family

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

You’re gonna love this essay by Danielle La Porte. I did. Keep reading and you’ll see why.
Then, Carry on,
xox

Just don’t expect crazy people to be sane (cause that’s crazy).
People are going to be who they are most of the time. In character, not out of character.

Guys with anger issues can complain about kittens and unicorns.

Folks who run a lot of anxiety will worry about the days of the week coming on time.

Positive thinkers figure that the train derailment saved them from disaster down the tracks.

Punctual people are punctual.
Sweet people are sweet.
Takers, take.
Givers, give.

People change and evolve. Breakthroughs happen. But hey…

Don’t expect crazy people to be sane (cause that’s crazy), or super emo girls to behave like stoics (did you think she wasn’t going to cry just this one time? Of course she’s going to cry. That’s how she is.) The guy who’s kinda wimpy? Well, he’s probably going to wimp out. That girlfriend of yours who runs on chaos like a truck runs on diesel? Ya, she’ll probably keep making choices that make chaos — she likes it that way. The overly generous soul, she’s probably going to be illogically generous and it’ll get her into some trouble — but most of the time it works. The friend who’s always late? Chances are they’re going to be…late.

People are — for better or for worse — generally predictable. An old gentleman friend used to say to me, “Well what do you expect from a pig, but a grunt?” Oink. Point taken. And, Eagles soar. And, you can rely on reliable people.

It’s useful to analyze the stuff of people’s character. Hunh. So why IS he such an asshole? Judgement is inevitable, it’s part of conscious discernment — but sometimes, it makes us a judgmental asshole.

There’s so much sanity to just flowing with someone’s predictability — their norm, their nature. Accept it. Forgive it. Just tolerate it; or peace out if you don’t want it in your life. But don’t waste too much time trying to change it.

All for Love,

Danielle

You know I’m all about the YES these days. But sometimes there’s a NO on your way to YES!

Check this out. I love it.

Carry on,
xox

ON SAYIN NO.
By~SETH GODIN

~Seth Godin

I overheard a woman in Trader Joe’s today and I had to stop and pretend I was looking with great interest at the ingredients on the side of the microwave macaroni and cheese.

Trader Joe’s is an eavesdropper’s paradise. Especially after school gets out and always around the microwave comfort food.

She had a seven-year-old girl with her, Sophie, (presumably her daughter), and she was on her cellphone with someone who, after listening for several minutes to her conversation, is a saint.
Literally.
The Vatican has spoken. This person earned it!
I’m guessing a sister, best friend, or telemarketer.

Anyhow, I was riveted to her rant because the nature of it was well, so absurd — and I could totally relate.

She was going on and on about the dangers of camping. Like her kids were Tributes in the Hunger Games.

Hypothermia. “What if it gets below fifty? We don’t have the arctic down bags, only the light down summer bags. I mean, I could bundle the kids up with hoods, socks, and gloves in their bags…oh, yes, they’ll be in a tent…”

Sand fleas, (so, like the Mensa member that I am (not) I surmised a beach campout. “Sam had bites all over his privates last summer.” Ouch. And TMI.

Fire. “Josh is gonna have his hands full. What if Lizzie runs into the fire.”
I’m no expert here, but I think both Josh AND Lizzie have a bigger problem on their hands if she’s running into fire. And yes, camping could turn poor Lizzie into a human s’more. So, I’m with the worried lady, no camping for Lizzie.

Wait. Maybe Lizzy is a dog. Oh, that’s even worse.

Ocean. “I heard there’s gonna be high surf. What happens if the waves are so big the kids can’t go in the water? Then what’ll we do?”

Oh, I don’t know, play cards or board games, build sand castles, run into fire, you know, the normal kid stuff.

OMG Lady, seriously? You are a piece of work! Oh, and can you talk louder? I don’t want to miss a minute!

But by this time, I’d lingered too long. I was skirting the edges of stalker-ville so I moved on. But grudgingly. I was worried about Asbestos Lizzie the fire-walker.

The woman did leave me with a parting worry as I scurried into the cookie aisle.
“Sophie, don’t run with the pretzels in your mouth. What if you fall and choke to death.”

And…scene.

I’m not a worrier by nature but if I do go there if I start with the “what if’s” then I’m on the train, miles down the track before I even realize it.

And it gets even more ridiculous as it goes along. You know what I’m talking about!

After the 1993 Northridge earthquake, I was terrified to be anywhere besides home (preferably under my bed), in the event of an aftershock.
I could “what if” myself into a full-blown panic attack.

What if I’m at the movies? Dark, crowded, scary as shit.
What if I’m in the shower? Naked, wet, embarrassing as shit.

The one that could send me over the edge was:
What if I’m sitting at this light, caught in bumper to bumper traffic, STUCK UNDER A FREEWAY OVERPASS!
Trapped, crushed, flat as shit.

I would go out of my way to avoid an overpass. If it looked like I was going to be stuck underneath I’d gun it and jump over cars like fucking Vin Diesel. I’d lay on my horn and make people move out-of-the-way. I came thisclose to causing accidents and hurting myself. I was Lizzie looking for fire.

Eventually, (like three years later), I realized that all those “what if’s” never happened and I started to lighten up. But even now, if I think about it when I’m sitting there, it makes my butt cheeks clench.

“What if” is imagination gone awry and once you board that train you may as well find the bar-car and liquor up because it’s nearly impossible to slow down a speeding train.

Well, maybe Vin Diesel can, or The Rock, or that little firecracker, Lizzie. Apparently NOTHING scares her!

Are you a “what if” worrier?  What are some of your best “what if”s”?

Carry on,
xox

This. This can be tricky but the results are remarkable. It’s an approach that is different but I think it’s so important to remember.

Try it.

With a lover,
With a friend,
A co-worker,
and your boss.

With a client,
a new idea or concept,
your kids,
your neighbors,
and most especially these days — your politics.

Be FOR peace instead of against war.
Be FOR a Democrat instead of against a Republican.
Be FOR the F-word instead of…well, you get the gist.

Carry on,
xox

*This is a…wait for it…a reprise from a thousand years ago. And in this moment, it feels apropos.

I’m reticent (translate to too chicken) to put REPRISE in the title anymore. I’ve been informed that most of you (at least the vocal majority), hate reprises. “I don’t want to re-read things I’ve already read” my brother snarked at me this week. “I mean I get that you might need a break every now and then, but breaks are for lightweights”.
Shit. That’s harsh. Tough crowd.
He doesn’t like it when I ask questions at the end either. “Okay, now you guys weigh in—what do YOU think” he sneers in a sarcastic tone that has me snort laughing my coffee and flipping him off at the same time. “It’s YOUR blog, YOU’RE giving the advice. YOU tell us what we should think!”
So, please excuse me while I chase him around the kitchen flicking him with a wet dish towel and then give him an atomic wedgie.
I’m giving the rest of  y’all a hug right now with a warm blanket made of bacon.
Mmmmmmmmmm…
carry on,
xox

On those days when you’re finding fault with EVERYTHING— the sky isn’t the right Tiffany Box shade of blue and the air conditioning is blowing too cold—how do you get yourself out of it? (hee hee, he’s seething right now).
Do you, at some point realize your ridiculousness and slap yourself across the face to snap out of it?
Or do you marinate in the fact that you’re so contrary that if George Clooney sat down beside you you’d tell him he needed a haircut and an Altoid?

I know you know when you’re being an ass – because I know it when I am.

We wake up every day and there are two sides of the bed on which to get up.
The sunny side or the dark side; the right side or the wrong side.

The question I’m asking is this: if, by some cruel twist of circumstances and hormones you put your feet on the floor when you wake up in the land of EVERYTHING’S WRONG, do you indulge and make those around you miserable, or do you do your damnedest to climb out? ( I really wanna know!)

I’ve done both. I DO both. Guilty as charged in the court of Nit & Pick.

These dark days do not come naturally to me, but when I’m under their spell – watch out – and know that I DO know what an asshat I’m being, I just can’t help myself right. this. minute.
So sorry.

Not really.

The kitchen looks the same as it did two days ago when I was feeling so grateful but today the bright summer sunshine is lighting up a couple of places that have chipped white paint. Instead of making it look charming and cozy it looks like a family of badgers had a drunken pinata party, then had trouble with the bat, (as badgers do), and turned the place into a badger-shithole.

Along those lines, the wine stains on the wood countertops that were just faded purple reminders of a really fun party last summer, have today, (wrong side of the bed day) become my reason for seriously entertaining throwing a grenade behind me and shutting the door, giving us the opportunity for a fresh start.

You’re welcome Honey, what can I say, I’m a giver.

Don’t tell me I’m acting like an idiot when I am—because that’s like taking a high-pressure hose of lighter fluid and spraying it on a fire.

I KNOW I AM. IM WORKING IT OUT.

But I will deny it….with my dying breath I will tell you I’m “fine.”
I’m sorry if your feelings and our kitchen have become collateral damage. If you want to survive this:
Don’t make eye contact and DON’T try to hug me. I have a fork in my hand.

The best strategy in the past has been to isolate myself for a while. Take a lovely walk outside in nature (I can’t today, with the heat index and the humidity, it feels like The Tropic of Cancer.)

Meditation is a good way to snap back into a loving place along with exercise. Neither of those has worked, so I’m still marinating.

Hormones, I’m blaming hormones.
I remember feeling this out of sorts during puberty, but the Good Lord had the common sense to deal me that hand when I wasn’t old enough to marry, operate heavy machinery or carry a firearm.
Whatever shall I do now? (Calm down Jim, that was rhetorical).

The trick for me is listening to my own words as they spill uncensored from my lips.
If they make even me cringe, I need to make a correction.
I need to shut up and realize I’m acting like an ass.
Is that what you do? (*snort)

Try it.
Just listen to yourself. Step up and out of your body as you berate the waiter or the lady at Ralph’s or your husband.

If every other word is a critique or fuck, chances are you’re having THAT kind of day. Or you’re channeling me.

Sometimes, what I hear myself say is so vile it makes me laugh, which then breaks the spell. Or it makes the recipient so mad they chase me around with a taser and I have to make a break for it AND get some cardio in at the same time which is just a win/win. Two birds—one stone.

If that doesn’t work puh-leeze do everyone, including yourself a favor.
Do what I do. Don’t speak TO ANYONE, go to bed early, and before you go to sleep say a little prayer for a better disposition, less facial hair and a better tomorrow.

Love you anyway,
Xox

We are now entering the second week of December. That triggers a hot mess of mixed emotions inside of me.
Every. Single. Year.

Listen, don’t get me wrong, I love all things Christmas, but can we please move it to May?

When I see THAT date—December 1st—I can’t help it—my butt puckers.

As the month progresses I secretly want to strangle December. I want to take it around back and teach it a lesson.

Show of hands, who’s with me? Who here in readerville secretly hates December?

Who thought that thirty consecutive days of extreme holiday stress was a good idea? Target? Santa? The devil?

By the end of week one, I’m consumed by that sinking feeling that lets me know—I’m already behind schedule.

I’m already late with my shipping.
Once I navigate the Post Office parking lot, or as I like to call it, December Demolition Derby (I once backed up and ONTO an Audi, a brand new one—my trailer hitch opening up the front hood of that car like a can opener), I have to stand in line and wait for the TWO postal clerks behind the counter to wade their way through all the other holiday shippers.

There is yelling. There are lies, bribes and cutting in line. There are tears. And that’s just me.

Once I work up the stamina (facilitated by devouring all of the fudge I made the previous night) to take on the Christmas tree shopping—usually reserving December 10th for my tree excursion—all of the good ones are gone.

By the second week of December! That is just criminal.

Last year they had a Charlie Brown section for people like me. Dried up weak and feeble trees that were already dead—pitifully begging for a home. Those are what’s left for us mid-December stragglers. The ones who wait so they don’t have to fight the crowds and crying kids the first two weeks.

Get this: I drove past a lot the other day where they were flocking trees. Remember flocking? Crispy, fake snow? I thought I’d passed through a time warp except for the crowd. There was a crowd of bearded hipsters with man-buns all milling around the tent inhaling crispy snow and sipping artisan hot chocolate.

Are hipsters bringing flocking back? Is that a thing again?

Are you freaking kidding me? If those hipsters had lived through the sixties like I had, they would NEVER in a million years have the slightest inclination to re-create it. I still have rotating color-wheel flashbacks.

Once I got my Christmas investment (they are well over ten bucks a foot) home, it took me three tries to get the white twinkle lights to do the one thing they were designed to do—light up. We sent men to the moon and wtf?… If you so much as look at a strand cross-eyed HALF of it will go dark.

But only half.

Which leaves me filled with hope, because December marks a season of hope, right? Hope that I can find the rat bastard loose bulb, tap it gently, twist it, or God willing, replace it with the extra one taped to the cord, and have the freaking tree lit by New Years.

THAT has never happened. In all of my years lighting a tree I’ve yet to twist a loose bulb and have the thing light back up.

That is an urban myth. Worse yet, it’s a fairy tale told to unsuspecting Christmas revelers in order to fill them with false hope.
That’s not playing fair. Jesus would frown on that.

In search of lights that worked I was forced to do what you’re never supposed to do the entire month of December if you have a brain in your head and one ounce of common sense left in your body——I went to Target yesterday and they were already out of white lights AND wrapping paper. It’s the first week of December people. Seriously?

In the parking lot, I nearly got sideswiped by an SUV wearing blinking antlers. Am I insured for that?

Baking. Let’s talk holiday baking. I love to bake.
I love it so much I only do it once a year in December, otherwise, I would be HUGE.
Like, walk me down Central Park West in the Thanksgiving Day Parade huge.
Because my love for baking is only exceeded by my love of eating what I bake.

What? You don’t do that? O call bullshit. Sure you do! Because it’s only logical. Artists love art. Singers love music. Bakers love all things warm and gooey. They love it so much they make it themselves—for themselves. Between eating the raw cookie dough and “quality testing” the finished products my friends are lucky to get a bite in edgewise.

December is also a month of wonder.
I wonder every year which of my favorite childhood ornaments will fall prey to the floor-gods. They are insatiable and unrelenting in their search for a sacrifice. I’m aware of this, so in order to keep the emotional carnage to a minimum I put the ones I don’t care as much about near the floor, as an offering. A token of respect. Then I padlock my favorite treasures safely inside the middle branches. But the floor gods always prevail. Last night the ice-skater I received when I was eleven mysteriously appeared on the hardwood floor under the tree. She wasn’t broken broken. Just her left ankle and skate are missing.

But her career is over. There go her hopes of a medal.

I had a good cry. SHE took it with grace and dignity so I re-hung her in the front of the tree as an example of Christmas courage.

Listen, how about those Christmas cards?
All year long I’m lulled into complacency, thinking I have several great shots for the front of a card. Then it comes time to send them in to get printed. Either I’m late for the “print by” date because for some reason I’m unable to fathom why on earth that date is August 31st, and I’m too busy eating watermelon BECAUSE IT’S SUMMER—or I can’t find the pictures.

They’re missing. Gone. Non-existent. A figment of my overactive imagination.

I could make do with the one from last year. The one where he’s squinting, my smile is jinky and the dog has wild eyes and a grin like Cujo. Oh, fuck it. Just never mind. It’ll just have to wait until next year. Again.

I do love receiving all the cards from friends and family. I really do. I adore being able to see how much the kids have grown every year but can I ask you a favor? Please don’t send me the three-page newsletters. That’s okay. I’m all caught up. That’s what Facebook is for. Besides, they’re primarily filled with bad news. The death of a pet, Uncle Frank’s broken hip, the baby that can’t say please. Are you kidding? Has no one any good news to share?

The last one I read was like a Charles Dickens novel. It was filled with so much tragedy I had to read it with a box of Kleenex (and Sees candy) and a glass of scotch. Honestly! I know nothing says Christmas like death and job loss, but can we all agree to just cut-it-out?

December. What is it with you?
You drive me nuts! You are like the bat-shit crazy relative everyone hates that keeps showing up drunk every year!

As much as I vow that this year will be different,
I eat too much.
I spend too much.
I drink too much.
I argue way too much.
I don’t get enough rest.
I over commit.
I cry.
And I lose my patience.

Which brings me to the realization—December, you are a little bit like childbirth. You are miserable and painful in the moment but after some time has passed (like 365 days) I forget and repeat all the madness because when I look back on the holidays you brought me miracles and filled me with wonder and THAT my friend,makes you impossible to hate.

Happy Holidays Y’all!
xox

This is riot you guys!
But not really.
Ugh.
I’ve sat at this table haven’t you?

Wait! It gets better. I’ve been that well-intentioned jackass who speaks in self-righteous therapist or guru induced gibberish. That’s not communicating you guys. That’s not even a conversation.
THAT is a monologue.

I want to throw a roll at all of them. Don’t you want to throw a roll?
That’s what they need—a good old-fashioned food fight!

CAUTION: this is what happens when you take “spirituality” to the extreme. You think you’re being “authentic”, self-aware, and just telling the truth when you’re actually looking down your nose at everyone, not listening and plain old just being an ass.

Just goes to show that extreme ANYTHING, even enlightenment—is NOT the way to go.

Carry on,
xox

So… you can practice acceptance like I suggested to help you cope or you can thank Adele.

Happy Thanksgiving!
xox

Have you been a victim of Family Holiday Dysfunction?  Yeah, me too.

That’s why they call it Turkey Day.

Here’s a reader’s holiday favorite NEW and revised on the Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/hard-feelings-with-a-side_b_8612360.html

Hang in there—it’ll be over soon!

xox