk because I have that eating disorder nobody talks about called "I'm fine until I have the first bite, and then I eat my kitchen."
So back to the two things. The first is working out, and the second is writing. Maybe not even in that order. Maybe even tied. Doing either of these things, though, fills me with happiness and purpose, and I feel fulfilled in ways that I have never experienced in anything. Once I realized that, and don't get me wrong, I pretty much knew it, everything snapped into place. I began to realize exactly what I needed to go forward, and what I needed to let go.
That's where the complications set in, because one of my biggest weaknesses is that I am not a quitter. I don't like to admit defeat, and I don't like to lose. One of the things that I realized was that I had to quit a habit that I've had for most of my life, because that habit is holding me back. And that realization filled me with fear. And that fear made me want to scrap everything.
And then I realized that the option of scrapping everything, and continuing to live my life as I had been, filled me with an even bigger fear.
So, that's where I am. On the brink. On the threshold. But I feel a lot better than I did earlier in the week, and you know why? Because I identified what made me happy, and I identified what was not making me happy.
Think about that. If you're a list maker, make a list. What makes you truly happy? Take everyone else out of it - their needs, their expectations, their demands of your time and resources, and think about what makes YOU happy. What leaves you with a glow long after you have left it? What fills you with purpose and passion and makes you feel just so damn ALIVE?
And what holds you back? What is your fear? Don't be afraid to dissect it and examine the layers. It's not until you truly get to the meat of the issue that the lesson begins. Don't be surprised if the answer isn't what you think it is, either. Don't even be surprised if you're left even more confused than when you started. One of my other favorite sayings is, "It's a process."
This damn sure is a process. One that will take time. One that may have a lot of two steps forward and one step back. One that may feel like a journey with no destination.
Just remember, this is it. This is your shot. This is the one life you get to live. No matter how scared you may be, isn't it even scarier to think that you might not live that life of purpose and happiness at all?
So, what holds YOU back?
On this occasion, the topic was the philosopher Alan Watts, and I listened to his lecture on our stereo, my mind first cracking, then blowing open as he continued to speak like the words he was delivering were totally no big deal. I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open.
I continued to listen until I received a phone call informing me that the wedding I had performed 10 days prior was probably not legal, but let's save that topic for another time. The point is, the introduction of the wedding fiasco put Alan Watts right out of my mind until another 10 days later, when this link showed up on my Facebook news feed.
Comic Strip of Alan Watts' Lecture: What If Money Was No Object?
Hey, kids, check this link out if you like your lessons delivered with no sides of bullshit. This cuts to the chase in such a way that even I retained the information. If you know me at all, you know that I always MEAN to remember things, but I rarely (read: pretty much never) do. Many times I have been almost finished with a book when I realize that I've already read it.
But I digress. The point I was trying to make was that I retained this information, and then thought about it. And then started to put it into action.
One of my favorite sayings is that it's important to have goals. The way I use it is all wrong, though. I'll say it jokingly as I finish an entire sleeve of Nutter Butters, or Oreos, or as I tally up the resulting weight gain. I use it sarcastically, okay? But my mouth is usually full when I do, and I'm usually alone, crying, so does it really count?
Totally kidding. I never cry when I'm eating cookies. That's a happy occasion every time. By the way, did you hear about Pumpkin Spice and Caramel Apple Oreos? I think it's a real thing this holiday season. Oh my gosh, can you even imagine? Well, I'm on the fence about the Caramel Apple, but not so much on the fence that I wouldn't obligingly hop off and sample a full sleeve.
Back to Alan Watts. The comic strip essentially says to do what you like. Which you should know, because you totally clicked on the link and read it, because you're like me and prefer lectures in comic book form only. The evening I read it, I walked to the Community Center and did some Les Mills Combat Cardio, then walked home. And as I walked, it occurred to me that there were two things that I am absolutely passionate about that make me feel great every time I practice them. This is what keeps eating off of the list, because although I'm passionate about it, it makes me feel like junk because I have that eating disorder nobody talks about called "I'm fine until I have the first bite, and then I eat my kitchen."
So back to the two things. The first is working out, and the second is writing. Maybe not even in that order. Maybe even tied. Doing either of these things, though, fills me with happiness and purpose, and I feel fulfilled in ways that I have never experienced in anything. Once I realized that, and don't get me wrong, I pretty much knew it, everything snapped into place. I began to realize exactly what I needed to go forward, and what I needed to let go.
That's where the complications set in, because one of my biggest weaknesses is that I am not a quitter. I don't like to admit defeat, and I don't like to lose. One of the things that I realized was that I had to quit a habit that I've had for most of my life, because that habit is holding me back. And that realization filled me with fear. And that fear made me want to scrap everything.
And then I realized that the option of scrapping everything, and continuing to live my life as I had been, filled me with an even bigger fear.
So, that's where I am. On the brink. On the threshold. But I feel a lot better than I did earlier in the week, and you know why? Because I identified what made me happy, and I identified what was not making me happy.
Think about that. If you're a list maker, make a list. What makes you truly happy? Take everyone else out of it - their needs, their expectations, their demands of your time and resources, and think about what makes YOU happy. What leaves you with a glow long after you have left it? What fills you with purpose and passion and makes you feel just so damn ALIVE?
And what holds you back? What is your fear? Don't be afraid to dissect it and examine the layers. It's not until you truly get to the meat of the issue that the lesson begins. Don't be surprised if the answer isn't what you think it is, either. Don't even be surprised if you're left even more confused than when you started. One of my other favorite sayings is, "It's a process."
This damn sure is a process. One that will take time. One that may have a lot of two steps forward and one step back. One that may feel like a journey with no destination.
Just remember, this is it. This is your shot. This is the one life you get to live. No matter how scared you may be, isn't it even scarier to think that you might not live that life of purpose and happiness at all?
So, what holds YOU back?
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