choices

Oh, oh, oh! Do you ever need to read this! You know who you are. It’s an oldie but goodie…still, take heed…and quit carrying on.
xox

GRUDGE

grudge
ɡrəj/
noun
1. a persistent feeling of ill will or resentment resulting from a past insult or injury.

synonyms: grievance, resentment, bitterness, rancor, pique, umbrage, dissatisfaction, disgruntlement, bad feelings, hard feelings, ill feelings, ill will, animosity, antipathy, antagonism, enmity, animus;
chip on one’s shoulder

verb
1.
To be resentfully unwilling to give, grant, or allow (something).

synonyms: begrudge, resent, feel aggrieved about, be resentful of, mind, object to, take exception to, take umbrage at

I used to work for someone who was the King of the Grudge Holders. He was brilliant at it.
If you had a grudge that needed to be held, you could count on him to do it for you.

His family used him over the years as their sanctioned grudge holder.
That left the rest of them free to live an unfettered, happy life.

He held a grudge toward his brother for being a dick to him as a teenager, you know like older brothers are.
Dude. It’s a right of passage — let it go.

Nope. Over twenty years later and they barely spoke.

It got to the point where he didn’t even know why he hated someone — he just did.
His dad had once told him the story of some slight that befell him after the war. Not the Vietnam war, that would have been bad enough, no, we’re talking WWII — the 1940’s for god sakes.

I watched my boss act as cold as ice to a seemingly very nice older gentleman who came into our store, and after he left I questioned him about his behavior. “What the hell was that?” I said in a tone reserved for people who kick dogs.

“I don’t want that guy in here” he responded defensively, “Besides, he’s got a lot of nerve. He and my dad got into a bar fight once over a girl.”

“Uh, really? When? The Neolithic period? Your parents have been married for over fifty years, I think the statute of limitations on post-war fights over girls who are now almost eighty has been exceeded.”

He wasn’t having it. He folded his arms tight, pursed his lips, and stomped away.

I used to joke with him, “Give me the list of who you’re not mad at, suing, or holding a grudge against — it’s the short one.”

Bygones could never be bygones.

And that’s the thing with some people. They have a dog in every fight. They’ll latch onto a story they hear about something gone awry and they’ll run with it, holding the grudge long after the situation has been rectified.

“That guy owes Jerry money.” he sneered one day as he walked by me to put something in the safe.
I looked up to see some nondescript someone I didn’t know, writing a check to another dealer in the building. “How do you know that?” I decided to bite, it was a welcome distraction from all the paperwork.

“Jerry told me in Miami” he replied, standing at the counter staring the guy down. His face was turning red. I could feel his blood pressure rising.
“That was over six months ago, maybe he’s paid him, besides I can see the line of people who owe Jerry money from here. You guys all owe each other money. Shit, Jerry owes YOU money!”

He just grunted and mumbled something under his breath as he sat back down behind his desk.

Dog in someone else’s fight.
Nose in somebody else business.
Mood ruined.
Grunge held…for Jerry.

He really should have charged for his services. His obituary will read: He never met a grudge he couldn’t hold.

The problem with holding a grudge …is that your hands are then too full to hold onto anything else.
-Seth Godin

It has been my observation (I did almost twenty years of research), that what chronic grudge holders are incapable of holding because their hands are full of …grudge… are joy and gratitude.

Grudges turn toxic and eventually soul numbing.

It was physically impossible for him to feel appreciation and gratitude. That chip was missing.
We used to be able, with the help of copious amounts of alcohol, to coax an uncomfortable “thank you” out of him after trade shows.

He had a good life. A successful business, healthy family and money in the bank, and I watched him year after year take it all for granted. Like it was owed to him.

And for many, many years I witnessed a complete lack of joy. Actually, all the higher emotions were missing. I never really saw love, empathy or compassion shown toward anyone.

But over time, I learned to cut him a break. I understood. After all — his hands were full.

I’m happy to report that like cheese, age has softened him and we are still friendly, but when I thought of the word grudge, his face immediately came to mind.

Who do you think of when you see that word?

Carry on,
xox

If you haven’t read this yet…you must. I mean it.

I’m visiting a friend who is about a decade older than I am and often runs circles around me—and I love her for that! She was remarking with great disappointment the other day, how all her contemporaries do when they get together is complain about their health.

Fuck that!
I say, get younger friends!

One newish member of my tribe is thirty-five. Which mean she could be my daughter. The beauty of having her in my life, besides the snort laughs and introducing me to different emojis, is that fact that I know Steph would NEVER tolerate me going to bed early when she visits or hearing me complain about my sacroiliac (whatever that is).

So read this. It’s by Liz Gilbert and it may change your mind about things.
Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones –
This is a line my (73-year-old) mother said to me the other day while she was issuing a gentle warning not to fall into the trap of letting your life get smaller as you get older.

She was talking about how frustrating she finds it that — somewhere around the age of 50 or 60 — she watched as so many of her peers stopped making goals and long-term plans for adventure and exploration in their lives. Instead, they began shutting down, and making their lives smaller, and their minds smaller, too. She got so weary of listening to them making self-deprecating jokes about how old they were, and how much their bodies hurt, and how bad their hearing and eyesight was getting… She felt they had surrendered to age far, far, far too soon. My mom said, “Nothing is more frustrating to me than listening to people who are still vital saying, ‘Well, at our age, you have to be careful…'”

No. She begs to differ.

As you get older, there is no more time to be careful, and no more REASON to be careful — at least as my mom sees it. Instead, this is time to seize as much life and joy and adventure and learning and novelty as you possibly can. As my mom said, “I hate seeing people slide themselves into the grave far before their time. Death will come when it comes — but it’s crazy to sit around waiting for it. If you’re not dead yet, you’re not done yet.”

My mom thinks that everyone should have a five-year plan for their lives, and also a ten-year plan, and a twenty-year plan — and that every few years you have to revisit your plans to see if your goals and aspirations have changed…and that you should never stop making these plans, even as you age. (Especially as you age!) She has shared with me the travel she wants to do in the next 20 years, and work she wants to finish, the projects she wants to begin, the cultures she wants to explore, the people she wants to enjoy, her fitness goals…

It’s inspiring.

I have heard people speak of their lives as if they were finished at 30, done at 40, washed up at 50, too late to start over at 60, no more chances at 70…

But are you still here?
Then you aren’t done yet.

Don’t make your life smaller as the years pass. If it’s time to start over, then it’s time to start over. If you aren’t where you planned to be, then it’s time to make a new plan.
Today, I ask you all to share the most inspiring stories you know (from your own life, or the lives of others) about people who refused to be done yet because they aren’t dead yet.

Rise up, everyone, and keep rising.
We are still here. There is much to be done and enjoyed.
Let’s go.
ONWARD,
LG

“It is easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission”

This quote is attributed to Grace Hopper, a crusty old broad who, if given the choice, I’d want to sit next to at most dinner parties. Except she’s dead.

It should be attributed to my husband since he swears by it, lives it and quotes it almost daily.

He’s also pretty crusty and he breaks the rules. Rules are just suggestions to him. Gentle recommendations that are made to be broken. I find that quality sexy in a person. In men in particular. Really sexy. (I’m going to see if he’s still at his desk and tell him so. I’ll be back in…thirty…)

So sorry about that. Please forgive me.
Anyhow…

When you see a No Trespassing sign do you turn around or do you keep going? I keep going. I can’t help it.

I trespassed the shit out of my hikes around the hills of Soquel this week and it unleashed my inspiration.

My pup and I explored all sorts of forbidden paths, trails and otherwise off-limits parts of this gorgeous backcountry. Several Ted Kaczynski’s unleashed their hounds on us (no biggie, my dog is a one-woman welcoming committee, like the head of the local PTA, and the hounds all loved her. They’ve organized a bake sale and are coming over for tea at three.)

We happened upon a babbling brook, found someone’s abandoned Airstream trailer, stopped, kept from making eye contact, and turned around when we came across a guy, in the middle of nowhere, sitting in his junk heap of a pick-up truck, staring at us while he listened to a banjo strum slowly on the radio.
I’m not kidding.

Undeterred, we kept on walking the road less traveled (in the other direction), and two things came to mind.

In LA I powerwalk. I try to notice my surroundings but most days I’m focused on completing my 10,000 steps and getting my day started. These hikes among the pines, oaks, and lush green hills are food for my soul. I walk slowly, inhaling the scent of the moist, dark earth, moss, wet grass and the occasional field of wildflowers.

One road we trespassed on became so steep in the middle that I had to practice my yoga breathing in order to keep my heart INSIDE of my chest where it belongs when I noticed all of the delicious smells I’d been enjoying were gone. That’s just one of the things I hate about cardio (there are at least 500 more. I have a list.), it robs you of your senses.

My mouth was open so wide, gasping for air like a naked astronaut on the surface of Mars—that I couldn’t smell a thing.

So, number one: You must walk at a leisurely pace in order to smell the roses, so to speak. A full sensory experience cannot be had at 135 beats per minute.

Number two: Nothing interesting or noteworthy happens on the beaten path. It’s the safe route. Well traveled. Crowded actually. Every rock has been turned, every idea hatched.

I am convinced that in order to reach inspiration you must NEVER ask permission because more than likely—the answer will be NO.

Nope. You must trespass in life—then beg for forgiveness…then bring pie.

Carry on
xox

I have an admission to make. I love politeness.

I know that may seem untenable considering my foul mouth and general disregard for all things having to do with rules and decorum and yet…I love it when people are polite.

I’m about to reveal something so perverse you may want to hide your kids and gird your loins.
Here it is. Ready?

I’m polite.

To a fault. I open doors, Without being asked I give up my seat for those who are older than me (whose numbers are diminishing), I handwrite personal thank you notes, not emails, using real paper, and a pen. Then I actually mail it. With a stamp.

I dispense pleases and thank you’s like Tic Tacks. I even have the bad habit of thanking Siri which can start a whole “who’s on first” sort of endless labyrinth of questions. I don’t recommend it.

I let people with only a couple of items go ahead of me in line at the market, I help old ladies and the disabled navigate stairs, and I’ve been known to run two blocks to return a lost sock to a barefoot little kid in a stroller.

We all do that, right? No, not really. If it were commonplace it wouldn’t feel like such an anomaly. 

All of this to say, I know what it looks like, I recognize it in others and when its shown to me—I show great appreciation when I can. Like now.

The other day in the parking lot at Target—while unloading my overfilled cart (because, hey, it’s Target), I dropped my keys getting into my car.

I was rushing, which as we all know is the silent signal to the Universe that it must step in and slow us down—hence the key drop. Seeing that my hands were full, a lovely gentleman the age of a very expensive bottle of wine bent over to help me. I didn’t know he was there and that’s when we bumped heads…and I dumped the entire contents of my purse all over both our feet.

“Owwww!” we exclaimed in unison, laughing and rubbing our heads. He rubbed his own head not mine. In some countries rubbing another’s head makes you as good as married—so we were careful to keep our head rubbing to ourselves.

Luckily, we got distracted because simultaneously, out of my purse poured numerous packs of gum, my poo-poo spray, wallet, fifteen tubes of lipstick and enough spare change to send a kid to Harvard for four years.

Polite grandpa wasn’t even fazed although I saw him do a double-take as he handed me the pine scented toilet spray. “Yes, it’s a thing, old man. Women don’t want to stink up public restrooms so now there’s a spray for that. I know. I wish I’d invented it too. I’d be getting into a Rolls Royce while my chauffeur fetched me the Grey Poupon. ”

Anyway…as he stopped a double-A battery that was threatening to roll under my car with his foot (it was a dead battery from something, I can’t remember what, and I wanted to dispose of it properly so naturally it had been living inside my purse), I thanked him profusely for taking the time to help me out. He could have kept walking just like all of the other men and women who were trying not to stare.

That’s when he crossed the line. The line between mere politeness and hard-core chivalry. He opened my car door for me while I awkwardly climbed inside, apologizing the entire time.

Here’s the thing. I married my husband because he opened my car door for me on our first date—and every day since. Rain or shine the man opens my car door for me. That cancels out a lot of bad shit in my book. He could have the face of Shrek and smell like a thirteen-year-old boy’s feet and I would be able to overlook all of that and live with him in wedded bliss—because of the door thing.

Men, being polite to women?
Why is that so damn rare these days?

When you watch the old movies, all of the men opened car doors. (As an aside, you cannot find a photo later than 1960 showing a man opening a women’s car door. Seriously. I looked.)

They also lit cigarettes, pulled out chairs and actually stood up when a women entered the room!

The feminist in me used to find all of that demeaning, now I’m not so sure.

I blame women’s lib. I know it’s not a popular position to take, but it’s mine. I can’t blame the men these days. Any man under forty has no idea that that sort of thing, that respect toward women, used to be commonplace. When we burned our bras we also started opening our own doors and pulling out our own chairs, and all of that other stuff—because we could—and the men just followed our lead.

Don’t underpay me or talk down to me, you do that at your own peril, but it’s perfectly fine to hold the door so  it doesn’t slam in my face. I believe those things are mutually exclusive.

I suppose they’re a dying breed from another era. Men like that. My Target parking lot guy certainly was. As for my husband, well, he’s French and they still put women on pedestals made of cheese—and that’s okay by me.

Carry on,
xox

Hi you guys,
Same day, different year!
I’ve posted this essay for the past three years and well, it’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!
Love you, Carry on!
xox

It’s my birthday today.
Yep, another year older. I’m game for that. It still remains better than the alternative.That is until death makes me a better offer.

Once upon a long time ago, a wise man told me that it’s very important to meditate on the day of your birth and to set an intention for the year to follow.

He also told me a story that I swallowed hook, line and sinker, and it went something like: Either the night before, or the night of your birth, you go before a council, in your dreams. You then state your case as to the reasons why you should be allowed to remain on the planet for another year.

What will you add?

What mark will you leave?

Will you move further toward your purpose, or stay asleep?

When he explained that to me over coffee and a huge dose of caffeinated conviction –– I took it very seriously…and I still do.

I used to look around at the people who appeared to just be marking time, figuring their council session probably didn’t go so well. Until I realized, someone could be wondering that about me. Everyone’s entitled to have an off-year, right?

The older I get, the more I understand that this is not a dry run. This is the real deal.

You’ve gotta try your damnedest to find out why you’re here, and then get on with it.

What do you think you last told the council?

That you’re going to spend another year at that dead-end job, or in that abusive, loveless marriage?

That you’re not going to take that trip you’ve always dreamed about…again?

That you’re not going to take any chances…you’ll be sitting on the sidelines, playing it safe again this year?

How would that go over with them? I’m thinkin’ not so good.

We may be given some slack in our twenties, ’cause we’re newbies, but by now, we had better make a hell of a case for walking the planet for another 365 days.

I only get the privilege of being me this one time around. I’m not looking at blowing it.

Maybe I stood before the council last night, or maybe it will be tonight. Doesn’t matter. I’m prepared, notes in hand, maybe even a PowerPoint presentation, my intention set.

I plan on kicking some serious butt this year.
Wish me luck.

Xox