habits

There are some compromises we make in a marriage that keep the wheels from gumming up and sticking. 
I turn a blind eye to the dirty dishes that sit overnight, while he helps me make the bed every day.

I have a thing about making the bed. I suppose you could say I’m anal about it. What can I say? I like to get into a freshly made bed every night. I even make the bed in hotel rooms. It stems from my childhood as an obedient, little Catholic saint-in-training, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

I know, I know! It’s a habit, but I don’t think it’s one that warrants an apology.

His aversion to a “made” bed is the result of spending his formative years in boarding school, under the Draconian rule of a bunch of Jesuit’s who had nothing better to do than to teach boys how to fold corners of sheets with military precision.

By the time he left, at fifteen, he swore he’d never make another bed. He seriously couldn’t care less if he climbs into a tangle of crumpled blankets and sheets. (Just writing that makes me squirm.)

Then he met me. The bed making nazi.

I’m sensing a pattern here. Something to do with religion and rules and something-or-other.
Never mind…

I also put my dirty dishes directly into the dishwasher when I’m finished with a meal.
Not him. He piles them on the side of the sink and leaves them for the morning. He likes to wash and load while the coffee is brewing.

The thought of waking up to dirty dishes gives me hives.
I tell him that while I try to sneak them into the dishwasher every night. It’s like a dance. By the dim light over the stove (I don’t alert him to the fact by turning on the lights) I soap up the sponge and start to wash. He sneaks up behind me, grabs my soapy hands while suds fly around all willy-nilly, and insists, “I’ll do them in the morning.”
Then we kiss. Like you do at the end of a lovely waltz.
As I eyeball the pots and pans on my way to bed, all I can think is “Just kill me now.”

I know he feels obligated to help me make the bed because he tells me so. “It’s my bed too,” he says while he fluffs and karate chops each of the decorative pillows (there are six) just like I taught him to do when we first met. 

Recently, after almost seventeen years together, I’ve decide that Sunday can be free-the-bed day. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess, but it remains purposely disheveled, frozen at the exact moment we got out of it…for the entire day. 

Once he noticed, he declared, “I love it!”

“It looks inviting, doesn’t it?” He said, grinning broadly as he flopped down backward onto the sheets. The white sheets which that day had fresh, muddy paw-print polka dots all over them. Ruby was grinning too. Like a muddy fool. It didn’t take a pet psychic to tell me that she freakin’ loved free-the-bed day too!

I know when to admit defeat. 

There are some compromises we make in a marriage that keep the wheels from gumming up and sticking. If you can’t eventually, after almost two decades together, remove the stick that’s been stuck up your ass and go-with-the-flow, then I suggest a giant vat of WD-40 for the gummy wheeels—and sheets the color of mud. 

Carry on,
xox

I heard a story recently about a woman and a cat. Not the usual story of feminine-feline-obsession. There were no special little kitty-cat outfits or freshly massaged beef flown in daily from Japan. Nope. The cat became this woman’s catalyst for change. Long, long, overdue change. Here’s the story:

A woman lived in an apartment for a long time. Too long. As the landlord aged, his saint of a wife passed, he fell into ill-health, and his temperament changed. And not for the better. He turned from a basically okay guy into a pot-bellied, yellow-toothed rat-bastard.

Meanwhile, as an act of solidarity, the once lovely building began to fall into disrepair as well.
Not all at once mind you, but systematically, in baby steps. First, it was the single elevator which became a hit or miss box-of-terror. The out-of-order sign became a permanent fixture and if you didn’t feel like walking the seventy-eight steps up to the third floor with your groceries, you took your chances. But not without a Valium. And a crowbar.

Everywhere you looked the paint was peeling faster than a bad sunburn. The front buzzer hadn’t worked for years, (friends just shouted up for the keys to the front door from the street below her window), and her oven either made lukewarm everything or charcoal briquets.

Everyone who visited the apartment urged her to move.
But after eighteen years of rent control, she just couldn’t bring herself to leave. And they allowed cats. That is until the fateful morning he came banging on the door to personally deliver a UPS package addressed to her that he claimed was loitering in the front lobby. When she answered the door, her roommate the friendly feline, came over and wove itself in and around her legs, furiously exfoliating its face on her three-day stubble while purring loudly.

Too loudly.

“What’s that?” Her landlord hissed between teeth the color of aged, ivory piano keys.

“Oh, uh…that’s my cat”, she stammered.

“We don’t allow cats in this building!” He bellowed, his fat belly quivering for emphasis.

“But I’ve always had it”, she replied nervously, trying to shoo the cat away with her slippered foot.

But the cat thought it was a fun new game and began tightly hugging her muck-luckity clad foot with its front paws while furiously rabbit-kicking it with its hind legs She grabbed the box from his twisted, cigarette stained fingers and closed the door to just a crack in order to hide the madness happening just below her bathrobe.

He was undeterred.
“The cat goes or YOU go!” he yelled. “You have one week or I’m evicting you.”
With that, he managed to propel his girth away from her door and with enormous momentum practically plummeted down the stairs. She slammed the door leaning against it for support, trembling. The cat strolled away contentedly, convinced it had beaten its opponent into submission. Satisfied, it jumped up onto the large, carpeted, cat tree next to the window, rolled into a ball, and promptly fell asleep in the warm morning sun.

What am I going to do? she wondered.
She had to admit that the place had transformed over the years into a shit-hole and the landlord into a troll; but the thought of moving sent her into a full-blown anxiety attack. She had savings, it wasn’t that.
She wasn’t good with change.
She hated the thought of leaving, of looking for a new place. She was used to it there. Even though she knew her quality of life could be so much better—she was willing to settle. For everything that was wrong with the place, the voice in her head came up with a million reasons why it was so much easier to stay.

Her tolerance for mediocrity, misery, and sub-standard living conditions had reached an all-time high.

Terrified, she hid every sign of the cat.
Late at night, she’d load its dirty cat litter and empty food cans into bags and lug them three flights down, out to the scary-ass alley where she’d walk several buildings over to use their dumpsters. The cat box took up residency in her shower when she wasn’t using it, and she played the radio during the day while she was at work to hide the sounds of any meowing.
One Sunday it took her nearly the entire morning to move the behemoth of a cat tree from its sunny place next to the dining room window into a dark corner of her bedroom, where she made sure to keep the blinds closed on all of the windows—just in case.

One night, laying in bed, she literally made herself sick with worry. She realized that not only was she miserable, she had now seriously diminished her dear cat’s quality of life as well.

And THAT was what turned out to be the last straw!

The next day she begrudgingly mentioned to some friends at work that she needed a new place— a place that took cats.
Not even three weeks later, word came of the most adorable little house-behind-a-house owned by a terrific man, his equally fantastic husband, and their two Siamese cats. It was a fresh start! Fresh in every way. New paint, shiny refinished hardwood floors, even the unfathomable (and something she’d never dared to wish for)—a stackable washer and dryer! Not only that, it was at ground level, the oven worked like a charm, and the front porch was screened with a perfect spot for the cat tree.

Nobody was happier about that than the cat.

Now…you may be wondering, did the cat make this happen? Did it show itself at just the wrong time to get this ball rolling? Perhaps.

But I think the real moral of this story is the habit many of us have of dragging our feet on the way to our own happiness.
I’ve done it and I’m sure my friends that you have too. It’s about self-worth and why our cat’s, friend’s, spouse’s (fill in the blank), everybody else’s happiness is more important than our own.

It’s also a story about how there are great possibilities out there, possibilities we could never have imagined—if we can only just step out of our own complacency and fear.

Take it from this cat story, the very thing you dread could be the best change you’ve ever made.

Carry on,
xox

Your beliefs become your thoughts.

Your thoughts become your words.

Your words become your actions.

Your actions become your habits.

Your habits become your values.

Your values become your destiny.

I think Mahatma Gandhi said this…or Oprah. I can’t keep them straight.

That’s big stuff right there. A big concept.

Because most of us, most of the time, myself included, think that all of those things, those actions, words, habits, thoughts—are all separate—disconnected. That they have nothing whatsoever to do with one another.

Wrongo Bongo! We could not be more stupid, misguided, delusional, misinformed, naive, forgetful.

You know this stuff.

I know this stuff.

My freakin’ dog knows this stuff.

So, just a gentle reminder to be mindful of your beliefs, thoughts, words, actions, habits, and values because they are all coalescing to form your destiny.

If you’re sloppy about it like I can get from time to time, you can say and think that you’re eating kale—but the kale is really donuts—and your belief in the destructive power of warm, yeasty goodness is too powerful to overrule the word kale—and just like that—the donuts I ate this weekend go straight to my ass. So…

Not sure of what you’re creating? Look around at your life. It’s a big clue. HUGE.

You like what you see? Fantastic! Keep doing what you’re doing. Not so thrilled with the lump of a chump on the couch? Even better! Because ALL of those things, those thoughts, words, blah, blah, blah—can be changed.
By you.
Right this minute.
Or after you finish your donut.

Isn’t that worth knowing?!

Wait. I think we just created a new belief. Let’s run with it! (Put down the scissors first).

Carry on,
xox

I worked as a supermarket checker until I was thirty. It was mindless work, paid decent money, and had the flexible hours I needed for the other things I cared about; school and acting.

I was a damn fine checker. The best. Fast, nice, with a minimum of small talk. Standing and scanning groceries has a zen quality about it. The repetition can send you into a zone of complacency. If you’re lucky faces blur and time flies.

That was the case for me maybe 10% of the time. The other 90% of the time I was judging the contents of everyone’s carts, making up stories about what they were buying and why.

I know! Your worst nightmare, right?

I was the girl who stifled a giggle when the dude with the greasy hair and the porn mustache who was drowning in Brut came thru the express line EVERY Friday night with a case of Coors, a carton of Marlboro reds and Maxim condoms (whose tagline was printed on the box: For those who live large). His story was a no-brainer.

“For those who live large!” Can you stand it? I couldn’t. The minute he was ten paces out into the parking lot, racing toward his Trans Am—I’d burst out laughing. Nobody else in line was paying much attention so my outburst probably appeared a little manic.

Whatever.

There was Ms. Shaw, an ancient, (she was probably in her late forties at the time) spinster/cat lady who arranged her cat food in neat stacks by flavor in her cart. Anal-retentive doesn’t do her justice. She bagged every red delicious apple in a separate plastic bag and grouped all of the green vegetables together—away from the other colors. And none of the food could touch. (Is this making you a bit twitchy?) She also bought bourbon if I remember correctly, which seemed so out-of-character that I made up an imaginary life for her. In my imagination, she still lived at home with a boozy parent.

There was a woman who came in once a week and bought six bottles of Clairol #6 blonde hair dye. She had dark brown hair so I’m not sure what that was all about. Maybe she dyed her kid’s hair. Or her pubes. Who knows. Maybe she was a hairdresser who only likes to use that one color because she believed that blondes had more fun.

Whatever.

There were a lot of women back then that bought douche. Is douche still a thing? I read somewhere that it’s unhealthy for you since your vagina is self-cleaning, like an oven. Anyhow, if it went on sale there’d be a run on douche, these women would buy entire baskets of it. We often ran out and had to manually write up “rain-checks” for Summers Eve douche while they made the entire line wait so they could take advantage of the sale price another time. I had one woman who bought douche and two pints of rocky road ice cream EVERY DAY. Eventually, the store had to put a kibosh on the douche hoarding. They came up with a limit. No more than three at a time. When we tried to enforce that rule I thought there was going to be a riot! These women wanted their “fresh feeling!”

I’m curious—Is douching addictive? Does your va-jay-jay forget how to self-clean?

Speaking of fresh, I had a man who used to bag his meat and Irish Spring soap together and when I’d try to separate them he’d grab them away from me and reunite them. Finally, I asked him why. “I like the way it tastes”, he replied.
My intuition told me he lived alone. One evening the assistant manager was helping out, bagging groceries for me and when he saw me throw the soap in with the meat he just about lost it. “It’s okay”, I assured him, “he likes the way it makes the steak taste.” He looked back at the customer who was nodding enthusiastically. The guy swore by it.

I never had the courage to try it. It reminded me of menthol cigarettes. Bleck.

I’m going to say this—I can’t help it. The buying habits of the general public are weird. There were people who lived on TV dinners, people who, in my humble opinion drank WAAAAYYY too much diet coke, people who spent all their money on junk food and cigarettes, and the young anorexic girl who only and ever bought celery.

You can tell a lot about a person by what’s in their grocery cart. It’s a snapshot into a life—a peek into some of our most private habits—eating and personal hygiene.

So, I curate my cart when I go to the store. The implication of shame keeps me honest. Lots of fruit and kale, no candy or donuts. I know that no matter how disinterested they look the checker is making up stories about me so when I buy anything remotely embarrassing (like Monistat, lubricant, four boxes of Triscuit, or the second bottle in a month of the sour mix for my whiskey sours) I go thru the self-check-out line because I’m a damn fine checker. The best. Fast, nice, with a minimum of small talk—and mot of all—discreet—not at all judgy.

Carry on,
xox

Your beliefs become your thoughts

Your thoughts become your words

Your words become your actions

Your actions become your habits

Your habits become your values

Your values become your destiny

I think Mahatma Gandhi said this…or Oprah. I can’t keep them straight.

That’s big stuff right there. A big concept.

Because most of us, most of the time, myself included, think that all of those things, those actions, words, habits, thoughts—are all separate—disconnected. That they have nothing whatsoever to do with one another.

Wrongo Bongo! We could not be more stupid, misguided, delusional, misinformed, naive, forgetful.

You know this stuff.

I know this stuff.

My freakin’ dog knows this stuff.

So, just a gentle reminder to be mindful of your beliefs, thoughts, words, actions, habits and values because they are all coalescing to form your destiny.

If you’re sloppy about it like I can get from time to time, you can say and think that you’re eating kale, but the kale is really donuts, and your belief in the destructive power of warm, yeasty goodness is too powerful to overrule the word kale, and just like that—the donuts I ate this weekend goes straight to my ass. So…

Not sure of what you’re creating? Look around at your life. It’s a big clue. HUGE.

You like what you see? Fantastic! Keep doing what you’re doing.

Not so thrilled with the lump of a chump on the couch? Even better! Because ALL of those things, those thoughts, words, blah, blah, blah—can be changed.
By you.
Right this minute.
Or after you finish your donut. Isn’t that worth knowing?!

Wait. I think we just created a new belief. Let’s run with it! (Put down the scissors first).

Carry on,
xox

I did something randomly funny today. I ran to brush my teeth before an early Skype session with a pal this morning.
Not that I didn’t need to. It was half past eight (which everyone knows is the Universal deadline for maintaining oral hygiene). And even the dog had weighed in, turning her head to the side and making a face as I laid a big wet one on her with my coffee infused morning breath.

But no one can smell your breath over the computer (or in space, because space is a vacuum), anyway, the irony of it still makes me laugh.

I do stuff like that. A lot.
I shave my armpits for dentist appointments and photo shoots. I wear false eyelashes…even on Thursdays. I use my turn signal in deserted alleyways, and I clean the kitchen before the cleaning lady comes on Saturdays. Now I can add brushing before Skyping.

Why do we do the things we do?

Are they habits? Born out of a sense of maintaining order and normalcy?
The turn signal certainly is. My left-hand makes the decision before my brain ever has a chance to intervene.
God knows there are lurkers in dark abandoned alleys and these lurkers, deserve to know, just like the rest of us that I will be turning left when I reach the end.

Or not. Like I said, it’s a habit.

Are we aiming to please? And whose pleasure are we after?
Someone once said that “Women dress for other women”. I don’t know about that. I always felt like that was said by a man who hated what his girlfriend was wearing. HE told her to show more cleavage and that ‘those jeans made her butt look big’ but SHE threw on a baggy sweater, hiding her tits — and wore the jeans anyway.
To rave reviews.
Or, no one even noticed.
Both are wins if you ask me.
She did it for herself. She paid a small fortune for the pants, she was already wearing the eyelashes, and it was Thursday.

Mindfulness. (Which means thinking about doing stuff before you do it.)
I write about it and I TRY to practice it but honest to God, most of the things I do are because I strive to offend the least amount of people in the shortest amount of time — and dentists have a thing about armpit stubble. They just do. It’s a thing.

That being said, who do I clean the kitchen for? I’m going to say I do it for ME. My husband says I do it to impress Maria.
Uh, no. Maria is now completely blind in one eye and only has partial sight in the other. My blind maid is impossible to impress.
I Comet the sink because Maria doesn’t believe in Comet. She also doesn’t believe in bleach, removing fingerprints from stainless steel or stacking plates in a way that doesn’t look like a bunch of drunken Greeks just threw a wedding. She IS a wiz at all things related to dishwashers and dog hair (she showed me the rubber gloves trick) so she can stay.

If I practiced mindfulness before absolutely everything I did, I’d go mad. So if I’m advocating mindfulness — I guess I’m advocating madness. Good to know.

I think it’s pretty safe to say that most things I do are just to raise my own “joy ceiling.”

I brushed my teeth before the Skype for my own benefit. (I didn’t want to inadvertently gag), and out of respect for my friend I suppose.

I wear the false eyelashes during the week to sit and write because I love them. Not for other women. Not for anyone but me. Although…if a producer for Real Housewives of Studio City suddenly showed up—I’m camera ready.
And I have fresh breath.
And a sparkling clean sink.
And medium pit stubble. (I go to the dentist next week.)

Who do you do things for? Are you always mindful of what you do? Can you teach me that trait?

Carry on,
xox

“If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.”
-Emile Zola

Hi Guys,
I freakin’ love this!
Ask yourselves –– What would you do in this situation?
(I’d be super squeamish about cutting up an entire fish, blech!)
I think we should ALL push ourselves outside our comfort zones more often. Who’s with me?
Carry On,
xox