Elizabeth Gilbert speaking out AGAINST passion? What? That’s right you guys.
If you’ve ever felt your blood boil when some famous, successful so and so advises you to “follow your passion”, do yourself a favor and watch this video.

Big Love,
xox

http://www.supersoul.tv/supersoul-sessions/elizabeth-gilbert-flight-hummingbird-curiosity/

I was rushing. Running to meet friends for lunch. I’m you. I’m attempting to fit 700 hours of mindless, holiday bullshit (and some fun), into 24.

I was rushing. Running late ( y’all know how I feel about punctuality). I missed one parking spot. The prime one. The meter right in front of the restaurant. Inside my car, there could be heard a string of obscenities mixed with Christmas carols. That’s wrong isn’t it? Sacrilegious somehow. Nevertheless…I circled around in my brand new car, cursing and FaLaLa-ing my way around the block.

Ah Ha!
Success!
A spot down the street with minutes to spare. I stopped, getting into position to parallel park.
As I watched the cars zipping by me, waiting for the opportunity to back into the spot, I could feel my patience leaving me like a leaky balloon.

“Come on, come ooooooooon!”

There was a pedestrian running along the sidewalk eyeballing the street for a break in the traffic and his opportunity to jay-walk.

Meanwhile, for some unknown reason, the traffic in the lane next to me suddenly screeched to a halt. Rushing. We were all rushing somewhere.

That’s when the motorcycle sideswiped my car. My brand new car. The car filled with foul-mouthed impatience. And Michael Buble.

I felt the jostle at the back of the car at the same time I heard the deafening sound of my side-view-mirror exploding right next to my face. Violently. Loudly. A million pieces flying in every direction.

The motorcycle, in order to miss becoming a splat on the back of the car next to me, veered in between us. Except there wasn’t enough room. As her bike got squirrelly—because she was rushing—the left side of my car took the brunt.

The pedestrian hit the deck as a piece of mirror whizzed past his head.

Stunned and in shock, I slowly turned down the radio. In a situation like this Celine Dion singing “This is The Special Time” is definitely NOT the soundtrack you want playing in the background. After checking to make sure the man with the quick reflexes was uninjured,(which we accomplished with a combination of mime and wild, wide-eyed facial expressions), I zipped around the corner to find the motorcyclist.

I had seen her hobble the injured bike onto an adjacent side street where she was now walking in circles, helmet off, obviously shaken up.

I ride motorcycles. I know that fear, that rush of adrenaline that accompanies a close-call.

We hugged. We checked the damage. Mine was moderate. Purely cosmetic.
Hers was minor except for the loss of her handbrakes. That sucked. That left her with unrideable transportation. A bike dead in the water.

We called our husbands. That call sucks ass.
“Hi Babe, Yeah, I had an accident thingy with the car..”
“Are you ok? Is everyone okay?” You can feel the concern.

We exchanged all of the appropriate info. I was late, REALLY late for lunch. She was going to miss work altogether.

Rushing.
We‘re all rushing, rushing, rushing around like headless chickens right now. You can feel it in the energy.
It’s chaotic and buzzy, frantic and fuzzy. We’re distracted. Nobody is looking where they’re going.
I got it. AFTER I received my Universal slap across the face. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but you can bet now we’re BOTH paying attention.

Let’s all Slooooooooow Dooooooown.

The lives we save may be our own.

Carry on,
But not too fast, I want you all around for at least another year!
xox

We are now entering the second week of December. That triggers a hot mess of mixed emotions inside of me.
Every. Single. Year.

Listen, don’t get me wrong, I love all things Christmas, but can we please move it to May?

When I see THAT date—December 1st—I can’t help it—my butt puckers.

As the month progresses I secretly want to strangle December. I want to take it around back and teach it a lesson.

Show of hands, who’s with me? Who here in readerville secretly hates December?

Who thought that thirty consecutive days of extreme holiday stress was a good idea? Target? Santa? The devil?

By the end of week one, I’m consumed by that sinking feeling that lets me know—I’m already behind schedule.

I’m already late with my shipping.
Once I navigate the Post Office parking lot, or as I like to call it, December Demolition Derby (I once backed up and ONTO an Audi, a brand new one—my trailer hitch opening up the front hood of that car like a can opener), I have to stand in line and wait for the TWO postal clerks behind the counter to wade their way through all the other holiday shippers.

There is yelling. There are lies, bribes and cutting in line. There are tears. And that’s just me.

Once I work up the stamina (facilitated by devouring all of the fudge I made the previous night) to take on the Christmas tree shopping—usually reserving December 10th for my tree excursion—all of the good ones are gone.

By the second week of December! That is just criminal.

Last year they had a Charlie Brown section for people like me. Dried up weak and feeble trees that were already dead—pitifully begging for a home. Those are what’s left for us mid-December stragglers. The ones who wait so they don’t have to fight the crowds and crying kids the first two weeks.

Get this: I drove past a lot the other day where they were flocking trees. Remember flocking? Crispy, fake snow? I thought I’d passed through a time warp except for the crowd. There was a crowd of bearded hipsters with man-buns all milling around the tent inhaling crispy snow and sipping artisan hot chocolate.

Are hipsters bringing flocking back? Is that a thing again?

Are you freaking kidding me? If those hipsters had lived through the sixties like I had, they would NEVER in a million years have the slightest inclination to re-create it. I still have rotating color-wheel flashbacks.

Once I got my Christmas investment (they are well over ten bucks a foot) home, it took me three tries to get the white twinkle lights to do the one thing they were designed to do—light up. We sent men to the moon and wtf?… If you so much as look at a strand cross-eyed HALF of it will go dark.

But only half.

Which leaves me filled with hope, because December marks a season of hope, right? Hope that I can find the rat bastard loose bulb, tap it gently, twist it, or God willing, replace it with the extra one taped to the cord, and have the freaking tree lit by New Years.

THAT has never happened. In all of my years lighting a tree I’ve yet to twist a loose bulb and have the thing light back up.

That is an urban myth. Worse yet, it’s a fairy tale told to unsuspecting Christmas revelers in order to fill them with false hope.
That’s not playing fair. Jesus would frown on that.

In search of lights that worked I was forced to do what you’re never supposed to do the entire month of December if you have a brain in your head and one ounce of common sense left in your body——I went to Target yesterday and they were already out of white lights AND wrapping paper. It’s the first week of December people. Seriously?

In the parking lot, I nearly got sideswiped by an SUV wearing blinking antlers. Am I insured for that?

Baking. Let’s talk holiday baking. I love to bake.
I love it so much I only do it once a year in December, otherwise, I would be HUGE.
Like, walk me down Central Park West in the Thanksgiving Day Parade huge.
Because my love for baking is only exceeded by my love of eating what I bake.

What? You don’t do that? O call bullshit. Sure you do! Because it’s only logical. Artists love art. Singers love music. Bakers love all things warm and gooey. They love it so much they make it themselves—for themselves. Between eating the raw cookie dough and “quality testing” the finished products my friends are lucky to get a bite in edgewise.

December is also a month of wonder.
I wonder every year which of my favorite childhood ornaments will fall prey to the floor-gods. They are insatiable and unrelenting in their search for a sacrifice. I’m aware of this, so in order to keep the emotional carnage to a minimum I put the ones I don’t care as much about near the floor, as an offering. A token of respect. Then I padlock my favorite treasures safely inside the middle branches. But the floor gods always prevail. Last night the ice-skater I received when I was eleven mysteriously appeared on the hardwood floor under the tree. She wasn’t broken broken. Just her left ankle and skate are missing.

But her career is over. There go her hopes of a medal.

I had a good cry. SHE took it with grace and dignity so I re-hung her in the front of the tree as an example of Christmas courage.

Listen, how about those Christmas cards?
All year long I’m lulled into complacency, thinking I have several great shots for the front of a card. Then it comes time to send them in to get printed. Either I’m late for the “print by” date because for some reason I’m unable to fathom why on earth that date is August 31st, and I’m too busy eating watermelon BECAUSE IT’S SUMMER—or I can’t find the pictures.

They’re missing. Gone. Non-existent. A figment of my overactive imagination.

I could make do with the one from last year. The one where he’s squinting, my smile is jinky and the dog has wild eyes and a grin like Cujo. Oh, fuck it. Just never mind. It’ll just have to wait until next year. Again.

I do love receiving all the cards from friends and family. I really do. I adore being able to see how much the kids have grown every year but can I ask you a favor? Please don’t send me the three-page newsletters. That’s okay. I’m all caught up. That’s what Facebook is for. Besides, they’re primarily filled with bad news. The death of a pet, Uncle Frank’s broken hip, the baby that can’t say please. Are you kidding? Has no one any good news to share?

The last one I read was like a Charles Dickens novel. It was filled with so much tragedy I had to read it with a box of Kleenex (and Sees candy) and a glass of scotch. Honestly! I know nothing says Christmas like death and job loss, but can we all agree to just cut-it-out?

December. What is it with you?
You drive me nuts! You are like the bat-shit crazy relative everyone hates that keeps showing up drunk every year!

As much as I vow that this year will be different,
I eat too much.
I spend too much.
I drink too much.
I argue way too much.
I don’t get enough rest.
I over commit.
I cry.
And I lose my patience.

Which brings me to the realization—December, you are a little bit like childbirth. You are miserable and painful in the moment but after some time has passed (like 365 days) I forget and repeat all the madness because when I look back on the holidays you brought me miracles and filled me with wonder and THAT my friend,makes you impossible to hate.

Happy Holidays Y’all!
xox

This is riot you guys!
But not really.
Ugh.
I’ve sat at this table haven’t you?

Wait! It gets better. I’ve been that well-intentioned jackass who speaks in self-righteous therapist or guru induced gibberish. That’s not communicating you guys. That’s not even a conversation.
THAT is a monologue.

I want to throw a roll at all of them. Don’t you want to throw a roll?
That’s what they need—a good old-fashioned food fight!

CAUTION: this is what happens when you take “spirituality” to the extreme. You think you’re being “authentic”, self-aware, and just telling the truth when you’re actually looking down your nose at everyone, not listening and plain old just being an ass.

Just goes to show that extreme ANYTHING, even enlightenment—is NOT the way to go.

Carry on,
xox

You guys,
Friday, someone I hold in extremely high regard showered me with a veritable social media love-fest. Everywhere I looked she went out of her way to say something incredibly kind.
For no damn reason.
I didn’t give her money.
I didn’t clean her kitchen or babysit her dog.
Truth be told I hadn’t even talked to her in a while!

I just woke up, scratched my ass, had my coffee, and commented on her blog. I didn’t even say anything particularly special.
The next thing I knew, she unleashed the Kraken of Kindness.

Feeling awash in immense gratitude, I was reminded of this post from last year regarding this very thing.

The feeling I carried with me ALL DAY Friday was beyond delicious. That’s why knowing this is so, so, very important.

Love.
Somebody somewhere loves you.
I know I do
xox

A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
― Jackie Robinson

I missed the email when it came in.
Contrary to what most people believe, I am NOT on social media 24/7.

It was Sunday so…I was doing assorted Sunday stuff; sleeping past six, eating pancakes stuffed with blueberries, carbs and gluten, (because on Sunday, none of that stuff counts and calories don’t stick. Trust me, I’m a Doctor*) and engaging in general, slovenly goof-offiness.

When I finally did check in, I noticed that one of my readers/friends had left me some very lovely feedback on Saturday’s blog, the one about viewing your life as a movie.
It always moves me when people take the time to write and tell me how something made them feel. I know everyone is crazy busy, so it’s much appreciated.

It’s like finding blue sea glass  Like discovering a gem—gorgeous, out of the blue and completely unexpected.

My point is this:

I swear to God. You didn’t do anything out of the ordinary to deserve it.
And you don’t even know it.
If you COULD somehow feel it you’d walk a little taller and maybe put on some lipstick.

I have teachers from grade school that I STILL revere and if they were alive…I know they would be surprised.

The same friend that wrote that email is herself an extraordinary woman.
Yet, she has NO IDEA.
In the jewelry world, she is a badass. She is an expert in time periods, stones, and things I can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Her lectures are always packed and she commands the stage like a rockstar. Believe me when I say, that many, many of us think she’s awesome — and I can assure you —she doesn’t know it.

Recently I was lucky enough to meet a brilliant, funny, and incredibly wise woman who resides in Paris.
An expatriate married to a Frenchman. She has such style and grace that denim has never touched her impossibly smooth skin. Her body would react so violently she would have to take anti-rejection drugs to wear a pair of yoga pants. Murphy (see, even her name is ridiculously cool), is so impossibly chic that French woman clamour for her style council and fashion advice.
I’m sure of it.
I’m also sure that wherever she goes, she leaves a wake of awesome-sauce behind her of which she is blissfully unaware.

Our friend Clay is knowledgeable in SO MANY fields. Just by breathing he can unintentionally make me feel equally stupid about music, computers and food.
THAT my friends is a trifecta of talent.

My husband continues to marvel at Clay’s humble manner and general down-lowness.

He’s a pilot and we didn’t know that for a year. He owns several patents, and again, we just somehow found out; and I’m pretty sure he invented the internet (sorry Al Gore).
In our estimation, he is a 21st-century renaissance man and he has NO IDEA we feel that way about him!

It’s startling when people let you know that they hold you in high regard. It’s like you were just going about your business, Lala la Lala, just being you—and someone noticed your sparkle.

It makes you want to straighten your crown and walk like a boss. It may cause you to strut. Like some serious red carpet strutting. Like Angelina Jolie on the red carpet type strutting. SHE is someone who owns her awesomeness. The rest of us mere mortals have to be reminded.

Which is why telling extraordinary people how much they’ve impacted you is a wonderful thing—please, do it. Often.

But I know it’s a safe bet that we each have several silent admirers who think we rock.

People we haven’t seen or spoken to for years AND people we see every day.
Isn’t that crazy wonderful?

There are people breathing your exhaled air, living right now, looking at the same moon, who think you’re covered in awesome sauce.

I do.

You’re all amazing!
Xox

*I’m not really a Doctor, I just play one on TV.

“We are dead stars looking back at ourselves.”

This post is a blast from the past, but I’m feelin’ it. This is for all you perfectionists.
Cut. It. Out!
xox

“Except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.”
~Will McAvoy The Newsroom

Bravo Aaron Sorkin. I LOVE that line.

I was re-watching last season’s episodes of The Newsroom. I have to do that to get reacquainted with the characters and storyline for the upcoming season.

Oh, fuck it. Who am I kidding? I have to do it because the dialogue is so rapid fire and smart, that if I blink or chew or fail to focus one hundred percent of my attention on it, I’m lost.

I’m IN LOVE with that particular piece of dialogue because that’s how I feel.

About all of us.

Except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.

We really are doing okay.
Better than okay, but I can already feel you bristling, so I’ll stick with okay.

I know. It doesn’t feel like it sometimes.

Hey, except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.

Actually, you wanna know something I KNOW for SURE? We’re all doing better than we think.

Listen, we show up every day.
Our feet hit the floor and with some manner of enthusiasm.
We enter the arena.
We have neither Tom Cruise levels of couch jumping excitement, nor are we living under a bridge with trolls.
We are gamely in the game. Whatever that means. You know what I mean. And that is HUGE.

We have shelter and something to eat.
You know how I know that?
Because we have a high-speed internet connection and in the Surviving Life Handbook that is third after shelter and food.

We have remorse for those things we did wrong.
Now our job is NOT to wear it like an anchor around our necks. Or a flashing neon sign. Or to make it the first line of our sad and sucky story. Seriously!

We are literate and educated.
I’m taking a leap here, but I feel pretty confident about that one.

We’ve all dialed back our inner Neanderthal/serial killer.
At least most days. Luckily most of us have been able to sidestep prison up until now.

We have our humor.
That I know because you keep checking in each day to see what kind of an ass I’ve made out of myself. Or, what crazy karaoke murdering, note burning, vagina checking I’ve been up to lately.
Many of your emails just have Bahahahaha in the subject line.

We are all doing the best we can.
We are judging and criticizing less. We are attempting to be kind. We are meditating more, attending to our yoga practice AND our oral hygiene. I really can’t ask more from you than that.
Maybe cut your toenails?

You know you’re not alone.
Not in your hopes and dreams and not in your various degrees of interlocking neurosis. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time you should feel extremely reassured.
And incredibly normal.

We’re living responsible lives.
The bills get paid, the kids aren’t dead, the pets aren’t dead, the fish isn’t…shit.

We’re striving to improve ourselves.
This is a spiritual blog at its core so you’re making an effort to read and implement any and all advice you glean from these pages (Indulge me here). And I’m making an effort to walk the talk. (Do I have to walk and talk at the same time?)

Being that I’m intuitive I KNOW you are all loving and kind people walking through the world, striving to live your life’s purpose.

Aren’t I good?
It’s a talent.
Maybe even a superpower. Who am I kidding? We all know my superpower is knowing all the lyrics to American Pie and Bohemian Rhapsody.

In closing: Except for the things we did wrong, we did everything right.

You’re welcome,

Amen.

Love yoooooooou!
Xox

This is a me at about nine I think. Rockin’ my groovy Beatles haircut and braces—and side-eye.

Who is she? You ask yourself after being referred to this blog by a friend of a friend, of a friend, of a friend.

Who is this person who writes about love and loss and everything in between?

What are her credentials? (None, you only need hands and a brain to start a blog—and seriously, both of those are questionable).

Why does she do it? (The truthful answer is: I have absolutely NO idea— I just freaking LOVE it!).

In the beginning, I didn’t need to introduce myself. I had thirteen followers that were pretty much all family and friends, many who had seen me naked.

Now there are new people. People I‘ve just met and some I don’t even know, so…
In an act of foolish self-disclosure here are twenty-five things you don’t know about me.

1. I can’t whistle.

2. Or snap my fingers.

3. I LOVE to sing karaoke show tunes.

4. I have a very low tolerance for liars.

5. I get carsick in the back seat.

6. I hate card games and most board games. (It’s an attention span thing).

7. I had Scarlet Fever and missed most of first grade.

8. I wanted to be a nun in sixth grade.

9. I did some TV commercials when I was in my twenties.

10. I see Angelyne, a Los Angeles icon, out and about all the time!

11. I am a huge SiFi geek.

12. I read mostly non-fiction.

13. I don’t think I’ve gone a day since I was five without nail polish on my toes.

14. I have amazing eye-hand coordination.

15. I’m a very weak swimmer.

16. I have a fear of open water at night. (Just writing that makes my butt pucker).

17. I was once mistaken for a Parisian—in Paris—by another Parisian! (Something I’m very proud of).

18. Cilantro tastes like soap to me.

19. I once melted a rubber spatula in boiling hot caramel while making candy and contemplated NOT throwing it out. (I did toss it—after I laughed myself senseless).

20. I am a sucker for all things Christmas.

21. I pierced my ears myself all eight times. (And I had a navel piercing done by a professional).

22. I could read before I entered kindergarten.(No Tolstoy, just Cat In The Hat).

23. I am in the Who’s Who of American High School Students 1976 edition.

24. I used to bake cakes and cookies for work at Christmas—and watch George Clooney devour them while we talked.

25. I can grade a diamond.

Do you feel as if you know me a little bit better? Anything else you’re curious about? Just ask!

I’d love to know more about YOU guys. Tell me one thing you don’t think anyone knows.
It’ll be our secret.
Shhhhhhhhhh.

In the meantime…
Carry on,
xox

Okay. So, tens of you, my darling readers, have been living in suspense, asking me for days how I broke my green drink fast and if indeed I found some clarity as a result.

The rest of you didn’t care—Good for you!

Well, the answer is—bacon and sort of.

By Wednesday (the fourth day), I had so much energy there wasn’t a speck of dust left on any surface in my house, all the prep and chopping was finished, and I baked several pies in the afternoon. That was after I completed a triathlon and learned Mandarin.

Boundless energy. Apparently that is the side effect of every cell in your body silently screaming for carbs.

My friend Kim came by to witness my bought of plant-based beverage madness. And steal a pie. She can attest to my supernatural buzz and cheerful disposition.

Apparently that was side effect number two—I was delightful. Ask Kim. Ask my husband. Ask the girl at the gym and the guy walking his dog past my car, (who I thought I’d spoken to earlier that morning so I picked up the conversation where we left off only to find out it wasn’t the same guy OR the same dog, but I just smiled and kept on jabbering away like he was my long-lost BFF).

Gaunt and boney, (hardly), even dingier, (hard to imagine, but true), and delightful (oh absolutely).

Because I wasn’t hungry. Not at all.

So here is what you’re waiting for, oh patient reader; you want to know how I broke my fast.

“Go slow”, everybody advised. “Eat deliberately, take your time. Start with something bland and inert, like, like, a lemon. Suck on a lemon. Or better yet, sip hot water with lemon.”

Yeah, That’s so me. I’m someone who’s going to suck on a lemon after four days without solid food.

I could not disappoint. Not myself and certainly not you guys. You don’t come here to read about a spiritual guru who sits in perfection and quiet contemplation—fasting—then sipping warm lemon water while they advise you on all things holy.

Fuck that! You can read Deepak or Marianne Williamson (both whom I adore BTW) if you want to read the obvious. The expected. Perfection personified. THAT is everywhere!

Nope, I broke my four-day fast with bacon—on. the. grill.
Stop gasping, or laughing or applauding, I can’t hear myself think it’s so loud!

Here’s the thing, the kitchen was otherwise occupied Thanksgiving morning. My mad scientist/chef of a husband had the stove and oven firing on all cylinders—but I wanted bacon.
I needed bacon.

So I became inventive, industrious and clever as I utilized all the benefits of a four-day brain cleanse.

I cooked bacon—in a pan—ON THE GRILL! BAM!

Genius! And delicious. And satisfying as hell. It made me so happy I had a stupid grin and bacon grease on my face all day.

See, aren’t you happy it wasn’t freakin’ lemon water? I see you grinning, I can guarantee you—nobody grins all day from lemon water.

Besides, I’m not that girl and this isn’t that kind of blog.

Someone asked me the other night about the blog and I told them this, “I write the blog I always wanted to read: Sassy, messy, with stories of tragedy and triumph, tales of sorrow and success, with a dash of irreverence and a touch of cursing all wrapped in humor…and bacon.”

See that? Clarity.

Carry on,
xox