In theory…

So I’m trying to make peace with the fact that the only physical activity I have done today is riding the stationery bike for a half hour. I had the option to do more, as time is not an issue tonight, but instead chose to come home, curl up with another cup of tea and read.

In theory, this sounds normal.

But to me, this presents the irrational excuse to feel lazy, to restrict my evening snack to something safe and to make up for this tomorrow. I wasn’t going to post, but decided to work through this with a ramble, so buckle up…

The thing is that I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon (just a yearly check-up I’ve been putting off), so the inevitable weigh-in will occur. I will be in layers of clothes in the late afternoon, not in my underwear first thing in the morning (best weigh-in time). While the number doesn’t (shouldn’t) matter, for me, it’s still a concrete thing to obsess on.

So, I’ll stand backwards and tell them not to announce it.

No big deal. Call me naive, but ignorance is bliss…in theory.

But for to me, I tend to want to quantify well-being into easily understandable numbers. I want to be able to know that I worked out X minutes, that I ate Y amounts of this for breakfast, etc.

I have these thoughts despite knowing that health can’t be defined by ascribed numbers, that numbers are random and can mislead. I know wellness is defined by the physical and mental cues we receive on a daily basis.

I know that I am not in a state of physical or mental well-being.

Yet tonight, I feel lazy. And confused (enter said ramble). What is the difference between being lazy—choosing to read, write or watch TV instead of exercising—and  being aware of what your body wants?

That’s the problem, in that I don’t have a freaking clue what my body wants, as I’ve ignored it for so long. The subtle clues, the natural tendencies that normal people never question—I never trusted.

Instead I trust my head, as I know what my head wants — to exercise the obsessive thoughts and restrict my ability to let go of the pieces that are holding me back.

In theory, I know I can’t have it both ways. I can’t satisfy both my disordered thoughts and those that want to move on to better health and happiness. It’s either/or, not both.

But yet tonight, I just don’t trust myself, so one doesn’t feel good enough. I want to do more—to feed both the panicked part of my mind again and the urge to “just be” from my body. And it’s not just tonight, but every. freaking. day.

One says lazy, the other says progress. Good/bad. Right/wrong.

In theory, I should sit and eat and sit and eat and shut the hell up.

• Go to work like normal people do and not curse the winter temps, knowing that more than anything else I want to go for a walk—do something!— just to relieve some of my anxiety (even if the motivation for that walk may just be the cause of the anxiety).
• Eat whatever the hell I want without feeling like I have to “play it safe,” seeing as I was less active today than I was yesterday or a day last month or whenever I felt justified in my actions.
• Actually trust and process that these women know what they’re talking about, that I’m not the only one who feels this way, and that until I actually commit myself 100%, I will continue to write these inane posts of indecision and ambivalence. (Even though I know this myself, I have a hard time believing I’m the best person to listen to at this point, eh?)

In theory, I should admit I’m embarrassed, admit that I’m really not  “different from the other girls” when it comes to my disorder just because I don’t think I’m fat, that I’m just OCD and complicated.

I can make up as many excuses as I want, and in theory, this can justify my actions and my thoughts.

However, in reality, excuses will  bring me no closer to naturally quantifying health than will random numbers floating around in my head. In reality, I have to do the work.

Holy freaking ramble! But at least it kept me busy for a bit, (and accountable for actually going to the appointment tomorrow.)

Anyway, how do you deal with the balance between knowing what you want to do and what you should do? Between being lazy and being mindful?

In theory, I will have a more chipper post next time…

 

 

 

 

Hug It Out

You know I hate to torture you with my awful pictures, but some visuals are needed, so take a deep breath. Don’t judge…

Recipe For Holiday Hugs

(a.k.a. How to kiss office ass a bit)

These are super simple and the salty pretzel, white chocolate and M&M are a great combo. No matter where I bring these, they’re a hit.

 What you need:

• Bag of Hershey’s Hugs
• Bag of Holiday M&Ms
• Bag of Pretzels
• Time that would normally be spent exercising spent trying to be crafty

1. All you do is preheat the oven to 300 degrees, line a baking sheet with foil and cover the foil with plain mini pretzels (either the normal twisty kind or circles).
2. Preheat oven to 300 degrees while unwrapping the hugs, and then place a hug in the center of each pretzel.
3. Stick the pan in the oven for only around four minutes (depending on the oven). You want to make sure the hugs get melty, but don’t want them to burn (hence the low heat).
4. As soon as you have meltage (technical terms), remove the pan from oven and immediately place an M&M in the center of each melty hug/pretzel hybrid. 
5. Either cool on the counter for a couple hours, or if you have no patience, stick the pan in the fridge for an hour or so.

Now, if you are still trying to kill time and get in the holiday spirit, you can purchase a foam/paint kit from the craft store and spend too much time making cheesy ornaments with your coworkers names painted on.

Purchase festive little treat bags from the dollar store, fill each bag with a handful of the complicated chocolate treats created above and tie the ornament to the bag of said treats.

 

And if you’re still looking to add something more, include a little note that says:

“The holiday season is now here to stay, so here is a small treat to help              start your day.”

Drop on coworkers desks Monday morning and hope everyone takes it as a sign to leave you alone and spare you the details of their dysfunctional family gatherings and ravaging of bird carcasses stuffed with stale bread. 

Or…just enjoy the season of giving — even if what you give is cheesy— and realize it’s much better to be annoyingly chipper than annoyingly cranky.

If you’re still trying to make healthy choices, decorate your little Christmas tree on your sun porch … 

with ornaments that may just include Detroit Tiger candy canes.

Put the lights on your hearth and take a picture, even though the picture makes it look like crap (it’s so cozy and neat at night)…

and be grateful that you mom stopped by to help and bring a stocking, even though you know she’s sad this is the first Christmas you won’t be waking up at her house with the 10-foot tree (even though you’ll still be there before she gets up, so nothing’s really changed.)

And to keep the holiday spirit, settle in for a cup of this great holiday tea that all the bloggers have been raving about—this tea that you’ve spent the past week going store to store searching for, hoping for a desserty-tasting treat…

I didn’t love it.

In fact, I didn’t even like it. It might be because I’m not a big sweets person, but I had hopes that this would be a nice little seasonal treat to cuddle up with, and the taste was just a bit over the top for me (maybe I’m just used to my twig tea).

So, if anyone is desperately searching for this tea and doesn’t mind receiving a box with one tea bag missing, be the first to leave me a comment and I’ll e-mail you for your address.

On that note, what food products did you have high hopes for that have been a disappointment?

and/or

Now that the holidays are in full swing, what one thing can you do this week to show your spirit?

That’s what she said

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, which is not always the most productive thing for me to do.

In other words, this is your warning that it’s one of those “stream-of-consciousness” posts with no real plan, other than to get things out of my head and make room for new stuff.

It’s kind of boring, honestly, but anyway…

To be honest, I don’t even know where to start, so I’ll start by referring you to a post that I wish I had written myself. To summarize, it basically talks about new eating disorder criteria that includes “non-fat phobic anorexia.” I’m not a fan of putting myself into any category, as I have never felt like I “qualify” for any of the neat and clean definitions offered with anything, but this one struck a chord. (I think the fact that it focuses more on OCD may be why…)

Like I said, I hate to use her brilliant words, but this sums up exactly how I feel:

I was terrified of gaining weight, but not because of anything related to body image. My main reason, as I’ve said before, was that I was convinced that my depression and anxiety became unmanageable every time I was at a healthy weight, and that starving myself protected me by keeping me numb and providing an all-consuming distraction.

I’ve said it before, but I hate the way I look—not because I am fat, but because I am the complete opposite. People look at me and draw the same conclusions—she thinks she’s fat, she starves herself, she needs to get over it.

Well, I have never fallen into a “group” and deeply resented any attempts to work on body image, the influence of the media on looks and self-confidence, “loving” myself for how I am, etc. in treatments. It was boring. It felt cheesy.

Right or wrong, this is part of the reason I feel I’m too old to be still struggling with this, that the “fat phobia” is something young girls go through when trying to fit in to some sort of predetermined ideal (that I never subscribed to to begin with.)

As if it wasn’t isolating enough that I had “anorexia” and other mental health problems and so felt apart from ‘normal’ people, I was also phobic of being sick whilst surrounded (online) by purging anorexics and didn’t even relate to the one thing that the general public thinks typifies anorexia, and what seemed to be the main fear among most of my (ED’d) friends.

In fact, I was always super annoyed by these girls. I listened, I helped, but I never really understood where they were coming from. Yet when they looked at me, they saw thin and assumed we were the same. My explanation confused them—you don’t think you’re fat, but you’re wasting away?

So once again, I don’t fit in, and am left trying to figure out how to take parts from here and there and piece together some sort of definition of “normal” for me. Self-affirmation cards aren’t needed. Little reminder notes that I’m pretty and worth it, while helpful for some, are not necessary for me. When I was healthy, I was hot. Yet that’s still not motivation enough for me…

My anorexic target weights had nothing to do with what I thought my body would look like there, they just seemed somehow magically safe and neat. Getting up and seeing a lower number than yesterday made me feel safe. Seeing a higher number terrified me – not because I felt like I was getting fat and that everyone would be able to see the extra half a pound, but as if my life depended on my weighing less every day.

There is an obsession that runs deeper than the physical with me. There is a compulsion to work out a minute more today than yesterday, to cut a corner here and there instead of “losing control” and pigging out. I want the wiggle room, the assurance that if something happens to interrupt my schedule or my plan, I had prepared and worked out extra, restricted a little bit—just in case.

There was no hidden meaning behind the ritual, it was more like my brain was acting like a broken record stuck on a loop. My anorexia was similar. Eating more than my current safe number of calories was just not an option – I was so petrified by the thought that there was no willpower required. The number of calories I chose was not linked to a diet plan or my BMR, it was just an arbitrary number that was a bit lower than last week’s.

Until that is addressed somehow—until those issues are resolved—I just keep perpetuating the cycle in an attempt to outrun the confusion and frustration, with myself and with my life.

But the fact that I was trying to lose weight whilst not believing for a second that I was overweight or attractive at lower weights confused the hell out of me.

And evidently, pretty much everyone else that I talked to that deals with these things. So, I’m left to deal with myself for the most part. Why am I bringing this up again?

Because someone that has served as a ray of hope to me from my last treatment—someone who struggled herself and now dedicated herself to helping those with eating disorders—has offered me a gift. Kathleen has become a great friend and knows I can’t afford traditional help, but through the foundation she has been offered a gift she has extended to me.

So now I have this once-in-a-lifetime gift of treatment—and I can’t accept. Why? First, I can’t just leave my life for a couple months and go into a sheltered environment, away from “real” life. It looks fantastic, and the medical attention would be welcome just to get a kick start, but it’s not reality. It’s sheltered. It’s safe.

Second,I feel like it’s not an eating disorder, per se, and I hate the assumptions, hate the fact that I am seen as “one of them.” I just want to scream, “That’s not me!” But I don’t even understand how to explain it myself.

I told you this was a ramble! It’s another post about me pondering what I should do to kick my own ass, yet I haven’t done it. I think I just keep waiting to be rescued somehow—from myself?—and then the opportunity presents itself and I refuse.

I’m convinced I can do this alone. I’m convinced this is not what I need. Yet, I’m still counting every day and the fact that I did yoga instead of the gym today is already driving my meals and my mood.

When your eating disorder is driven not by self hate but by a deep (if misguided) belief that it protects you, these may not help so much. I didn’t need to learn to love myself or to stand up for myself because I had pretty good self esteem, and I didn’t need to retrain my warped body image because I could see what I looked like and it wasn’t fat. I would have benefited from realising that a significant minority of people with eating disorders had the same fears driving their behaviours as I did, and from someone attempting to reframe THOSE thoughts, rather than just presumptively saying (as the psychiatrist who referred me back to the local EDU in February did) ’so, you are not eating because you are terrified of being fat, yes?’.

No. And it confuses the hell out of me.

I’m thankful for…

This time of year we all give thanks

For blessings small and big,

I’m thankful for my family,

Good food and my work  gig.

But things don’t always get the love,

I feel that they deserved,

Those things that keep me happy

On those days I come unnerved.

So, instead of taking out my angst

By working out too much,

I’m once again presenting you

With rhyming crap and such.

Because…

I’m thankful for dark chocolate

Especially Organic,

(I just pretend it’s good for me

To offset sugar panic.)

I’m thankful plain Greek yogurt has

a presence in my fridge,

 As even if it costs too much,

Abstaining’s sacrilege.

I’m thankful for the job I have,

Although these days it sucks,

Writing this and fixing that

For other lazy…people.

I’m thankful that the Iron Chef

Just crowned is named Jose,

 As the little guy just creeped me out

And was no Bobby Flay.

But really, who is?

I’m thankful for those people

That move to the side if slow,

Not those lazy slackers

That just amble to and fro.

If I’m walking fast it means I need

To get there in a hurry,

 (Or more likely I’ve had too much tea

And piddling is a worry.)

I’m thankful that somebody told

the dumbass at the gym,

That doing squats in unitards,

Was not the look for him.

I’m also thankful that someone

Told “cell phone guy” the same,

As running on a treadmill yelling

“She wants me, dude!” is lame.

I guess I’m thankful that there is

No Whole Foods in my town,

As rest assured the balance in my

Savings would go down.

Sigh…

I’m thankful that I’d rather walk,

Then always take my car.

And instead of drinking at one,

I would rather eat a bar.

I’m thankful grocery clerks nearby,

All know me by my face.

(As apparently I stop there

More than any other place.)

I’m thankful that I took the night

To try and be amusing.

Instead of fighting mental wars,

I usually end up losing.

But I’m also thankful there are days

When honesty means more.

And I can face the struggles that

I normally ignore.

(Today is clearly not that day

But felt like posting anyway.)

I’m thankful someone thought to make

A veggie burger right,

 Along with pumpkin mixed in oats,

(I could eat this every night.)

And might have. Don’t judge.

Anyway…

I’m thankful that I have the chance

To blog here any day.

And even if I’m full of shit,

You read it anyway.

YOUR TURN

Yes, this was lame, but I felt I had to post something and didn’t feel like deep thinking. So, show me up and brilliantly finish the sentence below:

“I’m really hoping someone brings ________to Thanksgiving this year.”

OR

“I’m really hoping no one brings _________to Thanksgiving this year.”

I Will Survive

“It took all the strength I had
not to fall apart
kept trying hard to mend
the pieces of my broken heart
and I spent oh so many nights
just feeling sorry for myself
I used to cry
Now I hold my head up high
and you see me
somebody new
I’m not that chained up little person
still in love with you
and so you felt like dropping in
and just expect me to be free
now I’m saving all my loving
for someone who’s loving me…”

Now that this Gloria Gaynor song is stuck in your head—and you feel a sense of empowerment usually reserved for groups of heartbroken women or singing at the top of you lungs while driving alone—you’re probably wondering what the heck this has to do with me.

Or you, for that matter.

But in part from your support on my last post, I’m writing right now instead of manically working out tonight as a way to cope with a totally stressful day on all fronts. Instead of working out, I also flipped through my journals from the hospital (almost four years ago) again.

Wake-up call.

I’ll spare you the usual details about how much I had to eat and the physical effects that followed, as it was a lot and they weren’t pleasant.

I’ll spare you how I thought I would go nuts just sitting and “talking through” things all day, but actually welcomed the break from reality.

I’ll spare you how I spent over $15,000 for two weeks and just this month paid off the last $100.

What I’ll tell you about is one of the art therapy sessions we had, and not the one where I painted a doormat or unsuccessfully learned how cut paper with dull scissors (no sharp objects, remember). 

This one involves a group of  psychiatric patients at different levels of drug-induced stupor—me, a rich but depressed lawyer named Bear who would randomly go on violent rants and an opera singer from New York with suicidal tendencies, just to name a few—and a karaoke machine.

Let the good times roll.

I can’t sing, but when you’re among a group of people that have seen you only at your worst, what have you got to lose?

At first, no one was really into it. But after a few lame attempts from others, Bear grabbed the mike and proceeded to bust out some “Brown Eyed Girl” that got everyone going—clapping, singing, you name it.

Then “I Will Survive” came on and the mike was thrust at me. Obviously having nothing better to do, I gave it a shot.

Actually, you would have thought I was auditioning for American Idol (wearing yoga pants, slippers, a monitor and sporting two-days of unwashed hair—like most contestants in the early rounds.)

I sang that song like my life depended on it,  because maybe at that point, it almost did.

“It took all the strength I had not to fall apart…”

I had been (and am now, I suppose) trying so hard to keep things together, to not show weakness, to ignore what I was really feeling or trying to avoid.

“Kept trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart…”

There’s a lot behind this one, but the moral of the story is that you can’t change other people. No matter what the relationship, they will hurt you, they will disappoint you, they are flawed. So are you. A broken relationship with anyone or anything is no excuse to break yourself down—physically or mentally.

“I spent oh so many nights just feeling sorry for myself…”

Isn’t that in essence what I do when I run myself ragged, when I restrict the things I need and indulge in those I don’t? As selfless as I am with most things, when I think of all the things I’ve done in the midst of this struggle, they are inherently selfish.  I am blessed with the opportunity to get healthy, and yet I’m still compelled to make decisions that cause me to stumble and others to worry.

Crap.

“I used to cry. Now I hold my head up high – and you see me – somebody new – I’m not that chained up little person still in love with you…”

This is the goal, no? I want to be able to look back and be proud of coming out of this healthy and strong, in body and mind.

I want to be somebody new—to look different and be proud again, to not run mental marathons and instead work out for health —and not be chained to my destructive thoughts and immersed in negative behaviors.

So I guess maybe I sang that song like my life depended on it,  because  at that point, it almost did.

And maybe it does again now.

QUICK REVIEW

I had the chance to try the Pecan Nutridel. You know I’m not big on new things and am very picky, but you know what? Freaking delicious. They were thin, crispy and just slightly sweet (I don’t like sweet, so it was a perfect balance). I would definitely buy these if they were available in my area, but they aren’t. However, you can order from the Web site, and I might do just that in the future…

And I’m still working on my Newman’s challenge, but am waiting until I have a few different things to review at once. Delicious so far!

QUESTION

This song is cheesy, but there are so many songs that bring up so many memories for me. What songs do the same for you? What would be your theme song?

It’s just a phase…

Not the most upbeat post right now, so there’s your disclaimer. In fact, I posted it last night and deleted it 10 minutes later. But,  someone read my rant in those few minutes and told me that was ridiculous (Damn. She’s fast.) Anyway, moving on…

This is a phase.

I go through phases, although at some point I have to question whether it’s a phase or just the way I am.

This is a phase!

This is one of those times when I don’t want to blog, don’t want to think, don’t want to do much of anything. This is one of those times when I suppose I’m hoping the punctuation added at the end can somehow offer hope of better things ahead, a new ending of sorts.

This is a phase?

Let’s hope so.

This is a phase where I seem to be numb for no particular reason. I hate to even say it, as I feel ungrateful and selfish, but I feel what I feel. Or I don’t feel what I don’t feel, to be honest. My thoughts are food, sleep, exercise, lather, rinse repeat.

This is a phase where I could write the most beautiful prose, the most meaningful post, and not believe a word I say applies to me at all.

This is a phase where I see myself as someone looking in on life; watching, observing, taking mental notes to be filed away.

I could write a book—self-help for others, fiction for me.

This is a phase where I read other blogs robotically, checking this and catching up on that like there will be test at the end and I have to know everything. Reading about how things could be—exercising, cooking, living—almost becomes a chore, a form of self-defeat.

It’s painful, but it’s just a phase?

This is a phase where I remember the things I want to forget and forget all the things that should matter. As hard as I try, those thoughts won’t escape and the thoughts that I need just elude me.

This is a phase when I wonder how in the hell others do it. How do they balance life, food, exercise, work, family, friends and anything else? It seems I can do one, but not the other. I have to have my routine to have my food and exercise, so that maybe, maybe, I can deal with my job, or family or life.

One or the other.

This is a phase where I need to start caring, yet find it exhausting to try—to trust, to try, try again and find a reason to care, a reason to trust, a reason to try.

This has to be a phase.

I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m not looking for anything, actually, and I seriously hesitated writing this at all (and there’s a good chance I will delete quite soon.)

So, I figured I could write a happy post you all would read and leave comments on, giving me a small sense of belonging and acceptance that I apparently need on some level. (As much as I hate to admit it, I would give anything to have a blog that I was proud of, that showcased new ideas and my progress as I move towards better things.)

Or, I could write another honest post that might offend you and turn off any readers, seeing as it’s a bit raw and not so cheery (hell, I wouldn’t even want to read it). I could write a post that somehow still veils the fact that I’m so lost in so many ways, alone on so many levels, unhappy at work, exhausted from thinking, spinning my wheels.

I chose the latter, because it’s just a phase.?!

Let’s hope so.

Fear Factor…and an actual recipe

It’s Friday the 13 th, for whatever that means, so I thought I would talk about…fear foods.

It’s no secret that certain foods may be considered “fear foods” for certain people —foods that may trigger a fear of gaining weight, a fear of binging, etc.— and society certainly doesn’t help with that at all. Foods deemed “bad” and “good” are all over the place —TV, magazines, books — sugar is bad, so fruit is bad; a grapefruit diet worked for her, so it must be good for you, etc.

You get the point.

Leslie cited a great example from the most recent episode of “The Biggest Loser,” where the merits of a simple banana were apparently debated and deemed a “weight-gaining” food, no doubt leading those already on the brink of disordered thinking over the edge.

Lovely.

However, according to this story, a 22-year-old female student from Portsmouth claims she is unable to keep to a healthy diet because she is frightened of vegetables. It’s not that she has disordered thoughts about eating them, but that she has a real fear of the stuff.

I’ll summarize:

She suffers from a fear known as lachanophobia, which leaves her sweating and stricken with panic attacks at the merest sight of a sprout or a pea. She survives on a diet of meat, potatoes, cereals and an occasional apple but refuses even a single slice of carrot on her dinner plate.

“I have always had an irrational fear of vegetables even as a child I used to properly freak out if some carrots or a few peas were on my plate,” she said. “People might think it is a bit of a laughable affliction but I have a genuine fear of greens it’s not just that I dislike the taste of sprouts or broccoli, but the actual sight of them fills me with dread and I could never touch them.”

The unusual fear affects just a few thousand people in Britain and treatments for the condition include "psychological re-programming" to control the anxious response to seeing vegetables.

"It is a bit of an ordeal to go to the supermarket because the veg is usually right by the door," she said. "I am learning to control my fear but it isn’t easy it is a hard thing to have to bring up when I meet new people…But I’m confident that I will eventually overcome the phobia. I’d love to be able to sit down to a slap-up Sunday roast with a pile of greens and I’m sure one day that will happen."

Not sure where to go with that, but I guess we all have our phobias and fears. My only question is, what about tomatoes and avocados? Are those considered fruit and therefore OK or are they considered a vegetable and anxiety-provoking?

Sorry…had to get that in.

At any rate, regardless of whether we see a tater as a threat to our physical, emotional or psychological safety, one thing’s the same — we’re giving food a power it doesn’t deserve to have.

Much like numbers, deeming certain foods as “fear foods” gives control to something that we actually have complete control over, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

For me, it’s kind of a confusing issue (shocker, eh?)

It’s not that I “fear” any food or put it on my “do not buy” list, but rather that I am never quite sure if it’s something I really want or something I think I should have (the good). If it’s something I really don’t like, or something I don’t think I should like (the bad). If it’s something I know I really like, but also something I know isn’t “healthy” but eat too much of it anyway and then feel guilty (the ugly).

Follow that? I didn’t.

Anyway, the anxiety comes more from the change in routine, as I feel such a (false) sense of security with eating the same things over and over, as boring as they may seem to be.

As I’ve shared, I like knowing the exact amounts, knowing how my body will (usually) react to them, and most importantly—knowing how my mind will (usually) react to them.

But if you recall, sometimes even an apple can throw me off my rocker. The safe become the scary, and then things tend to snowball.

How ridiculous does that sound when you really think about it? Letting a food make me feel guilty? Letting a food affect my mood and dictate my actions? Letting a food hold that power over me, be it an apple or an apple pie?

It almost sounds as ridiculous as being scared of vegetables.

Huh…(fear) food for thought.

But speaking of food, I did partake in pumpkin oats for the first time and am convinced that I need them on a daily basis (even though they were cold overnight oats eaten at work at 7am). I had never added pumpkin—something different—but I had some leftover from a baking experiment and thought I would live on the edge.

Worth the risk. Seasonally delicious. Big props to the pumpkin.

What was the baking experiment, you ask?

Caramel Pumpkin Oatmeal Bars

The Detroit News supplied me with this seasonal recipe and the picture above of what a GOOD photograph looks like, as opposed to the one below that I took while dishing them onto travel plates.

This is why I don’t take pictures.

Anyway, their version is slightly more appealing, but from the reviews I got at work, the bars tasted much better than they photographed. My mom thought they were a bit too rich, but my coworkers are addicted to sugar—and anything free—so just take that into account.

 

2 cups flour

2 cups rolled oats

1 1/2 cups firmly packed light brown sugar

1 tablespoon McCormick Pumpkin Pie Spice

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, melted

1 cup canned pumpkin

7 ounces (half of a 14-ounce package) caramels, unwrapped

2 tablespoons milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix flour, oats, sugar, pumpkin pie spice, baking soda and salt in large bowl. Add butter; stir until mixture is well blended and forms coarse crumbs. Reserve half (about 2 1/4 cups) for the topping. Add pumpkin to remaining mixture in bowl; stir until well blended. Press evenly into greased, foil-lined, 13-by-9-inch baking pan. Set aside.

Microwave caramels and milk in medium microwavable bowl on High 2 to 3 minutes or until caramels are completely melted, stirring after every minute. Let stand 1 minute. Pour over pumpkin mixture in pan, spreading to within 1/2 -inch of edges. Sprinkle with reserved crumb mixture.

Bake 30 to 35 minutes or until light golden brown. Cool in pan on wire rack. Lift from pan; remove foil. Cut into bars.

Proceed to take bad pictures of them to post on your blog, simply to prove once again why you’re not a food blogger. 

YES, I’M ALMOST DONE…

So after all that, what are your thoughts on “fear” foods and just the general power and influence many of us place on the things we eat (or don’t eat)?

What is the one thing you always, always feel safe with—your top “comfort” food, so to speak (strictly from a taste perspective, of course)?

And if all else fails, do you have any really weird fears?

I fear I will never win a giveaway, but Leslie is giving me another chance to snag some Oikos. Check it out!

Safety In Numbers

So I was sitting at my desk at work today, debating whether I would go for a nice relaxed walk later after supper (the weather is unseasonably nice) or whether I would go to the gym and hop on a bike for a measurable amount of time.

Who are we kidding? There was no debate, really.

Too bad I went for a small walk at lunch, yet couldn’t wait to get to the gym tonight and pedal away my frustrations with work, with family, with life. Every second of every day I have to work at silencing that internal debate, and sometimes I feel either way I lose.

But I needed that reassurance of something concrete, of something showing me that for 40 minutes I pedaled a bike and literally got nowhere (except halfway through the new Every Day with Rachael Ray.) In fact, it probably sent me backwards.

But it gets tricky when numbers are involved, doesn’t it?

Even if I don’t place a lot of concrete value on those numbers—it can be weight or calories, money or time—they can all be measured, they can all be compared and they can all be manipulated to mean whatever you want them to mean.

By keeping score, I know if I didn’t exercise as much today as yesterday, if I ate more today than I planned, if I spent too much time on the blogs.  I have been pushing myself, challenging numbers, but in all the wrong ways. It’s like I’m addicted to self-defeat.

On one hand, I know exactly what I need to do to change things, yet I don’t  push myself in that direction of healthy discomfort.

On the other hand, I  know exactly the minimum number of calories or minutes of exercise I need to stay exactly where I am—teetering on the rope of almost-trying and comfortable discomfort.

I am not a stupid woman, so why would I think that eating less than that amount or exercising more than I should would be even remotely acceptable?

It’s those damn numbers.

I like to know, even if I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I can manipulate them to feel proud for all the wrong reasons or use them as a way to stay strong. I can manipulate them to drag myself down or use them to pick myself up.

I use the clock to eat my meals all day, each neatly measured out. I use the time to judge my workouts, each day a minute more. I use my weight to keep me safe from pain, but yet it tears me down.

It’s those damn numbers.

The internal debate rages on, “life” chaotically rages along around me and I find myself turning to food even more—on blogs, on Web sites, on TV—to serve as a distraction. It takes my mind away from something I don’t know how to deal with to something more concrete, something I can see, something I could enjoy if I would only let myself.

If I would only let go of the numbers—time, calories, measurements—all judgments I tend to misuse.

I know this about myself, so day by day, my goal is to try and release the hold that I place on these numbers that really mean nothing at all (does a measured cup of rice really taste different than an unmeasured cup of rice?) By releasing a bit of that hold, I hope to reclaim a bit more of the intuition and strength that I’ve buried.

A gentle walk, a yoga class, an unmeasured amount at a meal—I aim to embrace them as equally worthy of my time and attention, if not more so than the value I place on an arbitrary number.

I wanted to go for a walk.

Chobani Winner

I don’t know how to take a fancy picture of the screenshot from random.org, so you’re just going to have to take my word for it that the randomly generated number was 25, meaning Ms. Maggie (a.k.a. The Salad Girl) was the winner!

If you can e-mail me the address where you want the yogurt sent to you, Maggie, we’ll get that out to you!

 

Pride and Prejudice

I’ll quickly set the scene. Me, in my happy place (grocery store), ready to check out.

So I got in line behind a man with only a few items on the belt—off-brand mini butter cookies, a couple two liters of off-brand pop and two snack-sized bags of chips.

(Now I apologize in advance if this isn’t a politically correct description, but I’m trying to set the scene here.)

He was probably about mid-40s and dressed in dirty jeans, a heavily worn coat thrown on over a couple layers of shirts and work boots.

He kind of gaped his mouth like a fish out of water every few seconds, revealing rows of gums where teeth should be. The way he looked around, squinting and furtive, it appeared his eyes were closed, although his darting glances back and forth would suggest otherwise.

Right or wrong, I assumed he had some “issues” of his own, namely those involving a lack of steady employment, financial security and complete physical and mental acuity.

(Although given the fact that I was in Meijer on a Friday night in yoga pants and a sweatshirt and spent 10 minutes picking out the perfect avocadoes, one could easily draw a similar assumption about my mental acuity.)

At any rate, as I was unloading my cart, the cashier—a guy about my age—rang up our Mr. X. I didn’t hear the total, but I did see him hand over a few crumpled dollar bills and proceed to make up the difference with a pocket full of dirty change. Dimes, nickels, pennies…he kept counting until he felt he had enough.

The woman behind me with her son let out exasperated sighs, apparently in a hurry to get home with her half gallon of chocolate milk, overpriced, over-sugared box of “healthy” Cocoa Puffs and National Enquirer (not that I was judging).

The cashier informed the man that he was still a dollar short, causing him to fumble back into the depths of his pockets in search of his change. Right or wrong, I grabbed a dollar out of my purse and offered it to him under the guise that he should save the change for later, as it always comes in handy.

He looked absolutely confused, not that I blame him, and proceeded to dart his squinted eyes back and forth, doing the gaping mouth thing rapidly now and shifting his weight back and forth.

“What’s that? I don’t want that dollar,” he said as he began rifling through his pockets again.

The cashier was looking at me a bit stunned, looking back at him, back at me, back at him—the man still searching for the necessary change. The cashier took my dollar, and asked the man, “So, do you want me to use this or not?”

Mr. X was upset, saying he didn’t need that dollar, that he had the change he needed somewhere. I felt like an ass. Obviously this man was too proud to accept even a dollar under the guise of it being anything but charity, something I hadn’t taken into consideration—his pride and my prejudice assumption.

Just then Mr. X looked up and said, “Unless it fell out of my pocket…”

The cashier looked at me and nodded when I confirmed this very fact—that the dollar had indeed slipped out of his pocket when he was reaching for his change. I added that it happens to me all the time, watching as the man vigorously nodded his head at the cashier.

He got his receipt, grabbed his bags and headed for the exit.

When I turned back to finish unloading, the woman behind me gave a soft smile and a nod, her impatience momentarily forgotten or ignored. The cashier didn’t say anything, but upon giving me my receipt he added the obligatory, “have a good night.”

I wished him the same, and he said that he already had.

But I was thinking, of course, about my assumptions and my own pride. While I’m pretty sure I was correct about our homeless friend, I still felt like it was a bit pretentious for me to assume he would accept my help—as meager as it was. While he was obviously in need of help, he was too proud to admit it…sound familiar?

There are times when I know things could be different for me, that I could give up all control and admit that things are rough, that I’m slipping or I might just need support.

Yet I still dig through my coins, trying to figure out a way to make it work the way it’s been, refusing to accept the help that’s right in front of me.

Maybe it’s my pride, maybe it’s my preconceived idea of how I think things need to be, or maybe I really do want to be rescued in some sense of the term.

Maybe (just maybe) this blog is me accepting the dollar without feeling the shame? The support and the help without feeling too needy?

Maybe this is being written right now instead of me going to the gym, so it would appear to be a nonsensical rant used to defer anxiety? Maybe, but it is what it is.

And although I’m not a food blogger, it always comes back to food…

So what fun item from the grocery trip/psychological gut-check am I sharing with you today?

I found this line of entrees stuck in by my beloved Amy’s in the freezer section. Given the fact that I’m in the dang store about every day, these were a new addition that piqued my interest. I went out on a limb and decided to give these a try.

Product: Moo Moo’s Poblano Chickpea Patties

Price: $3.89

Description: Chick peas, kettle cooked chili onions, brown rice, roasted poblano and red bell peppers combined into southwest patties served over Moo’s Roasted Corn Salsa. Vegan and Gluten Free.

Taste: The two patties and corn salsa can either be made in the oven or microwave and come in a film-covered tray. Although I prefer the oven, I was impatient and threw them in the microwave, so the patties weren’t as crisp or solid as I assume oven baking would have produced.

It looked nothing like the picture on the box. But with that said, it still tasted delicious. They were a bit mushy (microwave-mushy), but very well spiced with a kick of heat, and the corn was the perfect addition.

Conclusion: While it was the perfect nighttime snack while waiting for Joel, it would probably be a bit small for a meal unless bulked up a bit with more veggies or fruit. However, I liked them a lot and was glad that I ventured out and tried something new.

Although only four different entrees are available at my store, they have a total of six on their Web site, all of which I wouldn’t mind tasting in the future…and that says something, considering how picky I am.

Rock on, Moo Moo, rock on.

Remember that my Chobani giveaway ends Sunday night!