character

You’re gonna love this essay by Danielle La Porte. I did. Keep reading and you’ll see why.
Then, Carry on,
xox

Just don’t expect crazy people to be sane (cause that’s crazy).
People are going to be who they are most of the time. In character, not out of character.

Guys with anger issues can complain about kittens and unicorns.

Folks who run a lot of anxiety will worry about the days of the week coming on time.

Positive thinkers figure that the train derailment saved them from disaster down the tracks.

Punctual people are punctual.
Sweet people are sweet.
Takers, take.
Givers, give.

People change and evolve. Breakthroughs happen. But hey…

Don’t expect crazy people to be sane (cause that’s crazy), or super emo girls to behave like stoics (did you think she wasn’t going to cry just this one time? Of course she’s going to cry. That’s how she is.) The guy who’s kinda wimpy? Well, he’s probably going to wimp out. That girlfriend of yours who runs on chaos like a truck runs on diesel? Ya, she’ll probably keep making choices that make chaos — she likes it that way. The overly generous soul, she’s probably going to be illogically generous and it’ll get her into some trouble — but most of the time it works. The friend who’s always late? Chances are they’re going to be…late.

People are — for better or for worse — generally predictable. An old gentleman friend used to say to me, “Well what do you expect from a pig, but a grunt?” Oink. Point taken. And, Eagles soar. And, you can rely on reliable people.

It’s useful to analyze the stuff of people’s character. Hunh. So why IS he such an asshole? Judgement is inevitable, it’s part of conscious discernment — but sometimes, it makes us a judgmental asshole.

There’s so much sanity to just flowing with someone’s predictability — their norm, their nature. Accept it. Forgive it. Just tolerate it; or peace out if you don’t want it in your life. But don’t waste too much time trying to change it.

All for Love,

Danielle

I just switched to a summer bag. I know, I’m late to the party, being that it’s the third week in July.

Nevertheless, I transferred all of my purse “loot” to a bag that is lighter in both actual heft and color. It’s a happy pink bag. One that I purchased in Santa Fe, in a snowstorm, while my best friend shopped for sexy lingerie. It was at the bottom of a sale bin for thirty dollars.
SCORE!

It wasn’t a simple task. I carry around a lot of shit on a daily basis.
Useless, out-of-date, superfluous shit as it turns out.

I don’t want to hear one man snicker. Have you guys cleaned out your wallets lately?
What about your murse (man purse)? Have you really examined its contents in the last year?
Yeah, I thought not.

My husband utilizes his entire immediate environment as a wallet. So vast is his sphere of influence that a mere man-bag or wallet cannot contain it.
His car collects business cards. Hundreds of them.
His home-office overflows with receipts and warranties, gift cards and gum. And Altoids. Boxes and boxes of Altoids bought in bulk at Costco.

Not me. I’m much more self-contained so I didn’t really anticipate the jaw-dropping magnitude of this bag and switch.

And here is what the excavation revealed:(Drum roll)

Paperclips. Just like an archeologist at an ancient burial site, I stood holding three small paperclips, trying to figure out their significance in my daily life and what in the hell they’re doing in my purse. I have a vague recollection of using one as a barrette on a bad bang day.
Here’s the thing, I don’t clip paper. Ever. I’m a computer girl, I barely use actual paper much anymore, (which is tragically sad when you think about it). That may explain why my award-winning cursive (Miss Law’s seventh-grade penmanship award) has devolved into the scrawl of a deranged serial killer.

One schmutz covered open tube of L’Occitane Shea Butter hand cream. After much digging (burial site reference again) I found the lid.
It doesn’t matter. From the looks of it, the contents dried up sometime during a road trip back in 1992.

An LED pink and grey camouflage flashlight—that actually still works. Now I can rest easy. Not as easy as a signal flare would make me rest, but easy just the same.

An Advil bottle filled with an assortment of pills.
I thought it would be a hoot to open it up and take a trip down memory lane since I can’t remember the last time I put anything relevant inside that bottle.

Contents:
One Benadryl. That was for our dog, who, when she was a puppy was allergic to bee stings. She died in March at the age of nine.

Something that looks suspiciously like a birth control pill. Wha…what? Why, at fifty-seven does an obviously lost and alone birth control still make my heart skip a beat and my blood run cold?

Seventeen Motrin. An odd number since the recommended dose is two, and kind of an F-you to Advil. Like having Pepsi in a Coke can.

One half of a migraine pill. For those days when I’m suffering from one half of a migraine.

One half of what I think is a Xanax. First of all, half? Really? Any situation that requires Xanax—requires an entire pill. AND, Can I just tell you how many times I wish I’d known that was there?

One Midol. Awwww. How sweet. I’m going to open my time capsule and put that in there with my tampons, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

A Zeiss ten power bad-ass jeweler’s loop. Don’t accidentally flash your engagement ring my way—I’m trained, armed and opinionated.

One dollar and fourteen cents of loose change (which I will promptly donate to the nearest tip jar).

A package of pink flamingo tissues. I have NO idea where they came from. I know I didn’t buy them. Pink Flamingos? come on! Plus, they have the consistency of crepe paper and  I wouldn’t let them touch any part of my body on a dare.

My prescription from the Optometrist The latest one from January 2015. A girl with eyesight as diminished as mine can’t be too careful.

One petrified Cliff Bar. In case the Zombies attack. I could throw it at them.

My sad, pebbly brown leather, Hermes wallet which has lived an abused and overstuffed life (Overstuffed with everything except cash.)
I have blatantly disrespected this beautiful, obscenely expensive, vacation purchase,(because who looks at prices on vacation), until now it is so stretched out on the sides you could store your umbrella.
I love it so…I just can’t let it go…I need help.

Inside there are tens of assorted cards, which sadly at my age have switched from the latest, greatest club, boutique or restaurant; to one for a dermatologist, my hormone doctor, a podiatrist and other assorted magicians. My how times have changed.
I did find a business card for my realtor, the lovely man who helped me purchase my home—in 1999. I wonder if he’s still alive.

An old California driver’s license which expired in 2001 after ten years of extensions. It has my old name, and a long forgotten address from the nineties, but I keep it because the picture chronicles the decade I dyed my hair bright red and…well who am I kidding, it verifies that once, I was five foot five and after a nasty stomach flu, weighed one hundred pounds.
Sometimes, on a low day, with my grey hair and stretched out yoga pants, after snarfing down an entire bag of Fritos—I just need to see that.

A Costco, Ralph’s and Vons card (because I tend to have revolving loyalty, although I shop almost exclusively at Trader Joe’s) and a Petco card.

A checkbook. With unused checks. I can’t decide if the archeologists gets this or the time capsule.

A leather pouch containing five MAC lip glosses (which are all three-quarters empty), Bobby Brown cheek tint, (because you never know when you may want to tint a cheek),and a KCRW Fringe Benefits Card (which I always forget to use and if you’re not in LA it won’t make sense anyway).

Forever stamps from the U.S. Postal Service, which loose half their value by the time you walk out to the parking lot.

Danielle LaPorte Temporary Tattoos. I think they come with like eight or nine inspirational words in her handwriting, and of those, only blissful, love and joy are left. I haven’t gotten around to those words yet. Hmmm…I wonder what that means?

One groovy rhinestone skull glass case which is always empty because the groovy skull magnate isn’t strong enough to hold the glasses in place. Which leads me to believe it was probably made in Italy where everything is stunning, but nothing does what it’s designed to do. It also explains the loose pair of designer cheaters whose lenses are so scratched it’s like looking through wax paper.

Oh, and my iPhone 6, which also gravitates toward the bottom of every bag, (or the floor of the passenger seat of my car) no matter how many specially designed pockets are sewn inside.
I suspect it’s magnetized—attracted to the earth’s core. Fucking Apple.

So lets see here, what have we determined about me?
That I have a little Girl Scout survival preparedness thing going on with the flashlight and the Cliff Bar (and the lip gloss).

That I can’t spend good money on nice things because I can’t be trusted to take proper care of them.

That rhinestone skulls are my kryptonite.

That I carry way too much make-up for a woman my age.

That I’m going to have to break down and wear blissful, love and joy on my body someday.

That it is crazy how badly I need a new wallet.

And that I’m just like you—a walking, talking, hot mess contradiction—who’s just doing the best she can—with a bright pink summer bag.

Carry On,
xox

I just switched to a summer bag. I know, I’m late to the party, being that it’s the third week in July.

Nevertheless, I transferred all of my purse “loot” to a bag that is lighter in both actual heft and color. It’s a happy pink bag. One that I purchased in Santa Fe, in a snowstorm, while my best friend shopped for sexy lingerie. It was at the bottom of a sale bin for thirty dollars.
SCORE!

It wasn’t a simple task. I carry around a lot of shit on a daily basis.
Useless, out-of-date, superfluous shit as it turns out.

I don’t want to hear one man snicker. Have you guys cleaned out your wallets lately?
What about your murse (man purse)? Have you really examined its contents in the last year?
Yeah, I thought not.

My husband utilizes his entire immediate environment as a wallet. So vast is his sphere of influence that a mere man-bag or wallet cannot contain it.
His car collects business cards. Hundreds of them.
His home-office overflows with receipts and warranties, gift cards and gum. And Altoids. Boxes and boxes of Altoids bought in bulk at Costco.

Not me. I’m much more self-contained so I didn’t really anticipate the jaw-dropping magnitude of this bag and switch.

And here is what the excavation revealed:(Drum roll)

Paperclips. Just like an archeologist at an ancient burial site, I stood holding three small paperclips, trying to figure out their significance in my daily life and what in the hell they’re doing in my purse. I have a vague recollection of using one as a barrette on a bad bang day.
Here’s the thing, I don’t clip paper. Ever. I’m a computer girl, I barely use actual paper much anymore, (which is tragically sad when you think about it). That may explain why my award-winning cursive (Miss Law’s seventh-grade penmanship award) has devolved into the scrawl of a deranged serial killer.

One schmutz covered open tube of L’Occitane Shea Butter hand cream. After much digging (burial site reference again) I found the lid.
It doesn’t matter. From the looks of it, the contents dried up sometime during a road trip back in 1992.

An LED pink and grey camouflage flashlight—that actually still works. Now I can rest easy. Not as easy as a signal flare would make me rest, but easy just the same.

An Advil bottle filled with an assortment of pills.
I thought it would be a hoot to open it up and take a trip down memory lane since I can’t remember the last time I put anything relevant inside that bottle.

Contents:
One Benadryl. That was for our dog, who, when she was a puppy was allergic to bee stings. She died in March at the age of nine.

Something that looks suspiciously like a birth control pill. Wha…what? Why, at fifty-seven does an obviously lost and alone birth control still make my heart stop and my blood run cold?

Seventeen Motrin. An odd number since the recommended dose is two, and kinda an F-you to Advil. Like having Pepsi in a Coke can.

One half of a migraine pill. For those days when I’m suffering from one half of a migraine.

One half of what I think is a Xanax. First of all, half? Really? Any situation that requires Xanax—requires an entire pill. AND, Can I just tell you how many times I wish I’d known that was there?

One Midol. Awwww. How sweet. I’m going to open my time capsule and put that in there with my tampons, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

A Zeiss ten power bad-ass jeweler’s loop. Don’t accidentally flash your engagement ring my way—I’m trained, armed and opinionated.

One dollar and fourteen cents of loose change (which I will promptly donate to the nearest tip jar).

A package of pink flamingo tissues. I have NO idea where they came from. I know I didn’t buy them. Pink Flamingos? come on! Plus, they have the consistency of crepe paper and  I wouldn’t let them touch any part of my body on a dare.

My prescription from the Optometrist The latest one from January 2015. A girl with eyesight as diminished as mine can’t be too careful.

One fossilized Cliff Bar. In case the Zombies attack. I could throw it at them.

My sad, pebbly brown leather, Hermes wallet which has lived an abused and overstuffed life (Overstuffed with everything except cash.)
I have blatantly disrespected this beautiful, obscenely expensive, vacation purchase,(because who looks at prices on vacation), until now it is so stretched out on the sides you could store your umbrella.
I love it so…I just can’t let it go…I need help.

Inside there are tens of assorted cards, which sadly at my age have switched from the latest, greatest club, boutique or restaurant; to one for a dermatologist, my hormone doctor, a podiatrist and other assorted magicians. My how times have changed.
I did find a business card for my realtor, the lovely man who helped me purchase my home—in 1999. I wonder if he’s still alive.

An old California driver’s license which expired in 2001 after ten years of extensions. It has my old name, and a long forgotten address from the nineties, but I keep it because the picture chronicles the decade I dyed my hair bright red and…well who am I kidding, it verifies that once, after a nasty stomach flu, I was five foot five, and weighed one hundred pounds.
Sometimes, on a low day, with my grey hair and stretched out yoga pants, after snarfing down an entire bag of Fritos—I just need to see that.

A Costco, Ralph’s and Vons card (because I tend to have revolving loyalty, although I shop almost exclusively at Trader Joe’s) and a Petco card.

A checkbook. With unused checks. I can’t decide if the archeologists gets this or the time capsule.

A leather pouch containing five MAC lip glosses (which are all three-quarters empty), Bobby Brown cheek tint, and a KCRW Fringe Benefits Card (if you’re not in LA that last one won’t make sense).

Forever stamps from the U.S. Postal Service, which are even though they are FOREVER are virtually obsolete by the time you walk out to the parking lot.

Danielle LaPorte Temporary Tattoos. I think they come with like eight or nine inspirational words in her handwriting, and of those, only blissful, love and joy are left. I haven’t gotten around to those words yet. Hmmm…I wonder what that means?

One groovy rhinestone skull glass case which is always empty because the groovy skull magnate isn’t strong enough to hold the glasses in place. Which leads me to believe it was probably made in Italy where everything is stunning, but nothing does what it’s designed to do. It also explains the loose pair of designer cheaters whose lenses are so scratched it’s like looking through wax paper.

Oh, and my iPhone 6, which also gravitates toward the bottom of every bag, (or the floor of the passenger seat of my car) no matter how many specially designed pockets are sewn inside.
I suspect it’s magnetized—attracted to the earth’s core. Fucking Apple.

So lets see here, what have we determined about me?
That I have a little Girl Scout survival preparedness thing going on with the flashlight and the Cliff Bar (and the lip gloss).

That I can’t spend good money on nice things because I can’t be trusted to take proper care of them.

That rhinestone skulls are my kryptonite.

That I carry way too much make-up for a woman my age.

That I’m going to have to break down and wear blissful, love and joy on my body someday.

That it is crazy how badly I need a new wallet.

And that I’m just like you—a walking, talking, hot mess contradiction—who’s just doing the best she can—with a bright pink summer bag.

Carry On,
xox

*This is a Flashback Friday piece written a while ago, about some questionable behavior on my part.

I watched several people walk right by it. I did too. Twice.
Obviously some trash had found its way onto the path and into the planters in front of the door to the Y.

It looked like as if it had made a break for it on the way to the dumpster that lived around the side of the building. It consisted of a few pieces of shredded paper, a power bar wrapper and parts of a banana peel. As I walked around it on my way in, I thought: Gee, someone needs to pick that up.

I’m sure the guy in the way too tight and shiny bike shorts, holding the door for me, thought the same thing.

After my 45 mins of extremely rigorous and effective circuit training (15 mins on the elliptical, 15 mins on the arm machines and 15 mins gossiping with Tina at the front desk)
I sprinted (walked slowly), with Bruno Mars still blaring in my ears, to my car.
When I saw that the trash was still by the doorway, I was annoyed, Jeez, that’s still there? I’d better go tell Tina to send someone to pick it up. And I walked right by.

What.  an.  assbite.

The sheer audacity of my own entitled ass-bite-ish-ness stopped me in my tracks.I looked around. Someone WAS sent to pick up the trash. Me.

I bent down, made sure I got all the pieces, walked back inside and threw it in the can that was next to the door. With my own, two, manicured hands. It took me less than a minute. Probably less than 30 seconds.
Sometimes I just shake my head in amazement…at my own behavior.

Who are we, when no one is watching? Are we assbites that walk by trash, or people in need? Do we turn our heads or pretend we’re on the phone?
Or are we people with some character? I think we can be both.

Back in the day, right after I bought my house, I LIVED at the 24 hour Hollywood Home Depot. I would walk down EVERY aisle like it was a gourmet market. Even the lumber department.

It was dependable, free entertainment, by the fact that it was consistently crowded with a cross-section  of the most unique examples of humanity on the planet. It was the bar scene from Star Wars. AND, they played KROQ, an alternative rock radio station on the store PA after 6pm.

One night (It seemed I always needed a plunger or a dimmer switch at 11pm) in the aisle between electrical supplies and sprockets, was a sharp something or other that hadn’t been put back properly. As I absent mindedly strolled by, rocking out to The Clash, it jumped out and sliced my leg. Bad. Blood was suddenly EVERWHERE. It started to resemble a crime scene and as I looked around for help…crickets. There had easily been ten people on that aisle seconds before, and now it was deserted. Not a single soul.

People freak when they see blood. And a girl in denim overall shorts and Doc Martins hopping on one leg, howling OWWWWWWEEEEE loudly is certainly terrifying, I get it.

They don’t want to get involved.

I’ll never understand that. When you see someone fall, find a crying, lost child, or stumble upon a bleeding new homeowner –– see if you can help.
Be a person of some character. Even if no one else is watching.

Someone must have hunted down an employee, because a guy that looked like my brother, if my brother was COVERED in tattoos and wearing a Home Depot shirt, came to my rescue.
He quickly wrangled the guilty object that cut me back into its cubby, tied a tattered bandana around my ankle and told me to go get stitches and a tetanus shot.
In that order.
He also alerted me to the fact that I roamed those aisles “at my own risk.” Regardless, he was kind as he smiled and helped me back up on my feet.

It was then that my hero appeared. I heard angels singing.

He showed up with one of those flatbed wheelie things, and asked if I needed transport to my car. How chivalrous.

See…now this guy has some character.

Problem was, he resembled a biker/vampire, and I was sure the smell of my blood had beckoned him to my side. I declined his kind offer, and hobbled alone in the dark to my car, looking over my shoulder for a bat, or my scary pale, blood thirsty, knight in shining armor.

With all the cameras everywhere and YouTube video postings, we will all eventually  get caught in the act. But we have a choice. Will it capture us in a random act of helping or hiding? 

Tell me, are you the person that springs to action when someone falls or drops trash? Or have you caught yourself not wanting to get involved? Also, has something happened to you, and no one helped out? I’d love to hear your escapades?

Carry on, 

Xox