anger

So… you can practice acceptance like I suggested to help you cope or you can thank Adele.

Happy Thanksgiving!
xox

After years of exhaustive, mind-numbing, soul-crushing research and a lifetime’s supply of tears—I have found this to be true.

Sadness is pretty much at the root of anger. And jealousy. And insecurity. And, and, and…

Are you mad? What are you sad about waaaay underneath all that rage?
What is anger protecting?
What is so raw that you’ll pick a bar-fight in order NOT to look at it.

Hey, listen, don’t kill the messenger!

Tell your bodyguard to back off.

Love you,
Carry on,
xox

Did you like the game hide-n-seek as a kid? What about the 2.0 birthday party version, warmer/colder where someone guided you to your destination, to your prize, by yelling warmer! (closing in) or colder! (moving away)?

“Warmer…warmer…you are hot—you are on fire!” I’d hear those words over the pounding of my heart as my skinny little arms flailed around excitedly, knowing I was literally on top of the candy bar, box of crayons or whatever incredibly desirable prize lay just out of my reach.

Goddammit! I loved that game! I still play it regarding the things I want now in my adult life.

If I talk about a certain thing that I want or fixate on it like a dog with a bone, I’ll start to notice things just like it materializing all around me.

I’ll see the same scarf I love on three people in a week. Warmer!

When I was deciding whether or not to continue dying my hair, everywhere I looked were these chic women absolutely rockin’ their gray hair! Warmer!

If your neighbor suddenly shows up with your dream car in their driveway? Warmer!

All of your friends married to great guys? Warmer!

Once upon a time I fell madly in love with a very specific pair of brown boots but they were way more than I could justify so I convinced myself that I would just have to admire them from afar (which by-the-way felt completely unacceptable).

Several days later, in an act of Universal cruelty, a customer came in wearing the objects of my affection—those super-hipster brown boots. I wanted to jump over the desk and murder her for her shoes. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom.

The next night I went to dinner with a friend in Malibu and as we walked from the parking lot to the cafe, there was a high-end shoe store along the way. In the window: those fuckingly awesome brown boots!

You’ve got to be kidding me! I anguished, then I remembered the warmer/colder game.
Warmer! I yelled, clawing at the glass like the ginger-haired, shoe-hoarding madwoman I was, listening to it echo into the cool night air. Warmer…warmer…warmer.
My friend kept on walking.
I drank too much at dinner and I remember leaving a big, red lipstick kiss mark on the store window as I whimpered over and over again, warmer…warmer…warmer…
My friend promptly drove me to boot rehab.

About a day, two weeks, maybe month later, one of my other friends witnessed my obsession with said boots as I screamed, Warmer! through the entire Century City mall after seeing them on a shopper.

“What’s the big deal?” she asked, a little afraid to get too close to me.

“It’s those wildly expensive brown boots! I would die for them!” I was panting, out-of-breath.

“They’re half-off at…”
I didn’t even wait for her to finish. I ran so fast through that maze of shops to get those boots, I set a land-speed record.
When she caught up with me I was holding the box close to my chest, “You are hot—you are on fire.” was all I could manage to say.

More recently, like a little over a month ago, I noticed a friend got published on The Huffington Post a few days after I submitted a story. Then another.
I was thrilled for them. Instead of feeling envy I knew my prize was literally burning under my feet, ( as a matter of fact, my own Huffington Post notification was sitting in my junk mail waiting to be discovered later that afternoon!).

And that’s the point you guys. You can see other people around you achieving the things you’re striving for and you can feel competitive, consumed with anger and jealousy (which feels cold. Colder!) —or you can yell Warmer! and realize that the reason it is all around you is that it is about to burst into your own reality!

Warmer! & carry on,
xox

CONTEMPT IS CONTAGIOUS

The only emotion that spreads more reliably is panic.

Contempt is caused by fear and by shame and it looks like disgust. It’s very hard to recover once you receive contempt from someone else, and often, our response is to dump it on someone else.

If you want to be respected by your customers/peers/partners/competitors/constituents, the best way is to begin by respecting them and the opportunity they are giving you.

And the best way to avoid contempt is to look for your fear.

Seth Godin

This is from Seth Godin’s blog and the title resonated…deep. Contempt is contagious.

Have you ever had someone look at you this way? I have; although at the time I wasn’t altogether sure, so I mistook the first few times as indigestion or constipation. Eventually it became clear. Yep—it was contempt alright.

You know why? They could smell my fear with its side of shame.

Fear. Shame. Contempt= The Shitstorm Trifecta.

If you’re in it, you know it—you can smell it.

Right now! Quick! Are you the dumper?—Or the dumpee?

I’ve been both and I can guarantee you—either way, it sucks.

Looking for the fix? What’s the alternative?

Expose your fear; shine a light on the shame; brush yourself off; gather your wits; show some SELF  RESPECT FIRST and keep moving forward.

It’ll be all right.  You can take it from me, a “Silkwood Shower” and some Visine works wonders to wash away contempt.

I’d love to hear YOUR thoughts.

Carry on,
xox

So…
I found this handy-dandy chart online and then I immediately lost the next two hours looking at the different energy centers—and self diagnosing.

Oh… anger is stored there…interesting…that explains SO much.

That old pit in the stomach. Fear. I knew that.

Shoulder and neck pain? Yeah, me too, like every day of my life. Carrying the weight of the world?
Hey! Me too! Wait a minute, If I’m carrying the world’s weight—and you are too—why does mine feel so freaking heavy?

I remember certain Yoga classes where a pose or a stretch would send me into an emotional tailspin, unleashing the Kraken and freeing up all the pent-up junk that had taken up residence inside my hips, torso and thighs. I would always feel a hundred percent better after class, a good cry, and an Epsom salt bath.

Yoga is great if you’re looking to release stored emotions. So is exercise. And dance. Anything that moves the body.

Rolfing is good too. Rolfing is a very deep tissue massage, you know, the kind that hurts so good. I don’t ever think I’ve left a Rolfing session without crying—partly from the pain, and partly due to the deep emotional release it triggers.

And that’s the thing you guys. You WANT to release those stored emotions, otherwise there’s a very good chance they’ll make you sick.

So get out there! Dance! Do some yoga! Walk in nature! Release! Release! Release!

Okay, I’m off to get a shoulder massage. I need to set the weight of the world down, just for a little while.

Carry on,
xox

Judgement alert! There may be some judgment leveled here. Hey, I’m no saint.

How come the crazy one’s never loose any sleep?
Is it their complete lack of a conscience that causes them to appear so slick, smug and impossibly fresh?

Not a hair out of place.
Barely a hint of the devil that lies within.

While those of us that have the misfortune to find ourselves in their orbit are sleep deprived, disheveled, walking disasters.

That will always bother me.

The fact that people who operate outside the constructs of polite society close their eyes at night and sleep the uninterrupted, peaceful sleep of the just.

Why is that?
How can it be?

The night before an arbitration with the attorneys for DWP to discuss the fact that their one hundred year old water main had burst and turned my store into an aquarium; I tossed and turned until the sheets were knotted up around my head and neck, fashioned into an unattractive turban/noose—and I ground my teeth down to nubs. Which left me the next morning gumming my toast, with a foggy brain and pronounced sheet marks on my face that didn’t fade until after lunch.

The team of He, She and It, that represented the water company, entered the room that morning laughing. Uproariously.
Like Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon had driven carpool. I felt at a distinct disadvantage. Out of the loop, like the funniest joke ever told was lost on me. Was that their plan?

They were meticulously coiffed and groomed, cool as the proverbial cucumbers, while I was drenched in flop sweat, permanently wrinkled and frantically struggling to remove a poppy-seed from between my two front teeth with my tongue.

Note to self: Don’t accept half a poppy-seed bagel when you’re out of coffee. And you forgot your water.
You’re going to need something to rinse your mouth with when the big guns enter the room.

If I’d had more sleep I would have remembered that.

They all seemed so nice, so genuinely happy to meet me; that is until the bell rang and we went to our respective corners. Then the gloves came off and the crazy started to show.

They made shit up. Their entire alibi was jack-crap.
With graphs, documents and flow charts. Listen, if you show me a flow chart, I’ll believe anything…almost.
Somehow they double teamed my attorney and me. In the most well crafted, legal babbly, thinly veiled insulting way, they pinned the whole thing on me. They made the accidental, midnight break of their trunk line water main seem like MY fault.

Business was slow, debt was high, it was 2009, and I need out—only I was too stupid to commit arson.

I know, crazy, right?

When we broke for lunch even I wanted to throw the book at me.
The picture they painted of me was that of a sad-sack, loser of a business woman. Which was exactly how I felt at the time.
I think my lawyer drank the Kool-Aid too—they were that convincing. She wouldn’t make eye contact, skulking in the corner on her phone, and then disappearing for the entire lunch break.

But you wanna know what trumps sleep deprivation? Rage. That’s what.
It also instantly removes sheet marks from your face.

It also over-rides all victim-hood.

Crazy and Rage are curious dance partners and they should never be left alone in a room together.
Let me tell you why. Crazy is so put together, so charming, pretty, and unflappable. Crazy looooooves a victim, she gets off on them, they get her panties wet.

Rage is no victim, he’s a gangster. He’s raw, he’s greasy and he talks real dirty. He wears a wife beater t-shirt and too much Aramis; and he has only one thing in his crosshairs—Crazy.

Crazy gets high on Rage and it quickly becomes a street-brawl.

But Rage is better than Sad, which is where I’d pitched my tent for eighteen months. Some say you can get caught in anger and never feel despair. The opposite had been true for me.
Sad victimhood. It’s like chum in the water to Crazy.

So Rage felt better. It felt…empowering. Sadness felt like quick-sand, Rage, like solid ground.

It got my attention and cleared my vision, so I could finally see the truth and it kicked Sad’s ass to the curb.

I locked myself in a public bathroom stall and raged for an hour before taking a walk around the building, coming to my senses, and finding my courage.

I knew my opponent. I was very familiar with Crazy.
You see, I had met her as a teenager in the form of my father’s second wife. I had witnessed her devour her victims and I was smart enough to remember that Rage threw her into a sort of drunken frenzy.

I also remembered that nothing can get to Crazy. Nothing touches their heart. There is no reasoning with Crazy. There is no sympathy, empathy or compassion and absolutely nothing is open for discussion.

They act as your judge, jury and executioner.

And the more they sense is at stake, the faster and louder the accusations come. Their aim is to keep you off-balance, on the ropes.

Remember they are rested, ready and strong after their peaceful nights sleep. How is that fair?
Because they get a buzz off this shit and they don’t care about anything other than winning.

I sure wasn’t feeling sad anymore, Rage had hatched a plan but I knew better than to let it enter that room. I waited outside the double doors of the conference room until I saw my attorney exit the elevator. I could hear the team of Crazy, Crazier and Craziest, whopping it up inside.

“You handle this, I’m leaving” I announced. I had her by the arm and was walking her back down a long hallway of endless doors, out of earshot of the hyenas.

“What?” she looked surprised.

“You don’t need me here. They can smell my fear and sadness, and well, their offer is beyond ridiculous. See what happens when they can’t focus on me. When they have to deal with you and only the facts.” We had walked in a circle making our way back toward the bank of elevators.

“Give me a number you’ll you settle at” she asked as she reached into her bag for paper and a pen. She seemed relieved, like the day could be salvaged. Like it could go back to a language she understood—the law.

I wrote a figure down. She looked and nodded in agreement, folding the paper into a small square and tucking into her suit-jacket pocket.

The elevator chimed, opening right on cue. People were packed like sardines, but as I stepped inside she grabbed my purse strap, making me turn around. “This could end today” she said with a hint of a smile, letting go as the doors closed.

A hairy mystery hand reached around me and pushed the button for LOBBY, getting me the hell out of that DWP building. I know it was Rage. I could smell his Aramis. But I made sure I left him behind, losing him in the crowd.

*I got the call a couple of hours later that they’d settled on the figure I’d written down. “Piece of cake” I remember her saying in a distracted voice, (yeah, once the chum had left the building), she was already on to her next case.

We all slept well that night.

I know some of you guys needed to hear this,
Carry on,
xox

Today I heard the most beautiful Buddhist meditation/prayer for fear.

It is recited by Colleen Saidman Yee at the end of her yoga classes.
I just love it and I thought you would too.

Here are her words.

“It goes something like this: Sit down and notice where you hold your fear in your body.
Notice where it feels hard, and sit with it. In the middle of hardness is anger.

Go to the center of anger and you’ll usually come to sadness.
Stay with sadness until it turns to vulnerability.

Keep sitting with what comes up; the deeper you dig, the more tender you become.
Raw fear can open into the wide expanse of genuineness, compassion, gratitude, and expectancy in the present moment.

A tender heart appears naturally when you are able to stay present.

From your heart you can see the true pigment of the sky. You can see the vibrant yellow of a sunflower and the deep blue of your daughter’s eyes.

A tender heart doesn’t block out rain clouds, or tears, or dying sunflowers.
Allow beauty and sadness to touch you.
This is love, not fear.”

Isn’t that beautiful you guys?
Happy weekend,
xox

You can catch Colleen’s entire interview with Marie Forleo and hear her say the prayer on my Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/Theobserversvoice

Colleen’s new book:
Yoga for Life
A Journey to Inner Peace and Freedom

http://books.simonandschuster.com/Yoga-for-Life/Colleen-Saidman-Yee/9781476776781

Snarky Sam.
He doesn’t have a kind word to say, well, ever.
You can count on him to complain about the weather, the slow waiter, the quality of the vegetables at the local Framers Market “their celery is flaccid” and most certainly your clothes “your closet is where 1985 went to die”, so why in God’s name would you ask his advice — about anything?

Debbie Downer (that character was invented by SNL, but it is applicable here) sees only the worst aspects of things.
In dogs, hats, and especially people.
“that hat is wearing that woman” she’ll whisper just loud enough so that the entire room, including that poor woman, can hear her.

She had one good day back in the early nineties that had an unfortunate ending – something about her foot and some dog shit, so every canine is the target of her vitriol. “You know I love Thailand, they don’t have a stray dog problem there because they eat them.”

If you share any of your good news with her she is the first one to rain on your parade, interrupting you to let you know she ran into your ex at Target and he said you looked old…and fat; or to remind you of the fact that your student loans will only take you another thirty-seven years to pay off.

Debbie’s a bitch, so you can expect that her advice will be…horrible.

Barracuda Betty.
Now she really appears as if she’s got her shit together. High functioning, top performer at her company, food connoisseur, and loyal friend.
But if you read the small print on her Friendship Resume you’ll find she is also a backstabbing secret spiller and wealthy ex-husband collector.

Her loose lips possess some of the juiciest gossip that exists on. the. planet. She has dirt on everyone (it’s rumored she even has some stink on Oprah) which makes the seat next to her at dinner parties the most highly coveted ticket in town.

Betty has the most amazing trainer, maitre ‘d at a five-star restaurant, not-so-discreet plastic surgeon, and the most cut throat divorce attorney in the country all on speed dial; and in a crisis she will tenderly pat your back and dry your tears, just don’t ask her for advice.

Betty gets and gives Bad Barracuda Advice, and if you follow it you’d better have a couple packs of cigarettes to bribe the other prison inmates, some bail money set aside, and an airtight alibi — because there will be a trail of bad decisions from here to Kingdom Come, huge invoices from a private detective to pay, and an open can of  whoop ass to clean up.

What I’m getting at you guys is this: When the going gets tough and the fan is hitting the shit, who do you go to for advice?

The person that will commiserate with you, fill your head with devious ideas and fuel your fire; or someone who will listen calmly and only agree with roughly fifty percent of everything you say? I know, hard choice.

I’m horrified by some of the stories I’ve been hearing lately about friends that are on the receiving end of some crazy ass, mean-spirited, highly questionable deeds that have been perpetrated on them after the other party sought and followed Bad Barracuda Advice. When that happens, consider the source and by all means don’t take the bait.

There’s no winner in a one man bar fight, and that’s what they want — they want a brawl — and they want to win. At all costs.

Nobody wants to hear “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” You wanna know why? Because it’s true! You’re the good guy, the white hat; you’re just an unwilling participant in a fucked up situation. Sit tight and let the other party spin their wheels, taking all the bad advice that these shifty characters have to offer, knowing that in the end, when the dust settles, you will prevail.

You may not be able to see that for years but it WILL become clear to you if you can manage to stay out of the gutter.

I promise.

And when you are seeking advice what should you listen to?
Well, you may want to punch the person in the throat that offers up this pearl of wisdom: “There are two sides to every story”. That implies that YOUR side may not stand up to the scrutiny of a friendly kitchen table cross-examination.

None of us are right one hundred percent of the time and a good friend will call bullshit, and then immediately fill your glass with more wine.

Run from the friend that thinks “You’re not being hard enough on him” or says, “Lets make her pay”.

That reeks of Bad Barracuda Advice and you, (we) are all better than that.

Carry on & try to stay out of prison,
xox

So I’ve been thinking…
Have I ever been brave enough to sidestep​ an emotional tsunami filled with mean-spirited accusations and diminishing love that was headed straight for my marriage?

The answer, after searching the archives of my menopausal mind, turning over every rock and remembering the times when the shit hit the fan was …once.

It was one night, inside one fight, but sometimes that’s all it takes to turn a situation on its head and start over. 

I remember it clear as day because my husband and I don’t really argue that much. We bicker and disagree, but rarely does it escalate into a full-blown fight.

This day was different, and the reason behind it was palpable – FEAR.

My store, the business that held all of our proverbial eggs in its basket, had flooded and closed. Insurance was in full jackassery mode, and the situation appeared bleak. Bleak is an understatement; it was a clusterfuck on steroids.

He had been letting me handle most of the fallout while keeping a watchful distance. I was grateful and full of resentment all at the same time.
This was th hardest time of my life. Weren’t we a team?

Our we project in good times had become a me situation now that it was damaged beyond repair.

But to be fair, I hadn’t included him in much of the business set-up. He didn’t know the in’s and out’s of my insurance​ policy, and besides, I had managed to establish an uneasy alliance with all the players so they only wanted to deal with ME. He felt it best to keep his distance and watch it play out.

One evening, after peppering me with questions, those inquiries quickly turned to accusations. I, of course, became defensive. “Oh nice of you to finally join the circus, welcome to MY world!”  I sneered sarcastically. As he realized the gravity of the situation, things escalated. Name-calling ensued; lots of fuck you’s were thrown around — it turned ugly.

“How could you let this happen?” he yelled at me ​as if I could have somehow prevented an act of God. “You said you could make this business work, you sold me a bill of goods, what the fuck happens now?”

How did I know? I was just as overwhelmed as he was except this had been my dream, a dream that was now covered with a stench I couldn’t escape — failure.

Here was my partner, my best friend; how had he become so insensitive? Couldn’t he see I was suffering, treading water just to keep from drowning in despair?

“I won’t cry, I won’t let myself cry” was my mantra, knowing that when I get that angry I can’t contain the tears.

I reverted back to a default setting from my childhood; Stoic Sadness – I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking down. I would not let him know how much this hurt.

The fight was gaining momentum, words were on the tips of our tongues that could never be taken back, hurts leveled that would cut too deep to heal — it needed to be stopped.

I took a good look at him with eyes so clouded with rage it made me nauseous. And that’s when it hit me – I was hit by a thunderbolt of…Compassion.
It forced me to look again, and this time I could really see him. He was scared, just as scared as I was, maybe even more so. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were lost, lawsuits were pending, and his wife was a hot mess.

Something made me get up and walk over to him sitting in his chair. I had no idea what the next moment would bring. I didn’t have a plan. I was “winging it”.

My posture was such that it made him recoil. I remember thinking: that’s funny, he thinks I’m gonna punch him in the face, and let me tell you, his fears were not unfounded. There was a fist and a knock-out punch with his name on it—if I were the face punching type.

Instead, I put out my hand. It was a gesture that only confused matters.

He looked down at it and then up into my eyes.
Did I see…contempt?
I stood fast, my hand extended—this was a matter of life and death — our marriage was on the ropes.

“What?” he looked at my hand and shrugged like a punk.

“Come on, let’s go”, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
I probably stood there for a good two and a half minutes, hand extended, while he considered the offer.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?” he asked.

“Just come with me.” I exhaled impatiently. Maybe this had been a mistake.

Slowly he rose out of his chair, shoulders sagging, eyes to the floor. His six-foot-three​ frame folded in on itself.

I took his hand, guiding him through the living room and down the hall. “What are you doing?” he sounded like a confused little boy. He wasn’t mad anymore, just worn down, vulnerable.

We kept moving forward.

I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. All I knew is that I was headed for our bed.

I laid down crossways on top of the bedspread, never letting go of his hand. His face read: If you think I’m going to have sex with you, you’re nuts, but that wasn’t my intention, we needed something more than sex could provide.

The bed became a life raft on which to ride out the tsunami.

Begrudgingly, he lay down beside me as I positioned our bodies face to face. When I moved in closer, he moved away. So much for being best friends, we had turned into adversaries​, total strangers whose faces were now inches apart.

Looking at him in that moment, he was not the grown man who had been raging at me just minutes before – I saw a very scared nine-year-old​ boy – and that started to soften my heart.

“We need to remember what we love about each other”, I whispered softly, as I stared into his eyes, digging deep to think of something to say.

I feared he would get up at any moment and bolt for the door, but he just lay there, emotionally exhausted.

Tentatively, haltingly, I began.

“I love your eyes.” he closed them briefly, a long blink.
“I love the way you smell.” I started with the easy stuff.
“I love what a good doggie daddy you are.”

Did he crack a smile? If he had it was gone in a flash.

He wasn’t making it easy, but I continued undaunted for another few minutes until momentum began to build.

“I love your funny French accent.” I was on a roll. “I love how you mix your metaphors ​and invent names for things…like Ricky Ricardo does…”

He interrupted, “I love how that makes you laugh — every time.”

Now we were both laughing. Then he pulled me close, burying my face in his chest — and our laughter turned to sobs.

“I love what a big crybaby you are”, I mumbled into my best friend’s chest after a couple of minutes.

That made us both giggle uncontrollably, like teenagers, and suddenly I felt safe again. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief knowing that in that moment, we were a team again, we had found our momentarily misplaced love, and by the Grace of God – compassion had saved my marriage.

Carry On,
xox

*Holy Crap you guys,
This was a hard one to write and re-live. SUCH a painful time for us. My hope is that maybe you’ll think of this during the next big fight, and take a second look at the person and the situation. Compassion is an equal-opportunity-saver of anything for those who are willing to be happy—instead of right.

I know you guys have turned some horrible situations around by the Grace of God –– Care to share?

Hello my peeps,
I gotta tell ya, I love this recent blog post from Daniele LaPort.
I’m sure you all know how much this resonates with me, being that after five years we’re still paying off the Atik debt,(my business that failed/flooded) and I just can’t hear this enough, and I know I’m not alone.

Take it away Daniele!

“When my first company tanked, I was on the hook for about $150,000. Before I got slammed with that fact, my CEO, who I hired to run the company, thought it best to fire my Founder’s ass. Shortly after they canned me, the whole business fell apart — because you can’t have a personality-driven business without um, the founding personality there. And because, bad karma.

Anywaaaay, I got to sit back and watch them tank without me. Which was only slightly satisfying. Mostly it was sad and crushing. When the castle crumbled, the bank called me for its money. And because I’d co-signed the loan as a “person” and not as a co-founder of the business — I had to pay up, even though I’d been fired months before.

3) I knew that if I actively resented and bitched about those monthly payments, that it would distract me from my own creations. Also, the anger about the whole situation was heavy-duty. And I was done carrying it. So I re-framed paying the debt into a reason to be grateful. Every time that money came out of my bank account I said, “I’m grateful that I have the money to pay this.” And I was. And I let THAT be the lead story.
And then… magically (but not instantly,) on the VERY same day that I FINALLY made my very LAST monthly payment on that bad debt, my company tipped its first million dollar mark — and I did the happy karma moonwalk. Oh ya, oh ya…”