common sense

Hello, fear. (Said with sneering disdain, like “Hello Newman” on Seinfeld).

Fear reared his ugly head again on Tuesday.
Like me, you probably woke up to the report of yet another terrorist attack on innocent civilians in Brussels. And again if you’re like me your first response was to gird your loins.
To hunker down, plant your feet, cross your arms and close your mind.

In your body you probably felt, along with me, a nauseous gut pit, turning to sadness, then empathy and finally anger. Oh, yeah, and all of that with a fear chaser.

You know you guys, it reminds me of those pharmaceutical ads on TV and their heinous side effects. You know the ones I mean. They’re laughable.

“For chronic chapped lips try *Chaplipocine. Taken regularly, it reduces the symptoms of chapped lips in only three days!
Side effects may include (and this is said at the speed of a professional auctioneer), flatulence, headaches, amnesia, seizures, constipation, swelling of the tongue and testicles, facial hair in men, women, and babies, eventual loss of consciousness — and death.”

And it’s making billions because people are willing to suffer those consequences to get chapped lip relief!
Wtf?

But just as ridiculous and shoved down our throats even more aggressively, are the side effects of fear. They consist of paranoia, anxiety, uncontrollable security cravings, unwillingness to travel, suspicion, inability to turn off CNN, intolerance, giving away your privacy, dis-empowerment, not living your life — and death.

Seriously?

I for one, feel that’s unacceptable.

We all have a choice of how to respond.
I can eyeball the hipster next to me suspiciously while he sits there on his computer with his luxurious man-beard and wonder if he’s crafting his jihadist manifesto. And I can cancel my trip to Europe that I saved years for.
Because I could die. We all could die.
Because it’s too dangerous. The airports. Subways. Cafes. Sidewalks. Everything.

These are some of the side effects I’m not willing to suffer. How about you?

Listen, we have to be aware. We can’t and we shouldn’t walk with our faces buried in our phones or our head in the clouds. But there’s a difference between awareness and suspicion.

Don’t shake hands with fear. Please.

Girded loins never did anyone any good,

And chapped lips go away in three days regardless of the medicine you take.

So don’t endure the heinous side effects just for the illusion of being saved.

Anyhow, carry on,

xox

*you know this product doesn’t really exist, right?

She told me she didn’t do it, but with my keen observational skills, the fact that I have opposable thumbs, a larger brain, and language (I know some words) — I knew she was lying.
Plus she was the only other “person” in the house.

The conversation went something like this:
ME: Hey, you. Where YOU going so fast and what did you do to the rug?
DOG: What rug?
ME: The one in a pile at your feet.
DOG: I don’t see a rug.
ME: Seriously?
DOG: Oh, that. Is that a rug? Because it looks more like…
ME: It was until your track and field event ran through here.
DOG: Track and field. That’s a good one. You should write a humor…
ME: Why do you lie so goddamn always?
DOG: It came with the cute. A package deal. You know, puppies and toddlers and twenty-year-old models named Raoul.

She was right. I straightened the rug feeling duped once again. If there’s a grudge in here somewhere…  I’m holding it.

Back in my jewelry days, I had a limey friend. He was unattractively attractive in that way that some men can be. You know, so ugly they’re sexy. A guy whose British accent was so thick that if you got any on you—it would stick and eat through you, like alien slime, taking with it any and all traces of your common sense.

Everything he said was melodious and beguiling— a perfectly wrapped gift to my ears.
It was also a lie.
He was one of the slimiest characters you could ever hope to NOT meet, but everything he said sounded like poetry.

Like a shitty smack-talk, lying sack-talk sonnet.

He once told me to “sod off” when I caught him in yet another lie. And even though I had no idea what that meant —I wanted to do it. Immediately. AND it made me a little hot all day — I’m not gonna lie.

So, lies. They come in all shapes and sizes. Tiny, white, “I didn’t eat the last cupcake”, ones — to giant, wtf, “I can be and do whatever you think you need. I’m here to save you”, delusional ones.
In other words, everything that comes out of a politician’s mouth.

Unfortunately, they become acceptable when they have a cute puppy face, a thick foreign accent, or apparently a shit ton of money, a stage to stand on, and a camera pointed in their face.

I don’t now about you, but it’s beginning to feel like we’ve all been slimed.

I, for one, am pretty sick of this shit. I’m not falling for it anymore. Is that because I’m old? Or too smart? Or did the slime wound finally heal and I regained my common sense?
I feel like I can’t be lied to for one more minute!

Not by the lying limey with the lilting language, (Okay, you gotta love that).

Not by the cuddly and cute but corrupted canine (I’m on a roll).

Not by any of the plotting, placating and prevaricating politicians.(Bazinga!)

Can we just call foul; tell ‘um to “sod off”; take our balls and go home?

What do YOU think? Ever had anyone lie to your face? How many times before you got wise to it?

I’ve gotta go now. I need to teach my dog that it’s not okay to lie. I’m going to ground her AND take her phone away.

Carry on,
xox

“If you build the guts to do something, anything, then you better save enough to face the consequences.”
― Criss Jami

Things that never happened because I didn’t have the guts.
The list is long. Like longer than Taylor Swift’s legs long.

How do I know for sure what could have happened?
I don’t. But my regret does.
I’m sure you know what I mean.

My regret is an artist who paints with broad strokes. Large, majestic scenery, filled with full-color landscapes of stories that never happened.

It also is a master in the art of persuasion.

Those stories look spectacular.
They seem amazing.
They are fucking fairy tales.

In these scenarios, my gutless self is replaced by another person. Someone who is risk averse; the acrobatic chance taker/failure dodger. For instance:

I’m a Broadway actress with a shelf crowded with Tony awards.

I’m a rock star, or the wife of a rock star (take your pick), who continues to tour and performs to sold-out crowds.

I’m a mother. Twin boys and a girl.

I’m an entrepreneur who shattered the glass ceiling and owns six companies that are all publicly traded.

I’m a seasoned lecturer and public speaker.

I’m someone who looks refreshed and rested, at least ten years younger (but whose wallet is twenty-five thousand dollars lighter.)

I’m the winner of Dancing With The Stars, The Voice, the Apprentice, and Jeopardy (the celebrity edition).

I’m a mentor on America’s Top Model after having my face grace more magazine covers than any other living human being.

I am resting on my laurels.

~OR HOW ABOUT~

I’m an aging hippie who lives off the land up in Oregon.

I’m an aging New Ager who lives off tips in Hawaii.

I’m the aging owner of a brothel somewhere tolerant of that sort of thing.

I’m busking on the corners of Santa Cruz.

I’m the ex-wife of seven men.

I’m someone who never married, looks thirty-five and owns dozens of Siamese cats.

I’m living in a Villa in Italy after cashing out, buying a one-way ticket, and hooking up with a guy named Paulo.

I have photo albums filled with pictures of me bungee jumping, sky diving and formula one racing, climbing Mt. Everest, Deep sea diving and waving my certificate that states I am the top of my class in NASA astronaut training school.

I’ve changed my name to Solange.

After surveying this list. The list that was supposed to summon that pit in my stomach. You know, the one that makes you feel bad about yourself and feeds regret?

Instead I had an epiphany.

What if those things didn’t happen not so much because of a guts deficit — but due to a keen sense of the obvious as far as knowing what I was capable of — an inkling of my life’s trajectory — a ginormous helping of common sense?

Ha! Take that regret!

P.S. I HAVE done many things in my life that required a shit-ton of guts, and so have YOU—but THAT my friends, is a list for another day.

Got any regrets?

Carry On,
xox