compliments

Yuck it up big guy.

This post is from early last year and the good news is: nothing has changed. And the bad news? Nothing has changed. Cest la vie!
Big Love,
xox
***

My husband is a gem. He is a prince of a man. A tender-hearted soul who adores dogs, good food, boobs, and anything with an internal combustion engine.

Okay, now that I’ve made that clear let’s get real.
He can also be an asshole.

But, hey, show me the short list of who can’t.

Plus, I said ‘can be’ —not ‘IS an asshole’.
That’s a VERY big distinction and one that will probably save my marriage.
He has his moments, but then again, don’t we all.

He is also a MAJOR procrastinator.
Big time. A professional. It is such a finely honed skill of his, refined and practiced all these many years, that he is a MASTER Procrastinator.
He could teach it at the college level.
At Harvard.
Sir Raphael of the Bertolus, Professor of Procrastination.

Now you may be worried that he’ll read this and get angry. He will, and he will — he’ll get to it in about a month. That leaves me plenty of time to practice my apology, find my push-up bra, and cook him a nice dinner.

So, am I writing just to bag on my adorable hubster? Yes… and NO.

You see, this is all relevant because his behavior has surprised me lately. He’s taken on a new “ator”.
He has become The Validator.
Validation is just this side of a compliment so I think he’ll get to keep his *“I’m a Frenchman, The French don’t give compliments” card.

Just the same, he’s been showering everyone around him with the gift of validation and it sounds something like this:

HUB: “I told Matt that I was very happy with the fact that he’s treating himself to a nice, new motorcycle, you know he works really hard AND he takes care of his brother…”

ME: “Wow. That was nice of you.”

The following week,
HUB: “When I had lunch with Peter the other day I mentioned how impressed I am with him. He always seems to make the best, most measured and uncompromising business decisions. He’s a pleasure to observe.”

ME: “Wait, What? You said all of that to his face? Did he choke on his steak sandwich?”

Then, today…
ME: “Thank GAWD we didn’t run into anybody at lunch. It’s a miracle. I look how a fart smells. I have this freaking head cold so my entire face is a chapped disaster, my hair looks like fuel for a grease fire, and I smell like yellow toenails.”

HUB: “I really like that you can go out in public and not care if you’re all dolled up. You’re like Janet—Unplugged. That’s really great because when you DO get fixed up, it’s such a startling contrast that everybody realizes how good you clean up.” (OUCH. And Yeah! Okay, it’s not perfect but I got the gist.)
*SEE, HE GETS TO KEEP HIS FRENCH CARD.

ME: “You are…that is just so…Was that a compliment? I think it was. No, wait, it was that validation thing you’ve been doing lately.
It needs some polish but I like it!”

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to — The Validator!
Which makes so much sense to me because he is such a silent observer of the human condition, only I guess now he’s decided to offer us all some validation on the wanky-wonky way we’re just trying to get by—just living our lives.

I think more people could use validating. Everyone needs to be acknowledged from time to time, right?

Don’t you agree my beautiful, smart and loyal tribe?

Carry on,
xox

A few years back I was described by someone, a dancer in a production I was involved in, I can’t remember exactly who it was because professional dancers have a tendency to become a blur of spinning fabulousness when you’re around them—as “elegantly clumsy.’

I almost wept with joy. I felt it was one of the highest compliments I had ever been paid. Besides, I only heard the word elegant. After that entered my ears—they stopped listening.
I never heard the clumsy part.
Well, maybe I did.
I just have to say that considering the circumstances—clumsy was still a compliment.

Back as a young girl in the midst of tween-dom, I was stick figure thin; a gangly compilation of arms and legs, with giant blue eyes, braces, and a tiny tween brain. What I loved more than anything else was to put on shows. God, how I loved that! Dancing or roller-skating and lip-syncing to the latest movie soundtrack on our long, smooth concrete patio. Funny Girl with Barbra Streisand was my favorite.

I could sing. Sort of. At the time it was a volume over substance sort of thing.
The trouble was, I also fancied myself a graceful dancer. Not a ballerina exactly, I wasn’t quite that audacious. But thinking I was a dancer was still a reach considering the fact that when faced with choreography, even the most elementary dance steps, my left leg traveled right, and my right leg, which has always had a mind of its own, did its very own version of Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.

While all of that was happening below my waist; my arms, hands, fingers, neck and head appeared disjointed, like a marionette, unattached from each other in any kind of biological way. They twisted and turned, undulating rhythmically, part Hawaiian Hula, part Aboriginal Fire Dance with a touch of Tai Chi and a sprinkling of Bob Fosse.

They moved to some internal melody that was completely unrelated to the music that was playing out loud.

Eyes closed, I can remember feeling at one with every note of every song. I had no idea how I appeared to those who were lucky enough to witness my spectacular moves. All I knew was that I was a dancer…until I heard the laughter.

I remember opening my eyes and thinking—actually consciously deciding—I can play up the funny—or I can be self-conscious—I chose to do both.

For the rest of my tweens, I played up the funny, because if you act like you’re IN on the joke, then they’re not laughing AT you—they’re laughing WITH you.

Once I reached high school and starting participating in Musical Theatre, not getting the dance steps wasn’t funny anymore. I became almost paralyzed with self-consciousness. Almost. As luck would have it, God giveth whilst He taketh away. That singing thing had gotten a lot better which allowed them to overlook my awkward dance free-stylings.

While the cast would dance their amazing Broadway-esq ensemble numbers, I was moved to a stationary platform where I was asked, told, to stand still and sing, or to move ONLY my hands in unison with the others. After numerous failed attempts to do exactly that, we all decided, for the sake of the show, that standing perfectly still or sitting on the side of the stage was preferable.

When I decided to re-join musical theater in my fifties, I discovered menopause had helped me to forget how much I sucked at dancing. It was only my feet, those two things below my knees with painted toes, that jogged my memory and saved that tiny shred of self-respect that had persevered since High School.

They did that by completely refusing to cooperate.

I could barely point my toes, and pointed toes are to dancers what lips are to singers.

After only an hour of dance rehearsal, my arches screamed in agony. Every toe was distorted into an arthritic looking charlie-horse. I hobbled around trying to walk off the pain, but my feet knew better. They were saving me from dance humiliation.

Blame it on us, they said.
So I did.
What choice did I have?

The powers-that-be lowered their expectations of my ability to “move”. ‘The old broad has shitty feet”, they muttered as they choreographed around me.

I’m okay with that, I thought, even though the moment I left the theatre—my feet behaved normally. It felt better than the fear of them get wind of the fact that I didn’t possess one lick of dance talent.

I had one of the leads in A Chorus Line, a show about dancers and their passion for dancing, where I was begged not to dance. “God, I’m a dancer, a dancer dances!”, I sang into the spotlight with all of the sincerity I could muster, as I stood nailed to the ground.

It’s called acting.

Eventually, I was cast as Velma in Chicago where they made me dance with a chair. I mean, how hard could THAT be?
It was Bob Fosse style, which means you’re actually making love to a chair.
On stage.
In public.

I couldn’t do it straight. So I made it funny. Sexy-funny if there’s such a thing. I may have just invented it.

Anyhow, they left it in the show, and it was after a run thru of that particular number that one of the dancers came up to me and whispered, “I like your style”.

“Oh, really? What style is that?”, I replied between gasps of air, as I poured buckets of sweat onto the stage.

“You’re elegantly clumsy”, he said with conviction, like he had just told Baryshnikov “Nice Jete”.

I will live off the fumes of that compliment until the day I die.

Carry on,
xox

Hi All,
This is from a year ago January, but I was feelin’ it today.
Carry on,
xox

I had coffee with a friend this week and she mentioned the blog, Hala! and God bless her.

She was particularly triggered by the post I wrote about paying people compliments, and the fact that we can be pretty stingy with our admiration.

http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2015/01/5123/

“You know why I don’t get compliments?” she asked me, apparently not expecting an answer because she didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.

“Because I deflect them. I’m like a superhero with a shield. They make me so Goddamn uncomfortable that my face and chest get bright red, and I either start laughing or I tell the person to shut up.”

Did I hear that right? I’d seen her blush, maybe even giggle, but the shut up part…
She could tell by the expression on my face that her statement needed further clarification.

“I just did it the other day, the guy at the car wash complimented my choice of vehicle and I ran away. Like a nine-year-old. But before I did, I told him to shut up. It was completely unintentional, a reflex, a hit and run, I just blurted it out…Shut Up!” she was clearly mortified but on a roll.

“Hey, you have nice eyes. Shut up! Fuck you, Perv!” Now she was acting it out, with hand gestures and everything.

“Nice job on that report. Shut up! Asshole! It wasn’t that great! Raise your bar! You need higher standards!

“Oh My God what is wrong with me? It’s like I have Compliments Tourette’s.”

We were both laughing, yet at the same time, I realized that what she does is more common than we’d all like to admit.

Why can’t we take a compliment gracefully? The key word here being: grace.

I used to be AM terrible at it too. I stare at my feet and mumble a hurried thank you, when all I want is for the perpetrator of the abomination to fall through a trap door in the floor.
Insecurity I suppose. Feeling unworthy? You betcha.

Back in the day, people used to compliment me on my big, white teeth, (now thanks to Crest White Strips they are a dime dozen) and it made me cringe. I had done NOTHING whatsoever to earn those teeth. Okay, maybe I’d worn braces and brushed, but honestly, they were just the luck of the draw, like having good hair. So it never felt like it was right to say thank you.

Now I do. I jump at the chance. Sure, God and my parents gave me great teeth, but I’ve maintained them and appreciated them EVERYDAY. Plus after fifty, you’re just so grateful when someone says anything without prefacing it with for your age.

These days I also chase that good feeling you get when you give a compliment.
I give out compliments like Tic Tacs. Because people deserve them. AND it gets me as high as an addict with a drug.

“Oh but wait” my friend warned, holding her palm up to face me, “It gets worse. If you don’t hate me already, you will after this!”

“Well Okay – Don’t leave a sister hanging – spill it!” I teased, playing along with her game of ‘true confessions’.

“I don’t pay ANYONE a compliment, doesn’t matter what they did, even if I’m thinking it, I don’t say it because I want to save them the humiliation that I feel.
That’s fucked up…right?”

I wouldn’t dare judge her. That actually made perfect sense to me and it possessed more altruistic overtones than not wanting to make a fool of yourself, which was the most common reason I used to come up with for not complimenting the people who deserved them.

We had a laugh, a damn good cup of coffee…and cake. But it really got me to thinking…

What do you guys think about this?
Are you like my friend? Is it all just too humiliating for words?
Does that humiliation override how good it feels to give or get a compliment? Or have you become so grateful, like me, when someone throws one your way that you can’t say thank you fast enough?
Have you developed grace or are you still searching for it, like my friend? How did it happen for you?

I’m curious. Tell me in the comments.

xox

My husband is a gem. He is a prince of a man. A tender-hearted soul who adores dogs, good food and anything with an internal combustion engine.
Okay, now that I’ve made that clear let’s get real.
He can also be an asshole.

But, hey, show me the short list of who isn’t.
Plus, I said ‘can be’ —not ‘IS an asshole’.
That’s a VERY big distinction and one that will probably save my marriage.
He has his moments, but then again, don’t we all.

He is also a procrastinator.
Big time. A professional. It is such a finely honed skill of his, refined and practiced all these many years, that he is a MASTER Procrastinator.
He could teach it at the college level.
At Harvard.
Sir Raphael of the Bertolus, Professor of Procrastination.

Now you may be worried that he’ll read this and get angry. He will, and he will — in about a month. That leaves me plenty of time to practice my apology and cook him a nice dinner.

So, am I writing just to bag on my adorable hubster? Yes. And NO.

You see, this is all relevant because he’s surprised me lately. He’s taken on a new “ator”.
He has become The Validator.
Validation is just this side of a compliment, so I think he’ll get to keep his *“I’m a Frenchman, The French don’t give compliments” card.

Just the same, he’s been showering me and everybody around him with the gift of validation and it sounds something like this:

HUB: “I told Matt that I was very happy with the fact that he’s treating himself to a nice, new motorcycle, you know he works really hard AND he takes care of his brother.”

ME: “Wow. That was nice of you.”

The following week,
HUB: “When I had lunch with Peter the other day I mentioned how impressed I am with him. He always seems to make the best, most measured and uncompromising business decisions. He’s a pleasure to observe.”

ME: “Wait, What? You said that to his face? Did he choke on his steak sandwich?”

So, Today…
ME: “Thank GAWD we didn’t run into anybody at lunch. It’s a miracle. I look like a fart smells. I have this cold so my entire face is a chapped disaster, my hair is filthy and I smell like sour feet.

HUB: “I really like that you can go out in public and not care if you’re all dolled up. You’re like Janet—Unplugged. That’s really great because when you DO get fixed up, it’s such a startling contrast that everybody realizes how good you clean up.” (OUCH. And Yeah! Okay, it’s not perfect but I got the gist.) *SEE HE GETS TO KEEP HIS CARD.

ME: You are…that is just so…Was that a compliment? I think it was. No, wait, it was that validation thing you’ve been doing lately.
It needs some polish but I like it!

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to — The Validator!
Which makes so much sense to me because he is such a silent observer of the human condition, only I guess now he’s decided to offer us all some validation on the wanky-wonky way we’re just trying to live our lives.

I think more people could use validating. Don’t you my beautiful, smart and loyal tribe?

Carry on,
xox

I had coffee with a friend this week and she mentioned the blog, Hala! and God bless her.

She was particularly triggered by the post I wrote about paying people compliments, and the fact that we can be pretty stingy with our admiration.

“You know why I don’t get compliments?” she asked me, apparently not expecting an answer because she didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.

“Because I deflect them. I’m like a superhero with a shield. They make me so Goddamn uncomfortable that my face and chest get bright red, and I either start laughing or I tell the person to shut up.”

Did I hear that right? I’d seen her blush, maybe even giggle, but the shut up part…
She could tell by the expression on my face that her statement needed further explanation.

“I just did it the other day, the guy at the car wash complimented my choice of vehicle and I ran away. Like a nine-year old. But before I did, I told him to shut up. It was like a reflex, a hit and run, I just blurted it out…Shut Up!” she was clearly mortified, but on a roll.

“Hey, you have nice eyes. Shut up! Fuck you, Perv!” Now she was acting it out, with hand gestures and everything.

“Nice job on that report. Shut up! Asshole! Raise your bar! You need higher standards!

Oh My God whats wrong with me? It’s like I have Compliments Tourette’s.”

We were both laughing, yet at the same time I realized that what she does is more common than we’d all like to admit.

Why can’t we take a compliment gracefully? The key word here being: grace.

I used to be terrible at it too. I’d look at my feet and mumble a very insincere thank you, when all I wanted was for the perpetrator of the abomination to disappear. Insecurity I suppose. Feeling unworthy? You betcha.

Back in the day, people used to compliment me on my big, white teeth, (now thanks to Crest White Strips they are a dime dozen) and it made me cringe. I had done NOTHING whatsoever to earn those teeth. Okay, maybe worn braces and brushed, but honestly, they were just the luck of the draw. Like winning at Poker. So it never felt like it was right to say thank you.
Now I do. I jump at the chance. Sure, God and my parents gave me great teeth, but I’ve maintained them and appreciated them EVERYDAY. Plus after fifty you’re just so grateful when someone says anything without prefacing it with Ma’am.

These days I also chase that good feeling you get when you give a compliment.
Like an addict with a drug.
I give out compliments like Tic Tacs. Because people deserve them. AND it gets me high.
Just saying’.

“Oh but wait” she warned, holding her palm up to face me, “It gets worse. If you don’t hate me already, you will after this!”

“Well Okay – Don’t leave a sister hanging – spill it!” I was playing along with her game of ‘true confessions’.

“I don’t pay ANYONE a compliment, doesn’t matter what they did, even if I’m thinking it, I don’t say it because I want to save them the humiliation that I feel.
That’s fucked up…right?”

I wouldn’t dare judge her. That made perfect sense to me and it actually possessed more altruistic overtones than not wanting to make a fool of yourself, which was the most common reason I used to come up with for not complimenting the people who deserved them.

We had a laugh and a damn good cup of coffee. But it really got me to thinking…

What do you guys think about this?
Are you like my friend? Is it all just too humiliating for words?
Does that humiliation override how good it feels to give or get a compliment? Or have you become so grateful, like me, when someone throws one your way that you can’t say thank you fast enough?
Have you developed grace or are you still searching for it, like my friend? How did it happen for you?

I’m curious. Tell me in the comments.

xox

I participated in an interesting exercise last spring.
It was suggested as a kind of fact-gathering, first step.
Part of an online, open hearted, business school that I took.

marieforleo.com/BSchool

What I did was to ask about thirty five people I respected, in the humblest way I could think of, to list my best qualities.
You know – for school.

I assured them it would be over quick, it was for my education – and we would never need to speak of it again!

At first you feel like a real assbite crafting such an email.
It could resemble an ego driven fishing expedition; but really, it wasn’t, and if you could get past the initial “yuck factor” and just write it from a place of heart-filled curiosity, it made it much easier to hit SEND…and I know people could sense that.

The idea behind this, in business speak, is that you can track the responses, and the ones that repeat enough to become your top three are your “greatest hits” so to speak – and those are the ones you could conceivably charge money for.

But what I garnered from this exercise went waaaaay beyond monetizing my personality.

1) If you have the balls to ask people you respect (and that’s an important distinction, don’t just ask every troll you find under a bridge) the emotional payoff is extraordinary.

My people, were honest, to the point, and didn’t pander or sugar coat their response. Come to think of it, that’s probably why they’re my friends.

2). You get HUGE insight into YOU. In a really good way. Stuff you didn’t ever think about yourself.
For me, good listener was in my top three. Who knew? I would NEVER have guessed that.
Big talker, interrupter, chatty, conversation hog – yes.
Good listener? Not so much. That was a truly unexpected surprise.

3) It felt so damn good to be seen. And complimented.
I want to send that letter every year, just to bask in the feedback kind of good.
I felt everyone’s two minutes of attention all the way down to my big toe.

Why on earth don’t we tell people how we feel about them?

The aspects we admire. The things they do better than anyone else.

Without them having to write a dumb-ass email?

Why don’t we compliment those around us, letting them know what they’re doing right in the world?

So much rage comes from feeling unseen and unheard. It kills some people from the inside out.

We’ve become a society that is quick with the snarky review. Some of the stuff I see on Yelp or on blog feeds makes me cringe.

I like to write letters, emails or comments when someone does something right. Positive reinforcement I guess.
I just know how good it feels.

I’ll leave you with two things before I get off my soapbox.

Last Friday my husband made a bank deposit and it never showed up online. So therefore it never happened. You can imagine his anxiety level last weekend. First thing Monday morning he went into the bank with his hair on fire. Not really, he’s bald. But three days of wondering had left him “Where the fuck is my money?” curious.

Seems he had attached a deposit slip from another bank account at a completely different bank to the check…so the manager WALKED it two blocks over and deposited it into that bank.

He did WHAT?! Are you kidding me?

Above and beyond the call of duty – so hubby is writing a letter full of admiration to this guy’s superiors.

You gotta tell people when they’re awesome.

Number two is this: Take a minute and think of someone who would be the most surprised, who feels the most invisible, unseen and unheard – and send them a text or an email with a compliment. Doesn’t have to be elaborate. Just a short “I really appreciate what a good listener you are. Thank you.”

Trust me, it’s going to make their day. Maybe even their month.

Love you guys, I really do! You are loyal and insightful and obviously have very good taste in blogs.

Have a great weekend!
Xox