My Intuitive Eating blog

Check it out--it's dedicated to musings on Intuitive Eating practices.

Enjoy!

http://embodylifecoaching-caitlin.blogspot.com/

When All Else Fails....

....take a Mental Health day.

Which is exactly what I find myself doing this very Wednesday.

I'm a Life Coach and a writer; I am currently getting paid to do these things, but only enough--at the moment--to consider these both "side" jobs, and I dislike that fact enormously. So I tend to fume and moan and bitch considerably and THEN make new, good steps towards The Prize, and yes, at least--at least--I am getting paid to do what I love, what really satisfies my spirit and my heart. There is that.

But, like a really, really good dessert, the amounts of either are sadly limited and remain in the realm of the somewhat rarified. For now.

So. This means that other sources of income are necessary. No, I don't sell plasma, and my ovum are way too ripe to proffer to a desperate-yet-wealthy Yuppie couple intent on shelling their own brood. I have a day job.

A soul-sucking, dull-beyond-words, paper-pushing absolutely NOT gratifying corporate day job in a Tax & Customs department at a local, currently badly-flailing company. I have been there going on year 2, which is how much they like me. So much, in fact, I've been asked if I might consider a career in Customs. It's all I can do to not roll my eyes heavenward and smirk outright. So I blink demurely a few times and widen my eyes and, drumming up as much drippy sincerity as possible, say, "Oh, I'm flattered....." and smile pleasantly, letting an abject silence befall the proceeding.

At which point the hopeful manager looks at me utterly agog (I mean, what? Really? You're eschewing a Good Job with Company X to pursue your esoteric, woo-woo hippie Life Coaching pipe dreams? Surely you jest, you shortsighted featherhead!) and says, "But that's all, right?"

And I continue smiling weakly until we part ways, not a bit closer to understanding one another's objectives/driving motivations/life's goals/core values whatsoever. Not even a smidgen.

But now, I'm finding it hard to show up even vaguely interested. Showing up vertical is, most days, a complete coup. A huge part of my weighty lack of enthusiasm stems from the fact this company is, as I mentioned, suffering mightily during this rough economic downturn. There are weekly rumors of impending "Big Announcements," about which much speculation ensues--that we're going to a mandatory 4-day workweek (score!); that everyone is being moved to headquarters and vacating the current premises; that such a big chunk of the company has been bought by the United Arab Emirates that any hopes of moving into the future "Green" are now shot completely, since the Sheiks love their oil; and who knows what else.

Stress prevails; a guard has been posted by the back elevator since (more speculation) angry, gun-toting former employees could potentially return for a little payback action, and various coworkers have been out for days with a variety of illnesses, including highly-contagious Walking Pneumonia (but who knew! She thought she just had a wee cough as she robustly spewed the infection through the recirculated office ventilation system); guts rumble mightily in neighboring stalls whenever I repair to the bathroom to take a mere pee, making even those few minutes of public respite a miserable God-awful experience.

The only glint of periodic employee happiness comes from the Mountain Man, a mobile candy vendor who comes by weekly with his sugary wares. It's like the Pied Piper, or the Second Coming of Christ, or at the very least, Robert Pattinson surrounded by hormonal 14-year-old girls at a Twilight screening. Nevermind that an office full of angry, sedentary, skeetchy middle-aged employees with stress-compromised immune systems and the very likely potential for Adult Onset Diabetes don't need to dip their hands into various over-prices baggies of repackaged candies (emotional eating, anyone?) It helps them get through their days, I get it...as do the regularly-scheduled runs for coffee, the lunch outings and the routing of birthday cards (and highly-anticipated afternoon cakes, replete with warbled "Happy Birthday" song) forcibly scrawled with platitudes of fake glee and camaraderie.

Am I bitter? Am I burned out? Yes. And yes.

Hence, the Mental Health day. When even two Al-Anon meetings in the course of 8 hours don't snap me out of it, it's time to stay home. And stay in bed.

And in indulge in a rather collegiate lunch that consisted of a pile of leftover Tater-Tots from last night's dinner, and two Tofutti Cuties, both of which deeply satisfied my monthly hormonal yen for something fatty & salty and also something sweet.

But lest you think I'm hurtling into middle-aged female curmudgeonliness, let me acknowledge today's bright spot: the logo for my Life Coaching biz was finished and forwarded to me by my talented graphics-designing friend, and soon, it will make its "official" debut on the 'net. In the meantime, I will say that it makes me smile with pride each time I see it--it evokes exactly what I need it to.

It is a sweet, charming, professional little reminder that there is actually something meaningful towards which I am working when I arise at 6:30 (okay, 6:40) each morning and ready myself to head off to a day job that offers very little other than a paycheck.

Eyes on the Prize, baby. Eyes on the Prize.

Things that go Bump.....

Last night was Halloween (or the more properly Pagan-y, Celtic-y "Hallowe'en") and Kyler and I decided to do something I'd never done before, cause as we all know, there's a first time for everything.

And quite frankly, I was tired of being a Halloween Haunted House Virgin.

So we schlepped out to the Washington County fairgrounds which had been converted--for the month of October, pretty much--into a presumably nightmarish and semi-Ray Bradbury-ish/carnivalistic "haunted" amusement park-type thingy. Sorta. In other words, halls that likely held assorted livestock during the Fair's Summer run had been converted into various depraved/creepy/sordid/migraine-inducing "haunted houses" (for lack of a better term), two of which were deemed PG or PG-13 and two of which were ostensibly more of a benign G, although those also elicited much frightened shrieking and howling and wall-shaking from the gaggles of jumpy, horny, parentally-free teen couples that wandered the grounds that night.

Upon arrival, we took stock of the creepy scene and hoofed it over to the first PG-13 scare, a hall called "Caged Rage" (nevermind that it sounds like a round of WWF Smackdown!). We got in line (admittedly, I was one of the oldest people "on queue") while a door slammed open and shut at regular intervals, a chainsaw ripped through the night air, and much screaming ensued. Yeah, I was a bit nervous and wondered what the hell I'd agreed to while trying not to watch the two filling-sucking teens in front of us obliviously deep kiss.

Finally, we were up to the door, and the "host" (another Zombie-esque dude) opened the door and let us in, slamming it with a loud thud behind us.

First thought? Disorienting. I was grateful I'm not an epileptic.

A fog machine filled the space with a thick haze while a strobe light flashed mercilessly (think 90's dance club). Kyler and I stood there for a moment to orient ourselves in the midst of a bunch of swinging pig carcasses and listened to the reverberating echoes of everyone else's shrieking. He waited for me to step forward and, hands out in front of me like Helen Keller, I took a step, then simply stopped. No can do. He would be leading this little expedition (and later he said, "I figured if I didn't take the lead we'd never get anywhere." So true, so true.) Although he remained a few feet in front of me at all times, all I could see was a vague shape, and so I followed that.

And off we went, slowly.

My second thought? Annoyance. And hilarity. It struck me as not only bizarre and terribly distracting, but really rather funny, and I'm not sure why. There's nothing intrinsically hilarious about dead pigs and being menaced by Zombies (remember, the actors aren't allowed to touch you), but it all suddenly seemed so silly.

So there we were, feeling our way through a twisted meat processing plant (well, aren't they all, really?) and being harassed by the occasional yelling, jumping Zombie, some of whom followed us for a bit ("Mostly college kids earning their beer money," as Kyler'd said) most of whom gave up when neither of us betrayed any fear at all. I pretty much laughed until my ribs hurt and by the time we got to the end--the only way out was past the chainsaw-wielding back doorman--I could barely say two words. He stopped Kyler, put the "blade" against his chest and let the thing roar, then lifted it and let him out. I sighed heavily, between laughing fits. He'd perform the same intimidation tactic on me, so I just stood there quizzically, and let him menace me. In fact, he seemed a little bored and, since I wasn't quaking/screaming/covering my eyes/shuddering or otherwise trying to flee, he also seemed to sigh, lifted the blade and out I stumbled, barely able to breathe from my laughing fit.

There were times when I wanted to just stop, stare at the actors and say, "Look, it wasn't believable, you know? Can you rethink your motivation and try that again? I mean, you're DEAD."But then again, I have an MFA in theater and I understand performance, not breaking the 4th wall, playing your intention, etc. etc. So I'm sorta jaded and not a good judge of what might be truly frightening for numerous others.

I do, however, find authentic haunted houses really, truly creepy, houses with a history, with known paranormal activity, etc. I've toured them, and I've been flipped out. But this? Just gross. And annoying. And weird. Really weird.

We walked over to the next PG attraction, something called the "Hall of Human Waste" (and they meant this both figuratively and literally, since there was a disgusting diorama of overflowing toilets and piles of odorless fake shit and I commented loudly as we passed, "Wow, it's like a really successful frat party!") which was considerably more "low-key"--if being menaced by paid actors can be considered low-key--than the slaughter house had been. In fact, we found ourselves wandering past many closed doors within the darkly-lit maze that I expected to fly open at any time--and which did not. The baby-eating Zombie nutjob was quite impressive, however--the actress who had the role really did her homework. She was crazy AND dead and seemed to be enjoying snacking on her child....I thought she was fake until she howled at a gaggle of screaming teens behind us, and when I turned in awe at her acting abilities (I looked back at her and said, "Man, that was GREAT!") she kept staring at me crazily, in character, moving her head around and looking, well, utterly, otherworldy nuts. And of course, very dead.

The last two attractions were staid by comparison, one a crypt with even worse strobe lighting than before, the other a basic haunted Victorian house with a trembly door attendant who seemed to be channeling my cat's hairball-hucking reflexes, and a sweet-sounding old lady who was still as a mannequin until she lept from her dining-room chair to cackle something incomprehensible as we passed by. Kyler and I and one other midlifer who'd happened along with us sort of paused briefly, wrinkling our brows quizzically in her general direction and then filed out quietly, none of us completely comprehending the sudden verbal ejaculation. The effect was, I suppose, much like dealing with someone's crazy aunt Millie at Thanksgiving: no one quite knows when she'll blow, but when she does, it's just kind of sad and annoying and a little bit piteous.

And that was that. So we returned to Portland and ended the evening with slices of pie at a Shari's.

I'd probably explore another faux-haunted house. And, while not exactly cathartic--I didn't really emerge feeling as if I'd survived anything significant (except being in the midst of a thick soup of teenage hormones)--it was still an oddly entertaining & distracting experience. Even for a cynical & opinionated theater person like myself.




Boo.

Sorry, Wrong Number Part Deux

Some time ago, I shared a "wrong text" that I'd inadvertently received on my cell phone.

This happens occasionally and I find it weird and amusing and sorta unintentionally voyeuristic, cause I know the text wasn't meant for me yet, there it is on my phone's little screen, all high-context-y communication and private and subtle and assuming that the eyes taking in all the electronic Prince and the Revolution-type shorthand is the right set of eyes, and then I feel a little guilty and a little intrigued and--depending on what was texted--a little titillated and naughty.

Take the text that came chiming in at 1:27 AM this morning, rousing--but not quite waking--me from my sleep, which read (sic): Can you just tell me why it matters babe C.R.E.A.M.

There I was at 6:45 this morning after I'd gotten out of bed, looking like a shorter, pastier version of Don King, pre-coffee, bundled in my robe, squinting through semi-crusted eyes, staring dumbly at the tiny Sanyo phone in my hand and trying to decipher exactly 9 words of backlit text and one cryptic acronym that wasn't even meant for me.

I wondered what mattered? Did they have lousy sex? Did they not? Did they fight? Did he sleep with someone else? Not share a secret? Maybe he winked at another chick? Or lost his job? Or she? Or he couldn't get it up? And what the hell was "C.R.E.A.M.?"

I momentarily worried that my not knowing made me woefully unhip, horribly prudish, ridiculously square or just plain ignorant. I Googled C.R.E.A.M. and came up with the lyrics for a song of the same name by the Wu-Tang Clan: "...a man with a dream with plans to make C.R.E.A.M. (Cash Rules Everything Around Me)......"

Ah. C.R.E.A.M. Now I think I get it.

Not sex, money. They were fighting over money. He's superficial, she wants more (or vice-versa). One of them is a Republican and one of them is a Democrat and perhaps theirs is a doomed, tragic sort of Romeo & Juliet-type love. Maybe one of them is a non-profit earth muffin type, helping homeless animals and starving children, and the other is hungrily climbing the corporate ladder, enjoying bonuses, perks and kickbacks. Maybe.

Yeah, that's it. An irreversible clash of ideologies. Obama vs. the MILF.

At least, that's the drama I fabricated for these two fictional characters, based off of 9 words of text and one acronym mistakenly sent to approximately one square inch of the wrong cell phone screen at 1:27 AM this morning.

Babe.

Feed me, Seymour

Zucchini grows in the night. Or, to bastardize/paraphrase a John Lennon quote (may the man rest in peace), "Zucchini is what happens when you're busy doing other things."

I planted 5 seeds--one each--in those little net-wrapped peat plugs a few months back; all of them sprouted, but I selected the 3 hardiest plants to transfer to the ground. I've never grown zucchini before; pumpkins, yes. Once, as a kid, as a sort of summertime experiment. You know the story--stick a few seeds in the ground, water once in a while, long-assed vines begin to travel hither & yon, and--bam! A few big pumpkins, just in time for Halloween carving.

So that, really, was the extent of my veggie-growing experience. This year, however, my roommate expressed that he wanted to start a garden, so we did. I requested zucchini.

I was warned.

Run, is what they all said. Very fast. And far.

I scoffed. Good Lord, it's a plant, after all. How much damage can zucchini do? Besides, I adore zucchini. I eat it every summer until I truly cannot stand the thought of ingesting even ONE MORE freakin' squash. Until the next year rolls around, at which point the addictive cycle renews itself.

So. We currently have 3 enormous Audrey II-like zucchini plants securely rooted in their patch of organic soil, soaking up the full sun and every ounce of water they get. Each time I go 'round back to check them, they've produced more. Now, I make every attempt to extract the zucchini when it's still small and innocent and pluckable and artily-fartily teeny-weeny-gourmet and easy to cope with, but regrettably, I've neglected this for a few days and just this afternoon, was met with some seriously overlooked Monster Zucchinis that more or less resemble the Hindenburg.

They are not zucchinis, they are naturally-occurring dirigibles. Yes, I know. I was warned.

And I laughed at them all. They're zucchini, I said. Surely, you jest.

Ah, but no.

Clippers poised, I went in.

I wrestled the thick, viney stalks and clipped them off, all of those two-days-neglected monstrosities, and brought them in. They're draining now, rinsed, in the sink; I just sauteed a few, chopped, with a little olive oil, salt, pepper & garlic and had it for dinner. But I barely made a dent in this latest harvest.

So right now, I'm on the sofa, recovering. And, when I recover enough energy to do so, I'm gonna hunt down a recipe for zucchini bread.

Feed me, Seymour
Feed me all night long
'Cause if you feed me, Seymour
I can grow up big and strong...

So close, I can almost touch it.....

Time to post. Time to let y'all know what's been going on with this chick.

Time to reveal the Semi-Big Plan I have for a second blog. To wit:

I'm very nearly--nearly--finished with my Life Coach training. Next Sunday, August 10th, is the last day. And my cohort is gonna par-tay. And drink wine and reminisce and try not to worry about Next Steps, of which--speaking for myself--there will be many. Like a business name. And an eventual business niche, though I'm not especially concerned with that at the moment (I think it'll evolve organically, depending on who I coach and what they bring to me to explore). And marketing tactics, and more articles to write and books to read and groups to attend and deadlines for this and that and an occasional conference or two, now and again. Or maybe more often than that. Depending.

And part of me feels like I'm being pulled along for one hell of a wild fantastic remarkable meaningful life-changing door-opening ride, and I'm hanging on by my fingernails, but I'm enjoying the hell out of it. In fact, my life is nothing like it was a year ago. I cannot emphasize
that enough--nothing. And I love it. Not because my life before--in Minneapolis--was so horrid, because it wasn't. It meant a lot to me to be there, to discover what I discovered about myself and my dormant-and-then-reawakened abilities. But I was just constantly aware as I was living it that it wasn't what I wanted until I died, to be blunt. I didn't want to stay there for the rest of my life, get married there, buy a house there...put down roots there. I did what I needed to do there, and then I was done. And I moved myself back here, back to Portland, and revved up my life in a whole different way, in a way I never could've been ready for previously. And now I am.

And I must be sending that Readiness Vibe out into the universe, because some good shit is bouncing back to me and the thing is, I'm noticing it. And appreciating it. And savoring it and just letting it glow on me, and in me, and around me, cause it feels so wickedly awesome. It sounds like I'm in love....and I guess I am, with what it is I'm doing. It's the coaching thang: there are very few as meaningful ways to spend my waking hours than by facilitating someone else's innate ability to find their Own Best Answers. It's just so cool to be part of that.

And that's the locus of my Semi-Big Plan: I'm gonna start a dedicated Life Coaching blog. The Hen House will continue to be a reflection of my irreverent, stream-of-consciousness day-to-day ruminations, as it has right along (like, what is UP with all these emerging X-Files? The "Montauk Monster?" Flesh-eating dudes hacking heads off on bus rides across Canada? Monkey-faced pigs? The mind boggles. But I digress.....) and that one will be about my own process as a Life Coach.

My own process. That's important to point out, because the work I do with my clients is confidential. But my own impressions of my own Life Coach journey is something I'm willing to share.....and so I will.

But first, I gotta finish. And next time I post--here, or there--I'll have "CPC" after my name.

Certified Professional (Life) Coach.

Sounds nice, don't it?

More notes from the hen house....

Do you know how many chicken-themed t-shirts can be had off eBay?

A lot.

I want this one:
Problem is, the shirt itself is unisex and if you're a curvy gal like me, they kinda tend to bunch up above the hips (cut for those narrow-hipped, wide-chested dudes), or if you get them BIG, you end up looking like a low self-esteem schlub with a lot to hide beneath a billowing tent. I've had too much recovery to go that route, however.

Neither are good looks and are to be avoided as vehemently as the Republican convention, lutefisk, anything by Bananarama or people who seriously use the word "dealio."

Someday, however, I am certain I will have a chicken tee-shirt, or two or three, and I will wear them with pride and glee and heaps of self-satisfaction.

Peep.