All posts by Rachel

About Rachel

Rachel V. Stankowski considered herself, among other things, a writer. Primarily due to the positive stigmas that accompanied the label, but also because it seemed to excuse some of her more major eccentricities, vanity included.

A jerk! Because I love…

laughs!, Story Telling, , , , ,

I have an amazing little sister and I love her so very, very much.

And because of that… this:

Abby's UndiesUNDERWEAR!

This is a guided tour of my little sister’s underwear that moves from conservative granny panties on the left up to butt floss-style thongs on the right.  She came home one day to this.

I’m not sure if my favorite part was the anticipation of Abby walking up the stairs and finding the underwear or the moment I heard her scream… knowing what it was about.

Either way…

MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

And this was how it always was and probably always will be.  I tease.  A lot.  But for me to tease, I’ve got to be comfortable.  And for me to be comfortable, I’ve got to love.  So in a round about way, I’m a jerk… because I love.

It’s funny, really, how crazy much I love my sister these days.  Because it’s a far cry from when she first came in to this world.  I still remember the day she was born.  I was so mad that the stupid baby was making my mom stay in the hospital when she should have been home with me.  I was angry with her before I even saw her, despite the big sister classes with baby dolls and all of that.  My 3-year-old self could barely stand it.

And then she came home, and things went steadily downhill from there.  Not because there was anything wrong with my baby sister (except for the biting… there was a lot of biting…), but because I was no longer the center of the universe and I didn’t like that feeling.

So, in my desperation, I developed a series of mysterious medical maladies that our rather astute pediatrician eventually diagnosed as Abby-itis.  (Blast!  Foiled again!)

And so it went, for many years.  I must have been some sort of torturer in a past life, because I delighted in tormenting my little sister… and eventually my brother when he came along.  Evil was my middle name and I wasn’t even allowed to laugh in the car since it usually indicated I’d done something awful.  (Rachel Ann!  Stop it, whatever you’re doing!)

But, despite all of that, my sister and I grew into inseparable friends and it is my mission in life to make sure that if I ever have a baby girl, I’ll never stop having babies until she has a sister.  Because truly, there’s nothing better.

Nothing better for me, anyway.  Ask Abby, owner of all that underwear taped to the wall, and you may get a different story 😉

 

I suppose as long as I’ve got that picture I should really tell you about what you don’t see…

In addition to being a grade A jerk face as a child, I also tormented my younger sister by being exceptionally territorial.  And our room was always split in half one way or the other.

Did you notice the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling?  Right.  Those were only on my half.  And I refused to share.  Refused!

However, I did throw Ab a little bit of a bone.  My rule was this: if a star fell from the ceiling and she got to it first, she could have it.  We had bunk beds in our room and Abby was on the top.  So on that rare occasion that a star fell, she’d come scurrying down the ladder and head for the star– Smeagol-style.  (My preeeeeccccious…..)

And the evidence is still there on the ceiling in my parents’ house to this day.  It always makes me laugh… an evil, evil laugh.  Because I still love very, very much!

Mind, Body, Prison

Long-Winded Metaphors, Seriously, , , ,

First order of business– THANKS a million for all of your help on deciphering the 100% illegible inscription from Adam Bucko!  I’m pretty sure it’s “may you be the change,” but “may you be in charge” could also be right… and that little word after be seems to look a little more like in than the.  So, after pondering, I’m going to read the book, see if “in charge” makes sense, and then decide if that’s it or if he was quoting Mother Teresa.  Either way– thanks so much, friends!!  You’re awesome and someone’s about to get a book!!

Anyway, on to our regularly scheduled program.  Prison time!

———–

I read a really interesting article from CommonHealth the other day entitled “I’m Finally Thin – But Is Living In a Crazymaking Food Prison Really Worth It?” by Rachel Zimmerman.  It was a really good read and I loved her prison analogy.  Loved it!  So much so that I wanted to extend it to the other side, too.  Because it’s not just thin women that end up in that crazymaking prison… I think all women can.  And it’s not difficult to get locked up.  At least not in my experience.

So, let me tell you about life… on the inside.  (Do I sound hard?  Like prison hard?  That’s what I’m going for.)

Mind, Body, Prison.

When I’m trying to lose weight or maintain a lower-than-usual weight, those are times when I’m working toward parole and I’m so busy kissing the warden’s behind that I can’t do anything else.  My stomach growls and I spend hours in the gym, but it’s never good enough.  So much time is spent obsessing about food, and not eating it.

When I’ve gained weight and feel too fat, those are the times when I feel hopeless and certain that I’m in for life.  I’ll make a shank out of just about anything (cookies! candy! cake!) and I’m quick to use it at even the slightest provocation.  (Nom nom nom…)  Again, I’m obsessing about food, but the feelings are of finding more and then feeling guilty for consuming it.

My body is covered in prison scars and homespun tattoos– stretch marks from rapid weight gain and loss and persistent injuries as a result of over-exercise.

They say that people can become permanently institutionalized… unable to function appropriately in the real world.  And I fear that I share that fate.  I hope for rehabilitation, a chance to live happily on healthily on the outside.  But what does that take and how do I get there?

My institutionalized mind has two alternative answers for me.

The goody two-shoes hopeful parolee says that loss of a few pounds (or many…) will impress the parole board– a smaller pants size, careful control of caloric intake and demonstration that I am willing to eat nothing but leafy greens and crunchy carrots.

The prison yard gangsta says to forget about it because I’ll just end up back here anyway, searching the yard for another sugary, salty treat to turn into a weapon… and let’s get another tattoo while we’re at it.

So then what’s the real answer?  How do we reform the mind-body prison system?

I don’t know.  And at the moment, I’m the tough guy looking for a fight, about to start a dang riot.  And that’s a problem because people who just want to fight (read: eat) are rarely capable of looking for diplomatic solutions in the heat of the moment.  And, to be perfectly honest, the piece of me that hopes for an answer is really just looking for a way back in front of the parole board– in smaller pants.

I have pretty intense physiological and emotional cravings for, as the book says, Salt! Sugar! Fat!  (Really, good read, I highly recommend it.)  But I’m simultaneously dealing with a neurological and sociological obsession with thinness and unrealistic, mainstream beauty ideals.  But above all, the thing that my heart desires is comfort and to be out of prison, once and for all.

Orange really isn’t my color.  Even metaphorically.

 

 

Oh man, nerd alert.  I was re-reading this post and was concerned that I had used the word shank wrong because suddenly shiv was popping into my head instead.  So I googled it.  Don’t worry.  They’re both names for sharp, handmade prison weapons.  Whew.  I wouldn’t want to incorrectly label a handmade prison weapon.  Oh TV, thank you for giving me so much prison knowledge!

Pi, Nuns, and Dreadlocks — a recipe for spirituality

Spirituality, , , , , , ,

I recently read the book Life of Pi by Yann Martel.  It was a beautiful book and the boy’s adventure was absolutely magical.  But honestly, my favorite part of the book was the beginning.

In the beginning, Pi, a born, raised, and practicing Hindu, begins exploring other religions.  He becomes, simultaneously, a Hindu, Christian, and Muslim.  He is devout in his practice of all three.  Until the Hindu pandit (new vocabulary word! yessss!), the Christian priest, and the Muslim imam realize that he is practicing more than one religion… at which point, everyone gets upset.

While the three religious men are busy making arguments in favor of their own religion and against the others (because religious discourse tends to go south very fast, doesn’t it?), Pi and his father make some really beautiful points of their own.

First, Pi quotes Gandhi: “Bapu Gandhi said, ‘All religions are true.’ I just want to love God.”

Then his father backs him up saying, “I suppose that’s what we’re all trying to do–love God.”

Finally, Pi explains: “Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.”

At the same time I was reading Life of Pi, I was also working my way (again) through Joan Chittister’s book Welcome to the Wisdom of the World.  (I always read more than one book at a time…)  Joan Chittister is a ridiculously wise and eloquent nun from Pennsylvania.  While she is indeed a Catholic sister, she is also a brilliant theologian who understands, and in this book explains, how all of the worlds major religions are ultimately devoted to helping people understand the answers to the big questions in life.  She draws beautiful parallels between Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, and Judaism and uses their parables to answer some of the tough questions that we all ponder at one point or another.

I think the essence of Joan Chittister’s book is summed up when she says, “Every major spiritual tradition – Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam – brings a special gift to the art of living the spiritual life.  Each of them refracts the light of its own spiritual wisdom text in particularly sharp and distinct ways.  Each of them strikes a different tone in giving the great truths of life that form a chord, a symphony of truth.”

One of my favorites so far (yes, I’m still working my way through it– I think it’s because I’m scared to get to the chapter entitled “What’s Wrong with Me: Why Can’t I Change?” because I’m afraid it’s going to strike too close to home…) was her chapter that discusses what it means to be a spiritual person using the wisdom of the Hindus.  She says:

“Religion and spirituality are not the same thing… The truth is that we can go through the motions about something all our lives and never really become what the thing itself is meant to be… religious practice without the spiritual development that is meant to proceed from it is the more deceptive of the two.  It leaves us in danger of being keepers of the law rather than seekers of the truth.”

Bingo!

This weekend I am in Milwaukee for a spirituality-based conference with my dad.  The conference is the national meeting for Call To Action, a group for progressive-minded Catholics interested in creating a more inclusive, loving, and justice-seeking faith community.  I don’t expect anyone else to agree with my meanderings through the world of faith, religion, and spirituality, but after this weekend I have learned one thing and I’ve learned it really well:

For me, meandering is the way to go!!

I can’t be spoon fed and I can’t be told what to say, do, think, or feel, but the more information I take in and the more I let myself discern with my heart what feels right and what doesn’t, the more clear my path becomes.  And right now, learning is my path.

Spiritually, I’ve always felt a bit like that creepy Voldemort character, writhing on the ground in that in-between place where Harry goes to meet Dumbledore at the end of the series.  (That thing is creepy!)  (Omg… I was just going to link you to a picture, but got to creeped out even looking at them!  Just awful!  I take it back!  My spirituality is better than that!  Maybe like a mandrake root— creepy, but not that bad.)  But I’ve learned so much this weekend and heard so many new ideas that I’ve become incredibly anxious to learn more and I know I’ll grow up out of that creepy place soon.

For me, the best way to learn is to read (I’m not the doer or the listener learning type– reading is definitely my thing) and my list has grown by leaps and bounds this weekend.  I even bought a book while I was here and had it inscribed by the author (color me star-struck!!).  Unfortunately, I haven’t the slightest idea what the inscription says!!  So sad– I’m sure it’s something really clever and meaningful!!  The book is Occupy Spirituality by Adam Bucko and Matthew Fox.  We heard Adam Bucko speak about his work with homeless youths in New York City on Friday night and his talk was incredible.  Amazing.  Inspired and inspiring.  And I’m dying to know what he said to me!  (He’s Polish and was impressed with my Polish last name– could it be something about that?  He also has like 6 feet long dreadlocks (no kidding), but I don’t think it’s about that…  To Rachel- May you be… WHAT?!  Please, help me!!)

20131102-211558.jpg

Be the first to tell me what the inscription says and I will literally send you a copy of the book.  (And I actually know what the word literally means, I’m using it correctly.  I will purchase the book on Amazon and have it sent straight to your home.  Literally.)

So, yep, I went to the spiritual place.  I understand that it’s uncomfortable for a lot of people, but I also think that as human beings, we are all gifted with what Adam Bucko called “spiritual intuition for justice” and I think that idea transcends any particular religion or faith practice, and is rather something like the intention of every religion or faith practice.  So I think we can talk about that here, right?

What’s in a name? Everything, if it’s Grace.

Story Telling, , , ,
 

Dang– I’ve been missing a lot of posts lately.  Last night’s detour was completely necessary though.  I made four accidentally enormous candy corn jello shots last weekend and I needed to trick some people into eating them last night.  Only Sister Doctor fell for it.  At least they looked nice and festive even if they were mostly disastrous.

20131030-165013.jpg
Seems awesome, right? It’s not.

I have a nice story for you today to make up for it– get ready to find some grace!

————————————————-

When I was in fifth grade one of our first classroom assignments was to draw a self portrait… but with a twist.

First, we had to look up the meaning of our name and then incorporate the meaning into our drawing.

So, I looked up Rachel.  The meaning?  Ewe.

Ewe?

So, I looked up ewe.

Lady sheep.  Nice.

My teacher was excited and thought I should draw myself with short, curly hair (wool, if you will) and little sheep ears.  Or not!  I was in fifth grade and I was a nerd.  I was not about to draw myself as a sheep.  Can you even imagine?  (Incidentally, that was the year of the shroom-cut.  Wool for hair?  Yeah, it could be worse…)

So Plan B: middle name.

And I looked up Ann.  (Which was my middle name before the Social Security Administration let me change it to anything I want– nothing too exciting here, but it could have been!!  I chose Vonck, my maiden name, just like my mom did.)

The meaning of Ann?  Grace.

Grace?  That was something I could work with.

So I drew my fifth grade version of grace.  I was wearing a long, red, Disney princess style dress and white, elbow length gloves.  Pearls around my neck and sparkly, dangling earrings from my ears.  Hair in a fancy up-do and perfect make up.  (All of this as a fifth grade illustrator, mind you, so nothing amazing.  I‘m sure it included blue eye shadow. It was nineteen-ninety-something after all.)

That fancy pants version of myself was what I thought of when I heard the word grace for a long time.

I think perhaps I had confused the idea of grace with the ideas of elegance, class, and finesse… to be graceful.

Or maybe confused is the wrong word.  Perhaps the real idea of grace was just beyond me at the time.  Which is likely considering that it’s still hard for me to grasp even today… many, many years removed from 5th grade.

Fortunately, I have spent much of the last… umm… approximately 20 years?  Yeah, about that.  So I’ve spent the last 20 or so years slowly figuring out what grace really means.

And WOW.

Even the limited understanding I have of the concept is enough to leave me somewhat floored.  It’s a powerful idea really, that you can be “flawed” and still be perfect.  That you can do “bad” things, but still be a good person.  That you can sin and yet you still have infinite opportunities to be forgiven and to be loved— even at your most unlovable moments.

Perhaps it’s cheesy to put too much stock in song lyrics, but I really think that Mumford & Sons say it so crazy succinctly and brilliantly and understandably in their song Roll Away Your Stone:

It seems that all my bridges have been burnt

But you say that’s exactly how this grace thing works.

It’s not the long walk home that will change this heart

But the welcome I receive with every start.

The whole song is great really, but I’ll play it on repeat again and again and again (especially while I’m running) just to hear that line.  I love it.  It resonates with me so strongly.  That idea, that we can always try again, no matter how bad it seems, is what I’ve searched for for a long time.

Want to know something kind of crazy?*  My little friend Emily, the one I keep telling you about– the amazing girl who colors my vision, survives my attempts at destruction, and is in so very many ways just like me… her middle name happens to be Grace.  And she is grace to me, because she gives me a chance to start over loving myself… and giving myself grace from the very beginning.  It’s powerful stuff.

Now, when I talk to her beautiful and amazing mama and hear about Emily’s struggles, it’s so meaningful to me because I can give Emily grace in the same situations in which I’ve so long been unable to give it to myself.

I really think we all deserve that from ourselves, even though it’s hard to do.  Forgiveness is difficult, even for other people, but I know I tend to hold myself to a ridiculously high (and largely unattainable) standard.  (But I’m sure you’re not like that…)  Life seems a little better with a dash of grace though.  When I can stop the second track for just a second to give myself a break, knowing that I can try again and do better next time.

I suggest starting with a pair of elbow-length satin evening gloves.  You can only go up from there.

 

*Ok, ok… that wasn’t really crazy.  Grace isn’t a terribly unpopular name.  But to me, it’s quite meaningful.  And if you knew Emily’s parents and knew how unbelievably graceful AND grace-giving they are, you’d really appreciate how big of a deal this is to me.  It’s big.  Bigger than my hair on a rainy July day in New Orleans.  Big.

In-laws, Awkwardness, and Finding Family

The Big Idea, , , , , ,

When my husband and I first started dating (many, many moons ago) meeting his family was definitely the scariest thing ever.  EVER.  He was my first serious college boyfriend and it was the first time I ever had to actually meet the parents, because they weren’t people I had grown up knowing.  That made it scary enough, but add to it the fact that we had to drive 4 hours to get there and then stay overnight (no escape if things get awkward!) and I was terrified!

My fears?  Totally founded!  It was every bit as terrifying and awkward as I had it hyped up to be.

(Please, Marilyn, I beg you– keep reading!  It gets better!!!)

But it had nothing to do with them, and everything to do with me.

My in-laws are different from my immediate family in a lot of ways.  Have you seen the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding?  You know the scene when Ian’s parents roll up outside Toula’s parents’ house wearing sweater sets and see the big Greek lawn party, complete with a lamb roasting on a spit in the front yard?  Sort of like that.  (And in the movie that is my life, I’m playing the role of Toula.)

My parents are omg-we’re-so-happy-to-meet-you-tell-me-your-life-story-and-I’ll-share-mine-let-me-take-your-coat-and-get-you-something-to-drink-please-do-sit-down-and-don’t-mind-the-dog kind of people.  That’s what I was used to.  My husband’s parents are also incredible people—they are kind and thoughtful and brilliant and generous and hard-working and truly 100% amazing, but they are reserved.  And that freaked me out.

Because when other people are reserved, it leaves way too much room for me to be awkward.

Let me just illustrate with an example.

Seth met my parents for the first time the night before my cousin’s wedding in Marquette.  We were at my aunt and uncle’s house for a yooper-style dinner,* complete with potato sausage, pastie pies (that’s past-ee, NOT paste-ee, fyi), and venison chili.  As I was snubbing the chili (I do not like venison) my mom leaned over to Seth, my brand-new boyfriend, and said, “Rachel doesn’t eat any vegetables… we don’t know how she poops.”

(Mom, noooooooooo…)

In contrast, Seth’s parents didn’t make a single poop joke the first time I met them.  (And in fact, they may not have made one yet in the eleven years I’ve known them.  Interesting…)

As horrified as I was at the time, my mom’s use of bathroom humor upon first meeting certainly broke the ice right away.  And what could Seth have possibly done that was more awkward than that?  Whew.  That was my comfort zone.  The quiet at Seth’s parents’ just begs a person like me to make an awkward joke.  Or an awkward comment.  Or awkward gestures (omg, what do I do with my haaaands?!).  Or all of the above.

This weekend, I had a lot of time in the car without any other humans (once there was a plant and once there was a dog).  Lots of thinking time.  I spent a lot of that time thinking about the family I’ve since become a part of, despite the initial awkwardness.

On Saturday, I was on my way home from a baby shower for Seth’s cousin.  Seth’s grandma and mom were there along with lots of his aunts and cousins… and it didn’t feel awkward to me at all.  I just felt like I was with family.  And while I recognize that since Seth and I got that fancy piece of paper that says we’re married, they legally are my family, a lot of people don’t ever get to feel that way.  (At least I assume that’s the case… because if they did, there would be very little material for sit-coms.)

On Sunday, I had to bring our pup to the emergency vet just past Mosinee and it was a rather trying ordeal.  I stopped at my in-law’s house on the way back to Marshfield to get her some water so she’d stop panting, and again, no awkwardness.  I stopped in the garage and said hi to my father-in-law (and my sister-in-law, who was wrapped in cardboard painted like an otoscope on the garage floor, but that’s another story for another day…), ran into the house, grabbed an ice cream bucket, filled it with water, and went on my way.

As I headed back toward Marshfield, out of Mosinee and through Halder (love small-town Wisconsin!), I wondered about when I had achieved this level of comfort…  I still remember worrying all those years ago that I would never be accepted, that I would never fit in.  When did things change?  When did they start to like me?  (Or at least get really good at pretending?)

Despite all that time I had to ponder, I still can’t really put my finger on on when exactly it happened.  But what I did realize was that it wasn’t the situation that had changed and it wasn’t Seth’s relatives that changed either.  It was me.  I grew up.  I grew into myself—into my awkwardness, my big hair and big feet, my sense of humor, and I got over a lot of my worries and decided to just be myself.

As myself, I got to know Seth’s family and I adore them, all of them—I love them even, because they are my family too.  I have a second set of parents (complete with love and support– not to mention their rockin’ garden and incredibly handy skills at everything).  A new set of grandparents that come with a farm— and an insane level of unfounded faith in me as they let me drive a tractor around it!!  I have three little sisters, two of which I didn’t have before, and because they both have curly blond hair too, no one knows it’s not by blood!  (Seriously, no one, a lot of confusion when Sister Doctor and I started working a the same place.)  I’ve been blessed with more new aunts, uncles, and cousins, than I can count… and all of their spouses and kids and animals on top of that.

The night before my wedding, one of those brand new cousins sent me a message telling me how excited she was for our wedding, but that as far as she was concerned, I was already part of the family.  It made me cry– I was so happy!  (And Meg, you will always be my favorite for it!  Always!)  That may not have been the moment, but it was a pretty solid reminder of how this family had, over time, become my family too.

So, in-laws can be scary, but in-laws really can be family, too.  For me, a little bit of time and a lot of attitude adjustment made all the difference.  That, and awkward jokes.**

 

The Cooler Peninsula
{Source}

*Yooper is what you call a person from the Upper Peninsula, or UP, pronounced like the letter U then the letter P, not the word up… hence: yooper.  The more you know.

**Because everybody loves my awkward jokes.

The Ugly Meet-ling

Seriously, , ,

I had to go to a meeting today.  It was a long meeting.  And it was an ugly meeting.

I already knew a lot of the people who were there individually.  I like a lot of those people individually.

But collectively?

Nope.

I had hoped for respectful dialogue and constructive criticism.  But it was more like this:

Angry Meeting

Angry.

Angry.  Angry.  Angry.

(That’s me in the pink, by the way… everyone in our office wore pink today to support breast cancer awareness and it was our pink challenge day, so I was SUPER pink.  Pink dress, pink tights, pink nails, pink jewelry, pink scarf (hand-dyed by my aNut!), and even pink bobby pins!  So yes, I really did stand out pretty much just like that… except that I wasn’t the only one with hair.  I just didn’t feel like drawing it on everyone else.)

There was nit-picking, items were mocked.  Mocked!  I wanted to shrink out of the room.

But shrinking wasn’t an option.  (If it were, I wouldn’t still be wearing a size 11 shoe.)  So I had to make a choice: keep silent, implying tacit agreement with the tone in the room, or sit at the table, lean in, and speak my mind.

I spoke my mind.  And by speaking my mind, I did NOT make any new friends.  But I couldn’t stand what I was hearing.

So I shared a little bit of love.

Angry Meeting Solution

I’d love to tell you that I won over the room.  That I lulled the angry masses into a calm and respectful group.  That sitting at the table and leaning in worked.

But it didn’t.  I was readily dismissed.  And I suppose sometimes it’s like that.  You can’t win them all, no matter how hard you try.  But at least my conscience is clear and I can rest well tonight knowing that I went to bat for what I thought was right.

Worth it.

My dad has a lovely little term for just such situations.  This is precisely what he calls an AFGO: Another eFfing Growth Opportunity.  Genius.  I recommend adding the word AFGO to your vocabulary, effective immediately.  I think you’ll find that life is full of opportunities to use it, and AFGOs really don’t seem quite so bad when you think of them that way.  After all, personal growth is a good thing.

Except when you have to buy new pants 😉

 

PS: I really wanted to use The Ugly Duckling as the title somehow, but I just couldn’t work ducks (or swans) in… so I had to settle for “meet-ling.”  Dang.  Better luck next title!

Great Expectations… Jurassic Disappointments

Story Telling, , ,

I set my alarm for half an hour early this morning with every intention of getting up to spend 30 minutes on the elliptical.  Unfortunately, I have set my alarm half an hour early almost every single day for the last two years with the same intention, but it has happened a grand total of perhaps 3 times.  Maybe 4.  And today was much like most of the others.  The elliptical did not happen.

So all day long, I hyped myself up– 30 minutes on the elliptical, a chance to move my legs a little bit after a long day at a desk!  And I held this blog post hostage to ensure it got done.  Posting is my reward for exercising my legs and sweating through my shirt.  Victory!

Before I get to the good stuff, I just want to share with you a sad little story about a lady with a dog she loves too much.  That lady is, of course, me.  And what did I do that makes me kind of pathetic?  Well, my dog, Curly, just had knee surgery and she can’t go up or down stairs for another 7 weeks.  Unfortunately, our elliptical is in the basement.  My husband is out of town all week and I just couldn’t bare the thought of leaving my sweet Curls upstairs alone for another half an hour.  So I picked her up, all 65 lbs of her, and carried her down for the work out and back up afterward.  The way down wasn’t so bad, but up was pretty rough.  A little bonus workout and a weird ride for my pup, I guess.  Sometimes I even disturb myself.

Anyway, on to my point…

I talk about a lot of different things, but as you’ve probably noticed, it’s not very hard for me to relate pretty much all of those things back to either Harry Potter or Jurassic Park.  And you guys, Universal Studio’s Islands of Adventure Theme Park in Orlando, Florida is home to not only the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, but also Jurassic Park.  A nerd girl’s dream come true!!

Respect the Spell Limit

Spells and velociraptors!

Butterbeer and pteradactyls!

Hogwarts and insects trapped in amber!

Harry Potter AND Jurrassic Park!

Hogwarts #2

So when the opportunity arose to visit Islands of Adventure as long as we were a mere two hours away in Jacksonville for a wedding, my husband and I jumped at the opportunity!  (Ok, I was the one who jumped… but my sweet husband did the driving!)

I was pretty dang pumped and since we were coming straight from a dream vacation in Cabo san Lucas, my expectations were sky high.  Oops.  Because, if I’m completely honest, Universal kind of failed to deliver.

Don’t get me wrong, Hogsmeade was crazy well-done, butterbeer and pumpkin juice were every bit as amazing as I had anticipated, and being able to see Hogwarts castle through the Jurassic Park arch was unreal.

JP + HP

However, Universal charges a heck of a lot of money to get into the park for the experience… and then gives you opportunity after opportunity to buy, spend, and pay more and more and more with a relatively small amount of actual “experience” sprinkled in.  Everywhere you turn– another souvenir stand, a food shop, airbrushed t-shirts and commemorative photos for purchase, hair wraps or glitter tattoos to be had.  No joke, even Ollivander’s Wand Shop was a long line for a 30 second demo only to be shuttled straight into a gift shop.  (Ok, maybe I’m just pissed that they picked a little boy to be chosen by his wand rather than me…  Maybe.)

And Jurassic Park?  Well… kind of boo, to be honest.  This is what I wanted:

raptor chase!

I wanted to be in that car, chased by dinosaurs, and I honestly expected that as a ride.

But this is what it actually was:

raptor reality

Photo-op, picture for purchase.

Ugh.

Have you ever read a book that put your imagination into absolute overdrive?  To me, Harry Potter was like that, and amazingly, the movies did not disappoint at all.  They were amazing too and while I was watching the movies it felt like someone had pulled the scenes straight from my head.  (And captured them like a memory poured into a pensieve.)  But the parks… wah wah.

Oh well!  Back to my imagination place– now that I know what butterbeer actually tastes like, I feel like I can retire there comfortably!

20131021-222239.jpg

Cheers!!

Blog milestone… let’s celebrate!

Awesome Things, Story Telling, , , , ,

Have you seen the movie Little Shop of Horrors?  It’s an excellent musical comedy that makes some very important points about accepting others as they are… and the dangers of feeding carnivorous plants. And don’t forget about the dentist.  This dentist:

{Image Source}
{Image Source}

But really, isn’t the job of any dentist to inflict pain?  All I had this morning was a cleaning and my mouth and ego are still sore!  My mouth because of all the scrippity scraping (ugh, hate that part) my ego because despite brushing, flossing, and mouthwashing religiously (more than religiously even– I only go to church once a week, after all) I still get chastised for not doing well enough.  Do you think a dentist has ever said to anyone, “great job! keep up the good work, pearly whites!”?

Doubt it.

And please don’t tell me that your dentist does.  I can’t handle the jealousy right now.

But seriously, criticism always kind of hurts and for a long, long time, I have had a notoriously thin skin.

But…

BUT…

Last week I reached a major blog milestone: first criticism!  (Out loud and to me, anyway, who knows what else has been floating around out there?)

A friend of mine (and really, a friend, I’m not being sarcastic this time) gave me my first dose of criticism.

He had two issues with my blog: 1) tapestries are for women and 2) I am spending far too much time writing far too many words when there are clearly better things I could do with my time.

Fortunately, my response to the two-fold critique was a pleasant surprise, especially to me!  Let me demonstrate.

My response circa 2005 (assuming I would have screwed up the courage to start a blog in 2005– ha!):  Dang it!  I picked such a lady name!  Tapestries are totally for women and I turned off half the population by making it something so girly!  And all of my posts are way too girly too… who wants to hear about women’s issues anymore?  What is wrong with me?!  And why am I spending so much time on this thing?!  No one reads it, no one likes it, no one likes me, and I should just give up.

Sigh… that person was annoying.

My response circa 2013 (because I did screw up the courage to start a blog in 2013– ha ha!): Really?  Tapestries are for women?!  What does that even mean???  And perhaps I should mention the fact that it was a man who brought the under the tapestry analogy to my attention in the first place!  And don’t even get me started on the fact that the things that are “women’s issues” are really just issues that affect women and should matter to everyone.  And the choice to spend time writing this blog is just that– a choice made by me, for me, on how to spend my time.  I enjoy it, it’s cathartic, and it’s fun for me and my friends!  Don’t like it?  Don’t read it.

Granted, what I actually said to my critic was a bit more toned down.  I talk a big game here, not so much in real life.  Also, all that may have been considered unprofessional 😉

Notice the difference in the tone?!  Ahhhh… that. feels. good.

The things is, what other people think of me is really none of my business.  And although it’s cliche, the negative things that other people say to me, or about me, really say a lot more about them than they do about me.  Perhaps my critic has misconceptions about gender roles and related insecurities.  Perhaps he also has some very strict ideas about how time outside of work is best spent.  Whatever it is– those things are not my problems.  What a relief!

So, congrats to me on surviving… and THRIVING… despite the criticism!

Although, I have to admit, I am a good flosser, and my feelings do still hurt a bit about that…

 

Later gators!

Shed Light in a Dark Place

Recurring Themes, , , , ,

Melissa-- light

 

I’ve probably done more than my fair share of over-sharing with this blog as my platform, but I must say, your responses– the laughter, the encouragement, the kinds words– are amazing.  My beautiful friend Melissa left the above as a comment when I fessed up about binge eating on Thursday.  How true?  And my friend Dawn mentioned a similar idea when I showed you my shroom cut a while ago.  Neither of those things feel quite so embarrassing or shameful to me anymore– power?  Poof!  Be gone!

If you’ll excuse me please, I’ve got a book club list to generate, I made some promises that I’ve been bad about keeping!

Here’s hoping you have a lovely weekend!

Gratitude for a Gentle Reminder

Seriously, , , , , , ,

While it is true that people in the Midwest tend to be exceptionally friendly, it’s also true that they are quite reserved and that it can be hard to build a relationship with people you only interact with peripherally.  As such, it’s taken me quite a long time to get to know the people I work near, but not directly with.  But two-and-a-half years later, I’m finally on friendly terms with lots of the people at the clinic and it is good.

After several friendly chats in the bathroom and hallway, I’ve found a lovely friend in one of the well-established and brilliant research scientists in the National Farm Medicine Center named Barbara.  Barbara loves to walk (seriously, like 8 miles a day), but recently fractured her foot and is slowly working toward recovery.  Likewise, I loved to run, but had tummy troubles that pretty much put a halt to that in recent months.  We really bonded over that… our shared loss of beloved physical activities.  (And yes, I did tell her all the gory details of my intestinal troubles— this is a good example of that overly quick intimacy I talked about yesterday.  Barbara is someone I really like!)

Hmmm… I like where this is going, but I’m going to have to back up just a touch to give you some context.  Get ready… I am about to spill my guts.

…

I am a binge eater.  I have a binge eating disorder.

You’re probably thinking, right, I know– I was pretty sure you said you were a woman.  But no, not just over-eating, not just an inability to resist something delicious.  We are talking about a truly life disrupting disorder of ongoing and epic proportions.  It’s not a pretty thing and something I have taken great pains to hide for most of my life.  (Literally, most of my life… like since I was 8 or 9.  This is a kind of big deal to me.)

One of the biggest triggers of my binge eating is, paradoxically, restriction.  And when I spend a lot of time restricting what I eat, either in the amount of food or the type of food, I tend to make a wild swing the other way and binge, binge, binge.  Sometimes for a day… sometimes for a month.

My second biggest trigger is, kind of pathetically, self-pity.  And sometimes I really spiral out of control when it comes to feeling sorry for myself.  Boo hoo, poor me, life is rough, and all that.

Unfortunately, all of my gastrointestinal issues and the lengthy process toward diagnosis has led to something of a perfect storm with respect to binge eating.

Following a series of rather unpleasant tests (see that poor me thing?  clearly I have a flair for the over-dramatic), I was diagnosed with EXTREME (!) lactose intolerance.  (Literally, the diagnosing doc used capital letters and exclamation points in my chart, Dr. Roy showed me… I’ve always been good at taking tests.  I blew this one out of the water!)  I’ve always known that milk and ice cream were off limits without lots of lactaid, but nothing wrong with a sprinkle of cheese, a pat of butter, a cup of yogurt, right?  Wrong.  In fact, even my allergy medication contained lactose!  What the what?!  (Yeah, I’m definitely the one that taught that age-inappropriate phrase to Emily… sorry!)

So, for an entire 1.5 weeks I was crazy careful about lactose– either none whatsoever or precautionary lactaid anytime there was so much of a chance.  And my stomach was awesome.  AWESOME!  For the first time in MONTHS.  I went for a couple of runs, my stomach felt great, no emergency trips to the bathroom, no awkwardness.

BUT– I felt super sorry for myself.  And I felt like I was being super restrictive.

So.  I came back from Mexico and went completely off the rails.  The result has not been pretty.  Lactose is definitely the culprit.

…

So, back to the story at hand.

I spent the better part of today binging.  On lactose-containing things, naturally.  Because that’s just how I roll.  My stomach hurt, my confidence in my ability to get past this binge was waning, and I was ready to head home and continue the vicious cycle with more food and more self-pity.  But, on my way out the door, I bumped in to no other than Barbara and we walked to the parking lot together– chit chatting the whole way.

Barbara was so thrilled that I had a diagnosis and that a simple avoidance of lactose was enough to allow me to run again.  She reminded me that running is something I love to do.  And she pointed out the gorgeousness of the season and the perfectness of the temperature for running.  And she was so right.

So.  Right.

So instead of going home and sitting on the couch with a big bowl of lactose-laced anything, I came home, laced up my running shoes, and headed out to pound the pavement for 20 minutes.

It was a brief run, but it was a good start.  The temperature was in the upper 40s and perfect and the skies were a bubbly, cloudy gray.  I ran past bright red leaves and a sweet puppy that wanted to play.  I ran past pumpkins on porches and jammed to Seth’s Road Trip Mix.

20131016-202720.jpg

Yep, I do love running.

Thank goodness for Barbara and her gentle reminder.  For her kind words and genuine interest in my life.  She gave me exactly what I need today in such a subtle way.  And for that, I am incredibly grateful.

 

PS: I make jokes… even about serious things.  It’s just what I do.  But binge eating disorder and any other eating disorder is a serious thing and professional help is required.  Don’t worry, I’m getting some.  And if you ever feel like you might need help, you should absolutely reach out.  For realsies.