cursing

I told a man to go fuck himself today, and I’m not even going to apologize for it. That’s because he deserved it—and I don’t feel bad. At all.

Now, let me begin by saying, He started it! This will infuriate my mother. Maybe not. She was known to throw out an occasional, well-deserved f-bomb in her day.

Anyway, this guy. This guy who looked to be someone’s husband. Someone’s good ol’ dad. Their Pop.
Without even knowing me, he judged my parking. Actually, he said, and I quote: You can’t park there  You. Dumb. Bitch!

Okay. Now, in an act of full disclosure, I will admit that as far as parking goes—he’s warm. I can be a parking challenged. Even though I could win a parallel parking contest any day of the week, sometimes I am guilty of squeezing my station wagon into a “compact” space, creating a space where there might not be one, and taking ten tries to get into an awkwardly angled spot.

But who hasn’t?

Just to be clear, HIS outburst was not provoked by ANY of those things. My parking was flawless.

Flagged into a rare metered spot in front of my favorite cafe by the valet himself, I was just running in for two seconds (five minutes, maybe ten) to pick up take-out salads for my sister and me. As is our unspoken custom, the lovely man gestured for me to take the space. Listen, it was his space to give, but apparently, the judgy guy’s car was sniffing my car’s butt—because he was thisclosetome—convinced that meter had his name on it.

Unsuspecting, I cheerily jumped out of my car salivating for my favorite Chinese chicken salad which is like crack, or bacon, or bacon crack, or chocolate covered bacon crack to me.

In any case, that’s when the bad man pulled up next to me, rolled down his window and called me a dumb bitch.

“Excuse me, what did you say?” I asked, dumb (bitch) founded.

“You heard me,” he snarled.

“Did you call me a dumb bitch?”

“Well,” he sneered, “If the shoe fits.”

After that, I’m not exactly sure what happened. Everything went into slow motion. My saliva dried up, birds fell out of the sky, music played backwards, and before I even had time to form a thought—my mouth did the talking.

I wasn’t mad. Not really. I bent over, a big smile on my face, leaned into his passenger side window, gave him an unintentional cleavage shot (you’re welcome old man)—told him to go fuck himself with a little hand gesture and everything. Then I strolled away like a boss.

I could smell the burning rubber as he screeched away.

I can’t explain it—but you guys, it felt FANTASTIC!

Like empowered, hands on both hips, Wonder Woman fan-fucking-tastic!

I don’t ever do stuff like that! I’m polite. I’m nice. Too nice. I apologize for stuff that’s not even my fault.

Maybe it was the addition of the phrase “dumb bitch.” I can’t be sure.

Anyway, you guys, I’m not advocating telling strangers to go fuck themselves. Or maybe I am.

Bottom line: Don’t take anybody’s shit.

Carry on,
xox

On my recent trip to Canada, I was asked repeatedly if I felt any difference between the States and Canada.
You know, energetically. In other words a not so thinly veiled attempt to get me gabbing about the texting habits of our Cheeto-N-Chief.

Now I don’t know about you, but the butt cheeks in MY inner circle have been clenched so tightly since November that I for one could press a quarter into two dimes and nickel. Needless to say (so I will anyway), the discomfort caused by this collective gluteus charley horse has set everyone on edge.

And that was never more evident than when I spent a few days in Vancouver – or “America Lite” as I like to call it.

When I landed, there was a rare powdered sugar snow event happening which made the serene calm even calmer and the whole city eerily quiet. As if a benevolent snow angel was whispering a sweet little lullaby. That had the same effect on me as sucking on a chocolate covered Xanax.

Deep… exhale.

This Canadian silent night effect just exaggerated the fact that we, as a nation, are jittery, jumpy and wound tighter than a Real House Wife of Beverly Hills’ face (because we all live inside of reality show now, right?).

Right?

I mean, the past three weeks, in particular, have been a sucker punch an hour.
My guard is up.
My loins are girded.

Last week found me traveling in and out of the country during this cluster fuck immigration BAN—which I’m told isn’t a BAN—but let’s call it a BAN…because it is.

It may be on the legal ropes for the time-being.
But what time is it now?
That could change in the next ten minutes.

Listen, as you know, I’m a middle-aged white woman who lives in a blue state, one of the “coastal elites” and I was going to freakin’ Canada. Yet, I felt a bit anxious. I couldn’t help but clutch my “papers” to my chest like an early 1900’s, babushka wearing, Irish potato farmer – or a Syrian refugee. It made me distinctly aware that the only difference between them and me is the fact that through no effort on my part, I won the “uterine lottery” by having the good fortune of being born in Los Angles California, USA.

That being said Canada is looking pretty darn good to me right now.

I think Canada looks at us US citizens these days like I’ve always looked at Italians. With a mixture of admiration and pity. “What great people! They have so much going for them” I’d say. “The food, the wine, the shoes! Such a shame their “elected” officials are bat-shit crazy and their government is corrupt as fuck.”

Because I believe that a country’s moral aptitude trickles from the top down, many citizens in this new America are quite mouthy.
They have a newfound brazenness.
Sharp tongues.
Permission to carry a harsh political incorrectness disguised as “telling it like it is” as a weapon.

Perfect example:
I’ve NEVER heard the word “Fuck” YELLED in all of its many forms as much as it was on our American carrier as we sat on the tarmac for an hour waiting to take-off. Men, women, even babies. (It was so outrageous that a baby across the aisle yelled fuck, you know because they’re parrots, and even though her mother was mortified—we all laughed because a baby saying fuck in their cartoon voice is hilarious—and the tension inside that plane was absurd.)

As for exhibit B: On the Canadian carrier, it felt like I was inside of a time machine. Everyone was kind and courteous, like a flashback to 2014 before all of this mishegas started. So much so that we taxied away from the gate—then back again—to let a sick passenger get off (and her sisters and aunts and a couple of other random passengers) without any cursing. Next, the flight attendant announced that since our flight was going to be about an hour late on arrival, and since several passengers had tight connections to make, that while the cabin door was open and we were parked at the gate…anybody else who felt compelled to leave was welcome to do so!

Wait.
What?

I ducked.

I waited for the “fucks” to fly.

Nothing.
Silence.

As a matter of fact, good-natured silence.

That pretty much sums up the difference these days between sanity and the Twilight Zone in which we find ourselves these days.

What are you noticing?

Carry on,
xox

“I’m warning you – I’m foul today. Stay clear!”

That’s what I did for years. I’d make that announcement as I walked into work; OR if it was the five minutes I had a boyfriend, I’d give the poor guy a chance to make a clean getaway.

I thought I was doing the kind thing—warning the unfortunates. That I was taking care of myself and others.

The trouble was, although I cleared the room of the usual, aggravating suspects, my path became littered with all the foul people who matched my mood.

Driving became a kind of every man for himself obstacle course of assbites. The air was peppered with f-bombs, the middle fingers flashing—and that was just inside my own car.

Going to pick up lunch became a contact sport.
Elbow jabbing, line cutting and tons of stink-eye. Never mind that when I got back to the office, the entire order was wrong. Of course MY salad was the one missing—oh but wait—thank God there are 5,000 packets of ketchup in the bottom of the bag even though no one ordered fries!

You get the gist.
After a while—make that many years—I came to the realization that announcing  I’m a grade A, number one bitch today  wasn’t helping anyone, least of all myself. As a matter of fact it was setting a horrible tone for my day, and attracting to me every other bad day haver in the greater Los Angeles area.

You’ve got to be smarter about this, I thought one night after getting both a ticket and a flat tire on the way home at the end of one particularly bitchy day. There’s GOT to be a better way!

And there is. It takes a few minutes and a bit of commitment, but I can assure you – it’s worth it.

If, for whatever reason I wake up on the wrong side of sanity, instead of just resigning myself to a day of disasters, I acknowledge the mood and then take a few minutes to shift it.

I’m not at the whim of some unforeseen force, I tell myself. I’m in control here! Ahhhh, that feels better already.

I start by putting whatever set me off into perspective. Nothing is so bad it can’t be fixed AND no amount of shitty is worth sacrificing an entire day. Seriously.

Don’t get too specific. First, take away the blame.
Instead, figure out how you’d rather FEEL. 

If “he” pissed you off again, by breathing or wearing that face, take a minute to remember why you loved him enough to have him underfoot. Get back to that loving (or at least liking, place).

If you’re feeling under-appreciated, think of the last time you told someone how much you appreciated their extra effort. It was probably during the Clinton administration—too long.
You see, that stuff goes hand in hand.

You want love—be loving.

You want appreciation—show it to those around you.

You want a helping hand—be generous to others.

You want to hear “Thank you”—say it more.

You want more money – spend some. (Counterintuitive I know, but it works)

You want the cramps to go away (or the headache, or the sore shoulder) – take some fucking Motrin, and quit complaining.

I can’t tell you how many times I went into work first, all twisted with cramps, and after the oxygen had left the room and everyone was sufficiently aware of my agony – THEN I took the appropriate medication.
(That’s what happens when you live alone too long; there’s nobody there to scream “enough!” and shove pain meds down your throat).

Don’t do that. It’s not nice. Your co workers aren’t paid enough to share your  misery.

So loves, during this stressful next couple of weeks, don’t give into your foul moods. Consider this a warning. If you do, the angry, stressed out crazies will magnetize to you and make things worse.

I can promise you this from years of tireless research.

Eat a chocolate chip cookie (or 5), take a walk and look at the decorations and the holiday windows, tell someone you love them (and mean it), say “please” and “thank you” and watch it come back to you.

What you send out into the world – comes back to you. It’s the law.

Sending Big, big love your way,
Xox

Oh don’t you get all high and mighty on me.

Like you’ve never thought this…or something worse!

Listen, I got an email from a reader, Lisa, who commented on my swearing (she liked the fact that I talked, and these are her words: like a real person), and asked me as someone with a spiritual blog, if I ever lost my temper with people and flipped them off or cursed at them.

Uh…yeah.

Lisa, first of all I think its darling that you aren’t sure about that. Have you met me?
I’m human, with all the faults, flaws and bird-flipping that guarantees.
Lisa, still in doubt, check this out:
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2014/12/no-amount-of-shitty-is-worth-sacrificing-a-whole-day/

As this blog  has progressed over the years, I starting asking myself: Self, why are you writing this?  And the answer was simple. Because most of the spiritual wisdom that had been around for years has been pretty damn dry and the people who write it sound like living saints; tempers in check, always making the right choices, with no mis-steps or mistakes to speak of.

Well, I don’t know about you all, but that’s not me.

When I talk I use the word fuck –– often. So when I write, it sneaks in. Also shit and assbite and all the other splendid, wildly descriptive words that spellcheck attempts to change to something more docile.

I’m not making excuses, I can’t stand excuses, but if I were –– It’s probably from working around men all my life, I’ve written about living my thirties as a man, and one of side effects is a mouth like a sailor.
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2014/06/the-gender-of-champions/

It is never my intent to offend anyone, but I write what I know and I’ve gotta be who I am.
I figure if someone logs on and is horrified by my language, or the content or even a graphic about a chair in the face –– they’re not my people and they’ll just move along.

The bottom line is this you guys: You can have a forty-year (gulp –– fuck I’m old) meditation practice, read every spiritual book you can get your hands on, Om and chant and stand on your head, and still have a bad day inside this glorious human life we all have the privilege of living.

And as for the F-bombs? Well, I think I’m okay –– unless God has one of those cursing jars that require you to contribute a dollar for every swear word. If that’s the case –– I’m screwed.

I hope that answers your question Lisa, and thanks for reading!

Carry on you salty dogs,
xox