It has been about 4 years since I last went to the optometrist and got glasses.

So, it’s about time to get rechecked and get a new pair of glasses.

I am thinking about getting big, fat, black RayBan hipster glasses.

Talk me down from this.

Otherwise, I’m just going to look pretentious.

Maybe. Or, I could look like Catharine Zeta Jones…you never know!

Striking resemblance.

I was sitting on the front porch, working on some newsletters, when Eve brought me a craft she put together.

She brought me a chicken feather, a pad of paper, my purple iroshizuku ink, and my leatherman…and asked for a quill.

This took a whole 1 minute to put together for her, and she is dipping and writing with her own quill!

Very easy Saturday morning craft 🙂

This article originally appeared on Ravishly.

Stephen Fry Is My Spirit Animal: The Panic Of Social Anxiety

Contributed by Tamarah Rockwood | 08.12.15

@tamrmint

I am the rock. You’ll need to know that for later.

Social anxiety is very difficult, especially as a mother with kids who need to spend time with other people —  and those people are part of a group or a crowd. Social anxiety is just part of who I am — and I like who I am. Warts and all.

 

My text to my husband was:

“Help. Socializing.”

This little rock in the picture is me.

Or it was me the other day. Just wishing I was the only rock on the beach, as the waves of socialization kicked my ass at a park day that I was quickly regretting.

About 10 years ago, I decided I had had enough of this social anxiety nonsense.

No more panic attacks in the middle of Costco! No more feeling like the walls are caving in on me in Office Max! All my fears of big crowds: BE GONE!

I was going to go see a psychologist through Kaiser and be done with this. Because that is what rational people do.

The official diagnosis that is on my permanent medical record: “You do have social anxiety. You also have good coping techniques. Good job. Now, go out there and get ‘em, Tiger!”

Great.

So, here is what happened this week:

Dear Diary,

Long day yesterday. Church women had a thing at the park today that I drug myself and the kids to, since I am trying to act normal around adults, and 30 other women. It was adult circle time: “Hi, my name is x, I have x kids. We live on x and our favorite thing is x.” It’s just group therapy at this point. And +30 kids were being supervised by two (maybe three) older kids in the park . . . which meant I was at the park, neurotically watching my kids, and acting like a spaz around the adults and trying to behave like a normal, chill, suburban mom in a totally chill crowd  and also keeping an eye on my kids in the midst of an insane amount of 2-8 year olds who all look the same.

And then library night with the kids . . .

But enough cynicism and getting lost in the library! Back to life.

Maybe it isn’t a big deal for some women. Hell, maybe it isn’t a big deal for most women. But it is a big deal for me.

I can act like a well-adjusted, sarcastic, witty adult if it is just me and a few others.

But once the “group” is more than five, and starts breeching into the “crowd” territory, I don’t do well.

I may get spazzy.

OK, I do get spazzy.

My reality has to include social anxiety, because I have had social anxiety for as long as I can remember. School programs, football stadiums, parades, large parties — hell, even small parties. I would rather not. To the point that I will simply not attend. Not because I can’t handle it — I can. I just don’t enjoy the crowds, and I don’t enjoy my reaction to the crowds. I get bitchy and impatient, mostly with myself, and I actually don’t like being bitchy and impatient.

But one-on-one coffee dates? Going to the movies together? Playdates at someone’s house, with only that one person and their kids? I love it. And I love going.

Social anxiety is very difficult, especially as a mother with kids who need to spend time with other people — other people that are part of a group or a crowd. Social anxiety is just part of who I am — and I like who I am. Warts and all.

Stephen Fry said it best in his book, Moab Is My Washpot: “It’s not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing — they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.”

Maybe Stephen Fry is just my spirit animal, and I just have to take him to the circle-time picnics with me. I’m sure he would love that.

One of the littlest girls had a weird dream last night, and maneuvered herself under her bed in her sleep…resulting in waking up under her bed at 4am, and completely freaking out. Which, I believe, is the correct response to waking up at 4am under your bed, when you are 3 years old.

So, Nova and I helped her into her bed and they both fell back to sleep.

I have never had that superpower, so I’ve made coffee, done a load of dishes, did some reading…and uploaded some pictures!

So, before I show you these pictures, I just want to make something clear: we don’t really ice skate that often. We definitely skate a couple times a year, and we all love ice skating (well, most of us do). But when it comes down to choosing between going to the beach, or tromping around in the woods, or going exploring…and ice skating; unfortunately, even though we all love it (well, most of us), we will choose something else to do.

This all being said: we had a lovely time at our very good friend’s birthday party this weekend, and they had the brilliant idea of having it at an ice skating rink! Win-win for everyone (well, almost everyone).

My lovely girl.

This was the 3rd time of taking the picture, but everyone was looking at me and they all smiled at the same time right after I pressed the button…I have a few other pictures of the kids standing here, and they all took turns smiling in each picture. I figured I’d have to just pick one out of the bunch 🙂

So, the thing with the girls and skating is that…we just don’t tell them they don’t know how to ice skate.

This is Eve’s first time on the ice without us, and she was doing twirls and turns and hanging out with her buddies. Like we do this all the time.

Just chillin’ on the ice. Hangin’ with her peeps.

Nova is honestly very adept on the ice, and we should put her in lessons.

The boys?  Enjoy the ice, but they skate like they are wearing evening slippers. Lots of shuffling.

Dad, naturally, took the initiative to do some footwork lessons with them.

Now, when I said not everyone enjoyed the ice…I was talking about Alice.

She was pretty certain she was going to die, and made sure everyone in the ice rink heard her over the music playing that she was “GOING TO DIE” because the ice was too slippery.

We got her out on the ice for a little while, but only if Dad was holding her.

And then we had a wonderful birthday party with our good friends, and we got to meet all of their lovely friends and family as well 🙂

After that, we got some black coffee and water (because someone wasn’t being as responsible as she should have and went and gave herself a mild gluten reaction…WTG, me), and we went driving for a little bit through Union Lake area.

Did you know the Sleepless in Seattle houseboat is over here, and I had a great excuse to take a picture of it because there was a gigantic rainbow behind?

So, if you’re wondering, it is here. And there are signs very clearly stating that this is a neighborhood and not a motion picture lot…so, shoo.  But I just needed to see it because I love that movie, and I have watched it an embarrassing number of times, and I just had to find the house to see that it was real. It is a lot smaller than I expected, but it’s there!

It is a very cute neighborhood though. The houseboats are the cutest little floating houses, and they are all laid out like they are in a suburb, and they have little floating planter boxes full of little flowers, and there are some “front yards” that have fountains running all along the house, and then the water just runs right into the water they are floating on.

I could never live on a house boat because I would have nightmares of the house sinking every single night.  But that is just my neurosis…these were seriously cute houses.

It is the house on the very end, behind all the masts.

And then the rainbow just got brighter 🙂

There are a lot more rainbows up here than I ever saw in California! Never really thought of that before!

And that was our very lovely Sunday!

Having Celiac means I am acutely aware of what I eat.

Steak? Gluten free.

Wine? Also gluten free.

Beer? …more gluten free than Udi’s gluten free bread. Figure that one out.

For the most part, I make meals at home. From scratch. With whole ingredients.

Cucumbers? Bell Peppers? Round things that look like I should know what it is? Looks like food to me!

Not for any politico-philosophical reasons; it just works better for my diet. I don’t have to worry about contamination problems if I buy a potato, or wonder what is inside a carrot.

But eating out is a whole other story.  I don’t know how the chef is preparing the food, or if bread dust is floating around my salad, or if a sauce has flour in it.  I mean, I will find out. I’ll just find out the hard way, unfortunately.  There is a place here in town that claims to make gluten free almond flour cookies. And I will totally say: that was the best cookie I have had in a long time.

Unfortunately, it was not as gluten free as they think, and I spent the next 5 hours struggling to breathe and my muscles were all clenched with a sprinkling of heart palpitations.

It was so not fun.

But I know that it is a risk every time I eat something that was made by someone else, in another kitchen, using ingredients I cannot see.  The other night, for instance, we had dinner at a super fun restaurant filled with old couples, draped in red velvet and playing TCM with Robert Osborne on the TV hanging in the back while serving black coffee in beige coffee mugs.

Listen, this is the kind of place I like. Be quiet.

Their menu was very helpful and had a “(gf)” next to meals that were considered to be gluten free. So, I ordered the lemon chicken dish.  Everything was fantastic, and gluten free…except for the fried onions placed on top of the whole meal.

Gluten? On my gluten free dinner? Fun times!!

So anyway, I just let the waiter know that you actually can’t put fried onions, that are putting little gluten crumbs all over everything, on a gluten free dish. He was cool and said he would “greatly chastise” the kitchen.

This all being said, and getting to the actual story…

Alright, alright. Keep your britches on.

A few weeks ago, we did a Costco trip.  It is a lot easier for us to take everybody to Costco together, because everyone has a say in what we get. “Do we need milk?” “YES” “Do you want apricot jelly or strawberry jelly?” “Strawberry!” 

So, it does mean that there is a caravan of 7 people walking through Costco together…but we are quick and efficient, and we get it done within half an hour.  Bada-bing, bada-boom. Outta there.

After our trip to Costco, it was time for dinner…and there ain’t nothin’ you want to do after buying the food than making dinner. We were about to try Taco Time, since that is a huge thing up here, and we have never tried it; when suddenly, Ben suggested pancakes.

And pancakes always win. Plus, there was an IHOP right across the street.

IHOP is definitely a risky place for me, kind of for obvious reasons.  Pancakes? Waffles? Hash browns fried on the same skillet as the pancakes? Omelettes also cooked on the gluten-laden skillet? It is just a recipe for contamination.

However, I have found that communicating the word “Celiac” with the waiter usually makes the difference between getting gravy and croutons, or not getting gravy and croutons.  Except for surprise fried onions, that weren’t supposed to be there in the first place: for the most part I can maneuver around restaurant menus pretty well.

So, Ben ordered 5million pancakes and an omelette for the kids to split up; because those omelettes are the size of Nebraska, and everyone still eats until their bellies are full with just one Country Omelette.

I, on the other hand, said:

“Okay, so here is my order. I have Celiac, so if you could just put that next to mine, that would be great. I would like the vegetable omelette with egg whites, and could I have a side of fruit with that instead of hash browns?” 

Seemed pretty gluten free and safe to me. But when it arrived, it was dripping with a sauce…and sauces always have flour.  Always, always, always.

So we beckon the poor waitress over, and ask her to inquire upon the ingredients of this sauce. Because you can’t scrape off sauce…I’ve tried before, and failed miserably.

This is when things get scary.

This is when the story actually begins.

The manager comes over with the waitress, with a genuinely worried look on her face.

“So, you ordered the vegetable omelette…and you have Celiac?”

“Yes, but I was just concerned about the sauce. Otherwise, everything looked lovely.”

“But, you really have Celiac? Because, you can’t eat the omelettes…”

“No, I just ordered the omelette, but I didn’t know about the sauce. I was just worried about the sauce.” (I really don’t like to be a bother)

“No…you can’t eat the omelettes at all.  We put pancake batter in the eggs. The entire thing is loaded with gluten.”

…..

……..WHAAATTTT??!!!!!!  Why is there pancake batter in the eggs? Holy crap, I was about to eat an entire gluten laden meal that would have destroyed me!  This isn’t just a little problem where I take an alka seltzer for an upset stomach. This is a “I can’t breathe and my heart goes nuts….for hours” kind of problem.

Holy crap, why is there pancake batter in the eggs.

And it says it right there…after we rechecked the menu! It says it right there that they “put a splash of batter in the eggs, to make it more fluffy!”  And I totally didn’t even see it.

I thanked the manager profusely for letting me know, because that would have been so painful. That really was awesome on her part for noticing this and coming over and telling me.

Because when I told the waitress that I needed a gluten free meal, and I ordered an omelette, it didn’t occur to her that the omelette was not a gluten free meal.  So I am in deep gratitude for the manager realizing this.

After this near miss, we started looking around the table at what we were eating.

Maple syrup, that was not maple.

Strawberry syrup, that had no strawberries.

Blueberry syrup that has never seen a blueberry.

Omelettes, that are actually pancakes.

Cheese, that is mostly oil.

Non-dairy creamer which was not begat from a dairy farm.

Butter that we can’t believe is actually butter.

Suddenly, looking around the table…I wasn’t sure we were actually eating food, at all. Besides the black coffee and bowl of grapes that they brought me, I cannot be entirely sure that anything we were feeding our kids actually had any actual food in the ingredient list.

It is a little hyperbolic, but I could only think of the pink meat which was served to the citizens in 1984. Or the Soylent chips that was served to the population in Charlton Heston’s famous film.  Or the ambiguous nature of packing plants that Upton Sinclair featured in his book, The Jungle. 

And the problem is that we don’t always see the pink meat if it is on our plate, or think about what is actually in the Soylent chips if we are given them by the store. Everyone else is eating them, and they aren’t dead, so they must be fine! 

For the most part, unless something radical happens to shift our perspective of the situation, we won’t realize that what we think, is not what it seems.  Until something shakes the foundations of a platform, it is impossible to see what is real, and what is a phony.

And that is what Holden Caufield was railing against the whole time, in the first place.

Phonies. The lot of you.

Makes you kind of want to live a life that is a little more shaken. A little more real.

So, I’ll just leave you with this: