choices

“I don’t know.”

Probably the scariest words this side of “It doesn’t look good” and “We have to talk.”

And why is that?

Maybe because from the earliest age we are asked, no, make that we are expected to know EVERYTHING.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Who invented Velcro?

What do I want for lunch every day?

Where should I go to college?

What’s my major?

Do I want coleslaw or fries with that?

What is love?

Is there a God?

Where do I want to work?

Who do I want to marry?

Do I want children? How many? Boys or girls?

What state do I want to live in and which neighborhood?

Am I going to work or be a stay-at-home parent?

Do these jeans make my butt look big?

Should I stay or should I go?

How will I know when to leave?

Should I buy or rent?

How much do I need for retirement?

When are you too old to wear a bikini?

Donut or green juice?

Burial or cremation?

Holy crap! The sheer volume of questions we’re supposed to know the answer to is mind-boggling! And the fact that we come to a decision on most is commendable. We were taught well.

Consider my life. I’m no different from you. Not knowing what I wanted had NEVER occurred to me. I learned that saying I don’t know was unacceptable. It wasn’t one of the choices. There was no plan C. No other box to check. When I didn’t know the answer, I winged it. I made shit up. I turned at the fork in the road. I didn’t stand there with a map or spend time consulting my GPS. I had a five-year plan. I made a decision and dealt with the consequences because acting like I didn’t know which way to go, which most of the time I didn’t, seemed like the bigger risk.

But as I’ve gotten older and presumably wiser, I’ve discovered:
1. Not having children was the right decision for me (whew!)
2. The only woman who can get away with wearing a bikini after sixty is Helen Mirren.
3. It’s okay to say “I don’t know”.

Thinking I had to have all the answers started to feel like prison to me. It left no room for chance, spontaneity or dare I say—magic.
I slowly discovered that saying I don’t know opened the door a crack allowing a myriad of possibilities to flood in.
I don’t know went from feeling shameful to liberating. It became my Get Out Of Jail Free Card.

I throw “I don’t know” around like confetti. I aim to live a more inspired life. I no longer feel the need to know the end-game. I’ve pretty much taken my hands off the wheel and let a force that is much more daring, interesting and magical take control of my life and I’ve got to warn you IF you decide to go this route—buckle up—you’re in for one hell of a ride!

Carry on,
xox

Oh, Holy Christ on a cracker is that ever true!
We just had a Capricorn new moon and that my friends, facilitates jettisoning all that is not working in our lives.

We get a cosmic do-over. A universal re-write (the best kind of re-write there is).

Wait. This all feels eerily familiar. That’s because, if you’re like me, we’ve done a full, life-retrospective every damn year around this time.

And some years look better than others. They just do. But for those jinky ones, the ones that make you cringe with regret, oh, how I’ve relitigated the past. I’ve played the roles of judge, jury, and executioner.

Then I move straight to the special effects department and I whitewash the mutherf*cker with some heavy duty gauzy filter.

In my heavily CGI’d version, I’m so much smarter, prettier, and wittier, I have the most epic ideas, rebuttals and combacks, and my hair looks impossibly, hatefully perfect—even after a nap.

In one version, nothing is my fault. In another everything is. It depends on which chapter you come in on.

In my dreamy, rom-com version,  I get chased by a horrible dragon, captured by a giant cyclops, and saved by a naked, brave and handsome knight (we know he’s a knight by the chainmail codpiece he’s wearing). That scenario is the only way I can introduce all of the magic that permeates my life—otherwise, nothing would make sense and nobody would believe me.

But I can’t justify how I got to where I am any more than you can. Sometimes shit just happens.

Often, when I look back I feel bad for her, for me. She simultaneously appears to be the heroine and the villain of her own story and that is a hard pill to swallow. Sometimes I want to warn her, “Hey, idiot! Watch out for that guy, he’s a …oh, there goes the bra…nevermind.” At other times I try to congratulate her. “You, yeah, you. Ya did…okay. Next time try to suck less.”

Most of the time I want to duck tape her mouth shut and put her in the corner with baby.

All of these years later I realize nothing good comes from looking backward. It’s all water under a rickety bridge guarded by angry trolls. It’s all ancient history, filled with faded Polaroids and lots of bad clothing choices and the worst part of it (besides a stint with eggplant purple hair) is that focusing on my past, however riveting, keeps me distracted from where I’m headed.

Someone once said, “Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.” Well, I think quite the opposite is true. Selective amnesia is our friend AND those who look in the rear view mirror MUST be driving in reverse. I know I was. Also, and of this, I’m quite sure—my best times are not back there, behind me. They are ahead of me!

A few things that may be included while I create my future are (In no particular order): chocolate, naked knights, dog kisses, and predominately minding my own business and looking dead ahead because the future I envision for myself doesn’t resemble my past IN. THE. LEAST. (except for maybe the good hair).

What about you?

Carry on,
xox

Family is visiting, and I’m left with very little time to write. So, there may be some reprises this week…and they may start today.

Carry on with your summer,
xox

Man! That’s a hard lesson for me.
And lately, revisiting a situation in the same old manner I’ve done in the past just. Isn’t. working.

It’s insanity. Truly. Or in plain speak, it’s crazy making.

Thursday, I tried something different, something new, and I found my way out of crazy town. I know I’m not alone with my over-stamped passport and resident’s visa to crazy town so I thought I’d share what happened.

Things in my life have been going really well. Better than well. They’ve been magorific!
The writing is fun as hell, the possibilities on the horizon — endless. I have found myself happier than I can ever remember being.

I know that saying that out loud is deemed a subversive act, but it comes into play here—I just can’t help it—and besides, wtf’s with THAT?

Anyway…I’ve begun to realize inside this massive reinvention of my life, that my past comes into play pretty much…NEVER.
Nothing I’ve done in my life up to this point, besides learning to read and write, has made a rat’s ass of difference in what is transpiring these days.
That at once feels daunting — making me feel like a complete novice in my mid-fifties, a time where you’re supposed to know shit — and liberating — like I want to take off my bra and run topless down the beach just as I may have done as a girl.

The very day I was reveling in this realization, my past came to visit me. To test my resolve.

The City of Los Angeles wanted more tax money from my long since dissolved corporation. I’ve been sending e-mails and faxing paperwork to them for a couple of years. My corporation ceases to exist which means… I owe them nada.

This is the perfect time to say: I have little tolerance of bureaucracy, even less for bureaucracy when they bug you for money, and none at all when they aren’t entitled to the money they’re chasing.

Meanwhile, they’ve gotten creative with their estimations of my imagined sales and have compounded the penalty interest daily. I’m sure you know what that feels like.

It’s like arguing with an elderly, obstinant, and profoundly deaf, assholish uncle — who hates you.

When I saw the envelope my stomach sank. It sank so deep they were going to have to send James Cameron back into the inky blackness of the bottomless Marianas Trench in search of my poor stomach. Then the pit turned to venomous victimhood, which is the thug cousin of regular, generic victimhood.

It took me down the dark allies of shame and lack, places I am VERY familiar with.

My knee-jerk reaction was to rip it up or light it on fire, which is pretty much my knee-jerk reaction to everything.

Instead, I called my accountant and basically said, “Make this go away.” She barked back “It is tax season, I don’t have time for this!”, I think I heard her take a sip of beer or a hit off a crack pipe. “You’re going to have to do this yourself. Go to their Van Nuys office in person and take care of it.”

She may as well have suggested I jump into a pen of wild tigers while wearing Lady Gaga’s meat suit.

I hung up, ready to have a cigarette with the thugs in the alley of “this is not fair”.

“Damn. I’ve been so happy”, I lamented. And that’s when it hit me.
I’d rather stay happy than go back into those OLD feelings of victimhood and shame.
My past has NOTHING to do with what my life looks like now. This is NOT going to take me down! I will gather up my own stomach out of the pit of despair, go deal with the bureaucrats myself, and take care of this thing once and for all.

Are you with me?! Can I get an AMEN?!

But first I’ll eat a chocolate chip cookie, look at the paperwork with fresh eyes, see a phone number I’ve never seen before hidden on the back — and make a call.

Due to extremely high caller volume, (from people who were obviously much smarter than I was with much fresher eyes), I was asked to leave my number and they would call me back. “Bullshit!” I sneered and started to hang up. But that was the old way I always dealt with The City of Los Angeles. This new me left my cell phone number cheerfully on the recording.

By dinner time, I realized they hadn’t called me back but instead of fuming I just went back to Plan A.
I will go to Van Nuys and speak face to face with a human being, something I probably should have done years ago. There was no stomach pit, no malice, just anticipation of releasing an energetic albatross that’s been around my neck for years.

I woke up this morning waiting for the sinking feeling I’m so used to. Even as I was reminded of my impending visit to the exitless labyrinth of bureaucracy, I felt only relief. That was HUGE for me.

At 9 AM, on my way out the door to the gym, I glimpsed the pile of paperwork I would need for my visit to Van Nuys, and I remembered leaving my number for a callback. You’d better take that with you, what if they call you while you’re at the gym?, I reminded myself. Before I could start laughing at the absurdity of that thought, the phone in my pocket started ringing.

It was The City Of Los Angeles.

I’m not kidding. I can’t make this shit up. No one would believe me.

It was Mrs. Garcia (I love how when I asked her for her name she told me, Mrs. Garcia. I was in middle school all over again), and she was all business. She asked me a couple of unanswerable questions before we found some middle ground, I stayed light and shameless, and in the space of ten minutes, a chain of pain that has been severely knotted up for several years — fell away.

Turns out I owed them nada. (Here’s where I want to scream I told you so!!!)
Thank you, Mrs. Garcia!

And thank you happiness for the giant attitude adjustment.
And thank you past, for teaching me this valuable lesson.
And thank you chocolate chip cookie for just being delicious.
And thank You Guys for reading.

Carry on,
xox

This is my latest Huffington Post piece and another in my unintentional series on the way hope, gratitude and optimism have become dirty words these days. What do you think my tribe?
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/i-may-be-a-pollyanna-but-_b_11265326.html

It’s become terminally “uncool” to be hopeful and optimistic; and if anyone so much as gets a whiff of it, you are laughed at, belittled and shouted down.

That being said, I have a confession to make—I am proud to admit that I am a card-carrying “Pollyanna”.

Just to clarify, “Pollyanna” is a derogatory term for someone who remains excessively sweet-tempered and optimistic even in adversity. This may sound like it’s all fairy dust, rainbows, and unicorn balls, but I’m here to tell you, it can be difficult to maintain, especially surrounded as we are by the current apocalyptic zeitgeist.

Optimism is not for crybabies or the faint of heart.
Neither is hope. It’s an audacious act.
And fucking hard work.
It takes focus, grit, grace, a thick skin and the ability to unplug.

Hopelessness has countless outlets these days and it broadcasts its tale of woe 24/7. Like a spoiled, bratty child it yells at the top of its lungs all the while keeping its hands over its ears, lest it hear something uplifting—like the truth.

Here at the Pollyanna channel, we eat fear for breakfast—because we know the truth.

College graduation is at an all time high.
Teenage pregnancy numbers have continued to fall.
Violent crime is at an all-time low.
There has been a drop in domestic violence and drunk driving-related deaths.
Around the world, deaths from infectious diseases and child mortality are at an all time low.
Just to name a few.

I’m not blind, I still see huge room for improvement, but as an optimist, I believe the solutions come to us when we stay centered in hope.

It can be damn hard. I get it.

But like I said, optimism is not a fair weather sport for weaklings. It is for warriors. It’s so much easier to complain and blame, be furious and scared.

This pollyanna shit is not all kumbaya—it takes work!

By-the-way, if a doctor, therapist, teacher or pastor told me that the problem I was struggling with was a hopeless disaster, I would seriously run for the freakin’ hills. I expect even more from someone campaigning for the highest office in the land.

Please tell me one time that that kind of thinking has brought lasting, positive change.
One time. Tell me. I’m waiting.
NEVER.

I can guarantee you that throughout human history while some fraidy-cat fear-monger was running around like a headless chicken screaming about a falling sky, the Pollyanna’s in the bunch were calming the crowd and building a roof.

I swear to God, Noah was a Pollyanna.

“What devastating flood?” he said, over the deafening shouts of rain! Rain! Flood! Flood! Death! Disaster—and worse, no flood insurance!

“I’m building a boat” was his reply.

“What an idiot you are!” they all shouted after him as he sailed away.

Pollyanna’s unite! Be strong in the face of constant ridicule. Use your hope, use your faith, keep your optimism high and calm the crowds. Stay in the arena! We need you in the game!

Carry on.

A gentle reminder for the times we find ourselves in these days. Ha!

You’re welcome!

Carry on,
xox

ul·ti·ma·tum
ˌəltəˈmādəm/
noun: ultimatum; plural noun: ultimata; plural noun: ultimatums
1. a final demand or statement of terms, the rejection of which will result in retaliation or a breakdown in relation — final offer, final demand, take-it-or-leave-it deal; threat

Recently, I was asked to write some examples for the Huffington Post on a story they were doing on ultimatums.

Oh, that’s an easy one, I thought, I’m the Queen of Ultimatums, but upon reflection I realize I was the Queen-of-Setting-Boundaries, not delivering ultimatums.

Boundaries define your borders. Ultimatums are final. They have lasting consequences.
Big difference.

In my world, communication begins when you cross my imaginary line in the sand. When my boundary is breeched—detente begins.

For example, when my husband is out on a motorcycle without me, he is required, as set by the rules of our marriage and basic common decency, to let me know when he’s off the bike for the day. Even though I’m not a big worrier, that is the moment I can take a deep breath and relax knowing he’s safe and sound, his ass on a bar stool somewhere in the world.
Recently, when I hadn’t heard from him due to a text malfunction—he had some splainin’ to do.

Communication starts when a boundary is crossed.

Ultimatums, on the other hand, are where the talking stops.

Men love that. “I love a good ultimatum”, said NO man—EVER.

Or woman for that matter.

It smells like take-it-or-leave-it. I hate choices like that. Don’t you?

That being said…there was one ultimatum I did level at my husband right after we got engaged and here’s why.
Soon after we met we decided on full disclosure, you know, who had the higher FICO score, how our astrological charts lined up, showing each other old passport photos and admitting that we had each maintained a platonic friendship with a significant other. Once it was out in the open it was no big, hairy, deal and neither of us felt the least bit threatened, but when my husband went to tell his ex of our engagement, he chickened out.
“It was gonna get emotional”, he explained.
“Tough shit” I replied. “And if you care more about hurting her feelings than you do mine—you guys aren’t over each other yet and this engagement is off.”

He immediately picked up the phone, arranged another meeting and told her the next day.

Was that a threat? You bet your ass it was.

…And that concludes today’s essay on the difference between a boundary and an ultimatum.

Carry on,
xox

I’m someone who advocates taking a front row seat in your own life, however…

A friend sent this to me yesterday.

“I’m generally a positive person and I don’t believe in worrying about something that hasn’t happened. That makes no sense to me. Last night I went to a movie, for the first hour I lived in fear that someone would come in to do terrible things. I noted all the exits and although we were in the front row (which was not ideal for my mental state) I was ready to run or get down. To calm myself, I began wishing that some random person came up to this troubled person earlier in the day and said something kind that made him rethink how wonderful the world is and change his evil plan. Sometimes that is all it takes.

That’s a horrible way to live. No one should have to live in fear.”

I agree. No one should have to live in fear…or exacerbate it by sitting in the front row of a megaplex just inches away from a jumbo screen. That is cruel and abusive behavior and I’ve always believed there should be a front-row intervention. Seriously. Those people cannot actually want that level of sensory stimulation! It’s inhumane.

To my friend: The world is a wonderful place fifteen rows behind you. Trust me on this. If you suffer from anxiety for an hour, you should get up and leave. Or buy tickets for another time when you can get a proper seat.

Another friend called to tell me about a birthday party gone awry while I drove to pick up glitter for my magic wands (because I sit in the very last row, where the world truly IS a wonderful place.)

It went something like this: Her sister and several other birthday party moms were standing around a local park late last Saturday afternoon debating the GOP convention, terrorist threats, police killings, white dresses with puffy sleeves and self-tanning tragedies while watching a dozen twelve-year-old boys systematically destroy every inch of flora and fauna in the immediate vicinity—when the sound of rapid fire gunshots filled the air.

Four of the moms hit the deck. Two peed their pants. Literally.

Turns out the gunfire was only bubble pack from a pile of discarded gift wrapping. It was being stepped on by two of their sons who got in big, big, trouble.
Wait.  
We’ve all done that. Twisting or stomping on bubble packing is a twelve-years old’s right of passage. It’s up there with inhaling helium and singing Bohemian Rhapsody (although I’m sure the song choice has changed and that makes me sad because today’s twelve-year old’s will never know the sheer perfection of singing “Scaramouche, scaramouch, will you do the Fandango?” with lungs full of helium. It is a laugh like no other. Even though I was actually in high-school my first time, I will never forget it.)

Mistaking bubble wrap for gunfire would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Okay, it’s still a little funny.

Anyway, all this to say, everybody seems a bit edgy these days.

Fear has replaced oxygen in the air supply and we all just need to hold our breath chill.

Maybe we need less stimulation right now.
Less loud music and violent movies played at full volume.
Less front row.
Less talk of guns and terrorists and how we’re not safe in our country anymore.

I grew up as a kid practicing “duck and cover” drills which were a very clever way to dodge the effects of a nuclear bomb blast because as everyone knows, radiation doesn’t go under school desks. In the 1960’s the possibility of a nuclear war seemed imminent. The end of the world really WAS at hand and even at six years old we figured out how to cope—we still played at recess and swam and built a fort and went to the movies and waited for bubble wrap to be invented so we could pop it obnoxiously in each other faces. We had fun.

It’s gonna be okay you guys. There’s no need to be so scared. You have control over your environment and what you watch.

No one should have to live in fear. That’s a horrible way to live. And a terrible waste of time.

Carry on,
xox

“When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.”

My hike-nazi friend and I talk about this ALL. THE. TIME.

Taking responsibility for your own shit.

It is a fucking Jedi-Yoda-Mother Theresa-Dalai Lama type of acquired skill that makes finger pointing, blame and victimhood obsolete.

Sound hard?
As hard as you think it is—it’s harder.

Sometimes the problem is YOU. Ouch.

Imagine how our legal system would shift, not to mention our politics!

When you begin to practice looking at yourself through this unfiltered lens, I can’t tell you how incredibly good you get at apologising—I can’t even! And mostly to yourself—in the mirror.

“I’m sorry you’re a dick today” I’ll say. Then the reflection answers back “You’re human, it’s okay. Try to do better.

Then I open some Nutella and spread it all over anything I can find and lament how my mom made me this way.  Bahahaha! Snort-laugh! Just kidding mom!

Carry on,
xox

Oh hello, friends.

Many out there are exhibiting very bad behavior. Have you noticed?

It has been my observation in recent weeks that tempers are as flared as the bottom of my high school jeans.

It is hot, hot, hot out there. Like surface-of-the-sun hot (again like my low-rise, bell bottom, teenage jeans!)

I’m making light of it because, really, what else can we do? I mean besides be kind, chant, eat, pray, love… and vote.

Other times you just have to ignore it. Pay it no mind. Diffuse it by your lack of attention to it.

Case in point:

Fratty, I’m calling him that because that is the nicest thing I could think of to call him. The same goes for his friend/date who we will call…Bougie.

Listen, I’m not usually a name caller, you know that. But that day not only did I have to bite my tongue in order not to add fuel to the catastrofuck, I literally shoved my fist in my mouth to keep from going full Tourettes on these two.

Fratty and Bougie arrived together. I’m guessing to have some food, although, starting a street brawl may have been on their agenda too, judging by their horrible dispositions.

Fratty, who’s real name was Todd, (too pedestrian for this story), looked like he just got off the train to Hogwarts. Or Harvard. In the 1950’s. Think Dead Poet’s Society.

Like I always say, ‘there’s nothing more dangerous than a frat boy looking for a fight.’

All of that testosterone and repressed sexuality are shaken up to form a cocktail of rude insecurity, stirred with entitlement.

He waited while Bougie decided to redecorate the cafe, moving tables and chairs into the aisle and then dragging them over to a large bank of windows for a better view.
Nice idea.
Wish I would have though to do it.
Just one small caveat. They were blocking a door.

“I’m sorry you can’t sit there”, said the waitress with a funny look on her face as she realized it was no mistake, they were seriously sitting in front of a door to the patio.

“I’m sorry you’re ugly”, remarked Fratty, his face buried in the menu. Bougie didn’t hear him, she was talking loudly on her phone as she pulled bag after tiny yellow bag of Splenda out of her Louis Vuitton purse.

“Oh waitress!” she bellowed, “Ice tea! Pronto! Por favor!”

I have no idea why she tacked the Spanish onto her demand—it felt like an insult.

My friend and I just looked at each other in awe. Then things got worse.

Bougie threw off her skin-tone, five-inch high, patent leather pumps and put her feet up on the table, oblivious, while her fingers texted so fast they were invisible to the naked eye.

An older gentleman walked by and spoke in a low voice “Young lady, you should never put your feet where you eat”.

“Chill out, grandpa” snarked Fratty.
“Yeah, mind your own Goddamn business old man!” and with that Bougie lifted her designer skirt and plopped her bare ass on the table.

You could hear a pin drop.

The old mad shuffled away, appalled.

I was appalled. I think we all were. (I have to say, sadly, that feeling appalled by what someone says or does is feeling more and more familiar these days.)

Several people were standing on the other side of the glass door to the patio trying to figure out why a table and two people were blocking their exit.

Fratty and Bougie pretended not to notice.
The stranded people knocked and yelled. Then they found another way out.

People started to get up and leave.

I leaned forward, “Let’s get outta here”, I whispered to my friend. Right that minute our food showed up. The waitresses gaze was glued to the shitshow next to the patio, her eyes filled with fear. “We called the manager”, she confided.

Fratty started to yell, startling everyone within earshot. “Where’s our fucking waiter? I want a beer! The service here SUCKS!”

A mother gathered her two grade-school age kids and started toward the exit but was forced to run/walk past the shitshow on her way out.

“BOO!!!” yelled Bougie at the top of her lungs, causing one of the kids to jump out of her skin.

“Should I call the police?”, the terrified waitress asked us like we would know the right answer.

I’m telling you, it’s the gray hair. Apparently, gray hair denotes wisdom—I’ll have to get on that.
I’m not sure how wise I looked wth my own fist shoved halfway down my throat to keep myself quiet. I knew it was no use confronting them. It would only escalate things.

A couple of guys in their early thirties went over and said something on their way out. Fratty cursed a blue streak and Bougie threw her shoe at the guys as they left.

Those two guys could have beaten Fratty to a pulp. I was secretly hoping they would. The restraint they showed was remarkable.

Everyone who decided to stay eventually blocked them out like you do when a child throws a tantrum on an airplane.

Soon, the shock value wore off and nobody was paying them any attention.

When the manager showed up, a dignified man in his mid-to-late fifties, he unceremoniously kicked them out.

He pulled the table away from the door, flatware jumping in every direction. He propped the door open, pulled Bougie’s chair out from under her all the while calmly telling them to leave.
Refusing them service.

“But we’re hungry! We want some food!”, whined Bougie.
“I’m going to fuck you on Yelp”, screamed Fratty. (That’s why I hate Yelp reviews.)

“You didn’t come here to eat. You came in here to make trouble. Get out!”

With that, the entire room erupted into applause and with a minimum of fanfare… the shitshow left the building.

I think these days we’re all learning to navigate a “new normal”. Tempers are frayed. Frustration reigns supreme. People are killing each other for no reason (not that there was ever a good enough reason for me), so we have to exercise restraint.

Stay peaceful amid the chaos.
Okay? (I’m talking to myself here as much as you guys!)

Carry on,
xox

“You can’t ride two horses with one ass.”

While I was growing up I used to hear that phrase all the time from my dad.

What? What does that even mean?

This was his reaction to my teenage stress. After he’d watch me fumble and stumble, struggle and juggle; fitting in play rehearsal, singing practice, homework, and my part-time job, he’d admonish me, “Janet, you can’t ride two horses with one ass.”

My reaction was to roll my eyes, snap my gum, turn my head toward the heavens, and exhale the long, deep exhalation of the exasperated teenager. “Okaaaay, daAAAAaad, I get it, make a decision. Do one thing at a time. Gawd.”

I always knew the one thing he thought I should choose to focus on was my job at the supermarket. It could end up being my security, after all, my future, just like it had become his. But truth be told, that was NEVER gonna happen.

He had little patience for my “extracurricular” pursuits. He, as the father figure, the patriarch, the breadwinner, just couldn’t understand what he considered frivolous time wasting.

And I, cast as the dutiful daughter, continued to struggle with not enough asses.

Those extra things were far from superfluous to me, hardly! They were actually my life’s blood –– my passions.

He was unable to wrap his brain around multi-passionate people, and that never changed.
I can’t say that I blame him. Us multi-passionate sorts are hard to figure out.

He’s not alone, there are many out in this world that can’t stand those of us who won’t seem to commit to just one pursuit. “Jack of all trades, master of none” was another of his old school, paternal pontifications.

After a while (years), I understood. I didn’t like it and I was incapable of abiding by it –– but I understood his confusion.

He was from the school of one horse, one ass.

Pick one thing, focus on it, and do it— for the rest of your life.
Then, and only after you’ve collected your retirement, are you allowed to entertain frivolous pursuits. Hopefully, you still have your health, vitality, and a little sass to keep things interesting.

Many in our family died soon after they retired, without enjoying any of life’s extras.

Here’s what I’ve come to realize as I’ve gotten older and hopefully a little wiser.
The things that hold passion for us in life are hardly extras. To me, they are the makings of a life well lived.

Jobs can be had, money made, the focus narrowed, and direction figured out, but it’s the multiple horses that we have the audacity to ride with our one crazy, creative, freedom-seeking-ass, that make us who we are!

Singularly Focused Exemplary Employee is not what I’ve ever wanted written on my headstone.

Badass of sass, multi-passionate creative, who can’t stay in the saddle; sloppy rider of an entire herd of horses, who you may hear whooping and hollering and having one hell of a ride –– and the time of her life.  Now that’s more like it!

Ride all those horses with your one wild ass.

Own it.

Sorry dad.

Carry on,
Xox