A gentle reminder for the times we find ourselves in these days. Ha!
You’re welcome!
Carry on,
xox
This is from 2014—but it still holds up. Happy 4th!
Carry on,
xox
Dear America,
Home of these United States.
Happy Birthday, Girl.
I am eternally grateful, even after traveling the world, make that especially after traveling the world, to have won the cosmic lottery by having had the good fortune to be born in your golden state.
I have traveled this country, sea to shining sea, mostly on the back of a motorcycle, and I’m here to testify that it really does have purple mountain’s majesty and amber waves of grain.
It is gorgeous.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the trash, graffiti, and poverty through these rose-colored glasses of mine, but by and large, this country is a heart-swelling source of pride for me.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
That last pursuit, the pursuit of happiness?
We are unbelievably blessed that Thomas Jefferson had the wisdom and foresight to write that into The Declaration of Independence.
No other country in the world gives its citizens the RIGHT to happiness.
Who knows what that even means, what happiness even looks like?
To them, it meant emancipation from British Rule.
Happiness means something different to everyone, but we, WE are entitled to it thanks to that sacred declaration—and by God—we go for it.
The American people I’ve met all want the same things from life: Love and a good cup of coffee.
Americans are hard workers. Some of the hardest in the world – don’t argue, check the stats.
We love our pets
Damn, we love our kids.
We are an irrepressible bunch. We are gregarious, outgoing and LOUD.
We are innovative, curious, quick minded and clever.
And we don’t take NO for an answer. (Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs, my nephew).
We are MacGyvers. Most of us are industrious enough to fix pretty much anything with gum, a paper clip, and dental floss. It’s in the water.
We willingly give directions to people who look lost.
The Americans I’ve met, will help a stranger in a heartbeat. They are generous and kind.
The United States is only as great as the sum of its parts; in reality, it is only a landmass with man-made borders.
It is the people who make it great and make me grateful to have been born here.
Don’t agree? Travel outside the states and you’ll share my appreciation for :
Clean water
Indoor plumbing
Hot running water,
A toilet with Real toilet paper
Things that work as expected
Ice cubes. Cold anything really
Decent French fries
King size beds (not two twin beds pushed together)
Street signs that actually give you correct information.
7 eleven (the ability to buy tampons or Motrin or band aids at 2AM)
Personal space (other countries don’t have the same personal boundaries we do.)
Story: We were standing in some line in Europe, (where they are big on lining up for things to which Americans would say “No fucking way”), when my husband looked over at me with the saddest mix of incredulity and humiliation. The old man behind him was standing so close that if he even so much as puckered his lips, he would have kissed the back of my husband’s neck.
It freaked him out and he’s French…. So, personal boundaries.
A relatively dependable police force and fire department.
A somewhat workable bureaucracy. (Just try to get your VAT tax back)
Real cabs that don’t have hoodlums for drivers
Soap
Pillows that are thicker than 1 inch.
CUSTOMER SERVICE. DEAR GOD, CUSTOMER SERVICE!
I’m serious, these are things we take for granted that some other countries just haven’t figured out yet.
Happy Birthday, America. I do love you. You don’t look a day over two hundred.
My birthday wish for you on this momentous day is a big fat cake with tons of candles, heaps of vanilla ice cream, and the most badass fireworks display ever, complete with marching bands and a flyover by the Blue Angels.
Too much? Nah, we’re Americans.
*Addendum: there are some things that other countries do that kick our ass.
My husband was riding in the middle of the Namibian desert last year and he had cell phone service – like four bars – four bars is unheard of in LA.
The electricity was dicey, but he was able to FaceTime me every night.
So, yeah, they’re killing it with cell phone service.
Want to wish her a Happy Birthday? Put it in comments below and I’ll forward them to her.
Much love,
Xox
I can say in all honesty, with a straight face, that I don’t need a beach house to be happy.
I’ve made it this far in life without one and things have been pretty terrific so far.
That being said, when one is offered to me for a night I don’t hesitate to say yes. I’m not daft.
The house in question belongs to one of my husband’s clients. It is an architectural marvel that sits on the sand in a private cove of only six other homes. It cost in excess of fifteen million bucks and a famous rapper/music producer is living next door for the summer.
All of that makes your butt pucker, right? Me too!
Like how can I relax and enjoy the experience? I can’t handle the grandiosity, the smell of money in the air. I won’t be able to touch anything for fear of destroying something it would take me ten years to pay-off. Like red wine on a white chair. Or sand…anywhere.
This house and this couple are not like that AT ALL. They are gregarious and tons of fun. They have kids and dogs and everything in that house says, ‘Come on in! Relax! Have fun! Make a mess! Enjoy! Feel rich!’
What? Feel rich?
As you know, I’ve been trying that “rich” thing on lately.
I’ve told you of the hours I’ve spent on Zillow looking at homes for sale in Santa Barbara. Montecito to be exact. The hometown of Oprah. And to clarify even further—five to ten million dollar homes. With land. And nifty views.
So, the house this weekend could have felt intimidating, but it didn’t.
Not at all.
It felt like the next logical step in my search for a dream house.
And that’s when the magic started to happen.
Duh.
Hubby, Ruby dog, and I, spent Friday night enjoying stinky cheese and a bottle of my favorite red wine as we listened to Adele sing her sad songs of love gone wrong while the waves crashed and the negative ions had their way with us.
I could not have been happier. I felt rich in so many ways.
The next morning I went out to my car for something important (poop bag) and found a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill on the ground just behind the tailgate.
“You must have dropped this”, I said as I handed it back to Raphael knowing full well that Ruby only travels with hundreds and I had all of eight dollars left in my wallet after buying the cheese. (The stinkier the cheese the more it costs. Why is that?)
“It’s not mine”, he argued. “The only time I walked over there was at 5 am when I took Ruby to pee and contrary to stories you’ve heard, I don’t carry a wallet when I’m not wearing pants. It looks like it’s yours”, then he smirked in response to the look on my face as I pictured him balls to the wind, and went to make himself another espresso on the F-you espresso machine that lives in the kitchen.
“I’m rich!” I yelled, like Leonardo DeCaprio on the bow of the Titanic. (I know, he said I’m King of the World—just go with me here.)
Now I had twenty-eight smackers! Time to go buy some more cheese. Instead, we sat around all morning covered in dog hair, as a low, gray ceiling of clouds hung overhead making the view outstanding and the house impossibly cozy.
“I’m not leaving!”, I announced after he had laid out his plan for the rest of our day. Shower, lunch, drive home—and then what? He had plans that afternoon and all day Sunday.
I did not. I had no obligations. Nada. Zilch. Zero.
“I’m not leaving”, I said again out loud, just to hear the words a second time. Sometimes I just say stuff for dramatic effect. Like ‘I’m not leaving’ means ‘I’m having a good time’. Like that.
Was I serious?
“Fine. I love that”, he said looking at me kinda funny. “You’re keeping the dog—and what about your computer? Remember? You didn’t bring it. You can drive back in your car and get it. It’ll only be a three-hour round trip because it’s Saturday.”
I thought about it for a minute. I needed to post Sunday’s blog…but the internet sucked.
“Fuck that!” I exclaimed. Why would I kill my beach buzz?”
Sorry, but I shirked. I shirked all responsibility and sense of obligation and, and, and.
I was so relaxed at that point I was literally drooling.
I blame the ions. The ions made me do it.
“Exactly!”, he agreed, and he meant it.
In a spontaneous act of whatthefuckery, I called my friend Sally to come after work and partake in some of my stinky cheese, wine and mind altering ions. In an uncharacteristic act of selfishness—she said YES!
Sunday morning as I sat bathed in the wealth of my weekend, looking around at the house on the beach, the one with dog slobber on almost every wall and knee high handprints on the bank of windows that looks out over the endless expanse of Pacific Ocean, I received a text from a dear friend. That alone was a mini-miracle due to the shitty WiFi.
You see, a mystical, magical project I’m working on has to be delivered to just the right people.
Or I’m fucked.
Until I could guarantee that, I’ve been sitting on it. Praying. Trusting the powers that be to pull a rabbit out of someone’s ass. That text, that Miracle in Malibu text, held the answer to my prayers and it was so implausible that if I told you—you wouldn’t believe me—and you’d have me arrested for public drunkenness.
I’m tellin’ ya. Being irresponsible, selfish, and acting rich has gotten a bad rap. It really worked magic for me this weekend.
You should try it.
Carry on,
xox
*Sally and Ruby-do in the ‘Bu
In case you want to try this yourself:
*To be read aloud by James Earl Jones
I am a firm believer in the goodness of people.
In kindness,
and hugs and the power of love.
I am a firm believer in friendship.
In tribes, and surrounding yourself with the people who “get” you.
I am a firm believer in magic.
Yesterday my magic told me that believing in it was just like sex.
Everyone tells you not to do it and when you finally do, the first time might not be so good, but every time after that feels better and better. (And eventually you get good at it).
I’m a firm believer in the healing properties of DARK chocolate,
black licorice,
thunderstorms,
dog kisses,
Fritos,
bouquets of flowers,
peanut butter,
sex,
red toenails,
laughter (blooper reels)
long walks,
karaoke,
candles,
warm salt water,
stories with happy endings,
books with the word Journey in the title,
foreign travel,
gelato,
fireworks,
babies laughing,
red wine,
diamonds,
handwritten notes,
freckles,
badly told jokes where the punchline is given away right at the top,
coffee,
loud burps,
emojis,
holding hands,
and a good night’s sleep.
I’m a firm believer in the FACT that if you leap the net will catch you.
You may bounce first. And your skirt may go up over your head.
But here’s the deal. If you are reading this, you have survived whatever godawful things have befallen you.
You’re okay.
You’re breathing,
It’s all working out.
I firmly believe that ALL IS WELL.
What do you believe?
Carry on,
xox
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
Man! That’s a hard lesson for me.
And lately, revisiting a situation in the same old manner I’ve done in the past just. Isn’t. working.
It’s insanity. Truly. Or in plain speak, it’s crazy making.
Thursday, I tried something different, something new, and I found my way out of crazy town. I know I’m not alone with my over-stamped passport and resident’s visa to crazy town so I thought I’d share what happened.
Things in my life have been going really well. Better than well. They’ve been magorific!
The writing is fun as hell, the possibilities on the horizon — endless. I have found myself happier than I can ever remember being.
I know that saying that out loud is deemed a subversive act, but it comes into play here—I just can’t help it—and besides, wtf’s with THAT?
Anyway…I’ve begun to realize inside this massive reinvention of my life, that my past comes into play pretty much…NEVER.
Nothing I’ve done in my life up to this point, besides learning to read and write, has made a rat’s ass of difference in what is transpiring these days.
That at once feels daunting — making me feel like a complete novice in my mid-fifties where you’re supposed to know shit — and liberating — like I want to take off my bra and run topless down the beach like I may have done as a girl.
The very day I was reveling in this realization, my past came to visit me. To test my resolve.
The City of Los Angeles wanted more tax money from my long since dissolved corporation. I’ve been sending e-mails and faxing paperwork to them for a couple of years. My corporation ceases to exist which means… I owe them nada.
This is the perfect time to say: I have little tolerance of bureaucracy, even less for bureaucracy when they bug you for money, and none at all when they aren’t entitled to the money they’re chasing.
Meanwhile, they’ve gotten creative with their estimations of my imagined sales and have compounded the penalty interest daily. I’m sure you know what that feels like.
It’s like arguing with an obstinant, deaf, assholish elderly uncle — who hates you.
When I saw the envelope my stomach sank. It sank so deep they were going to have to send James Cameron back into the inky blackness of the bottomless Marianas Trench in search of my poor stomach. Then the pit turned to venous victimhood, which is the thug cousin of regular, generic victimhood.
It takes me down the dark allies of shame and lack, places I am VERY familiar with.
My knee-jerk reaction was to rip it up or light it on fire, which is pretty much my knee-jerk reaction to everything
Instead, I called my accountant and basically said, “Make this go away.” She barked back “It’s tax season, I don’t have time for this”, I think I heard her take a sip of beer or a hit off a crack pipe. “You’re going to have to do this yourself. Go to their Van Nuys office in person and take care of it.”
She may as well have suggested I jump into a pen of wild tigers while wearing Lady Gaga’s meat suit.
I hung up, ready to have a cigarette with the thugs in the alley of “this is not fair”.
“Damn. I’ve been so happy”, I lamented. And that’s when it hit me.
I’d rather stay happy than go back into those OLD feelings of victimhood and shame.
My past has NOTHING to do with what my life looks like now. This is NOT going to take me down! I will gather up my own stomach out of the pit of despair, go deal with the bureaucrats myself, and take care of this thing once and for all.
Are you with me?! Can I get an AMEN?!
But first I’ll eat a chocolate chip cookie, look at the paperwork with fresh eyes, see a phone number I’ve never seen before hidden on the back — and make a call.
Due to extremely high caller volume, (from people who were obviously much smarter than I was with much fresher eyes), I was asked to leave my number and they would call me back. “Bullshit!” I sneered and started to hang up. But that was the old way I always dealt with The City of Los Angeles. This new me left my cell phone number cheerfully on the recording.
By dinner time, I realized they hadn’t called me back but instead of fuming I just went back to Plan A.
I will go to Van Nuys and speak face to face with a human being, something I probably should have done years ago. There was no stomach pit, no malice, just anticipation of releasing an energetic albatross that’s been around my neck for years.
I woke up this morning waiting for the sinking feeling I’m so used to. Even as I was reminded of my impending visit to the land of bureaucracy, I felt only relief. That was HUGE for me.
At 9 AM, on my way out the door to the gym, I glimpsed the pile of paperwork I would need for my visit to Van Nuys, and I remembered leaving my number for a callback. “You better take that with you, what if they call you while you’re at the gym?” Before I could start laughing at the absurdity of that thought, the phone in my pocket started ringing.
It was The City Of Los Angeles. I’m not kidding. I can’t make this shit up. No one would believe me.
Mrs. Garcia (I love how when I asked her for her name she told me, Mrs. Garcia. I was in middle school all over again), was all business. She asked me a couple of unanswerable questions before we found some middle ground, I stayed light and shameless, and in the space of ten minutes, a chain of pain that has been severely knotted up for several years — fell away.
Turns out I owed them nada. (Here’s where I want to scream I told you so!!!)
Thank you, Mrs. Garcia!
And thank you happiness for the giant attitude adjustment.
And thank you past, for teaching me this valuable lesson.
And thank you chocolate chip cookie for just being delicious.
And thank You Guys for reading.
Carry on,
xox
These may look like the random ingredients of a food challenged schizophrenic’s lunch. Or they belong to a Russian peasant whose secret ingredient for her award-winning Borscht — is Fritos.
They are both.
They are mine.
These are the ingredients which will eventually make up my future.
What? I hear you asking. (Actually, I toned it down. It’s still early.)
It’ll make sense in a minute. Let me explain.
My Muse loves Fritos so I snarf them down while I write. They make her happy, so in turn, I suppose they make me happy. And they make me salty. And puffy. And maybe ten pounds over the twenty pounds over that last five pounds I just can’t seem to loose.
The beets were to replicate a ridiculously delicious beet soup I had with my writing tribe in Mexico last month. Yes, beets and delicious belong in the same sentence. Nettie gave us the recipe after observing six grown women reduced to a band of bowl licking freaks. I’m dead serious.
I even used my food processor. I NEVER use my food processor.
I chop, microwave or order out of menus.
My food processor is just for decoration.
It says to people, “Hey, this chick is the real deal, she follows a detailed recipe, processes stuff, and serves it to people who enjoy their food the consistency of baby food.”
Mostly my food processor sits quietly collecting dust. That is until my husband fires it up to process fancy baby food for us to eat.
And it turns everything pink. Like bright magenta pink.
Not the processor. The beets.
And by everything I mean pee and poop. Oh, sorry. Is it too early?
Anyhow, all this to say I have a shit ton of weird ingredients around me these days (because my life barely resembles itself anymore), that make me happy in some way or another. Some I’m aware of, like the beets and the Fritos, others I am not, like the…well, I’m not aware of them so…I’ll let you know as soon as I find out what they are.
When I’m happy I keep moving forward. My feet aren’t stuck in cement and I’m no longer wishing I was anywhere but exactly where I’m standing. It’s fucking liberating.
It’s so interesting to look around and see the actual things that are coalescing to become your future. Blogs, and musicals, screenplays and articles all facilitated by happiness. Simple Frito and beet happiness. And chocolate. Barges and boatloads of chocolate.
Look around right now. What are YOUR ingredients?
Fido. Fido makes you happy AND he gets you out walking which puts your lazy ass in nature and as we all know, walking in NATURE is when all the great ideas come. And it lifts your ass and puts pink in your cheeks.
That bicycle taunting you in the garage. You rode it last weekend, the nature thing happened, AND you met a nice guy when you were stopped looking at the view ( allowing your heart rate to come back to a level that was a little less lethal). When you look back you’ll remember THAT was the day you met HIM.
The invitation to that dinner party you keep forgetting, avoiding to RSVP to, where you will sit next to the guy who will eventually become a good friend and give you the loan to start that business you’ve always dreamed of.
The book on the nightstand that will say something to you that will resonate so strongly that your boobies will tingle and it will change the way you think about things for the rest of your life.
I can hear you. “Wait!” you say, “Those aren’t ingredients that will combine and lead to my future. They’re just a dog, a book, my bike, and an annoying dinner invitation.”
Are you sure about that?
That feet in cement thing is something I wrote yesterday, as a note, potentially for the screenplay:
“It turns out that by denying the life that was calling me, I kept my OWN two feet stuck in cement. I wouldn’t allow MYSELF to fly.”
That makes me tear up.
Hey, if I cry do you think my tears will be pink?
Carry on.
xox
” Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world,
I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport.
General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed,
but I don’t see that.
It seems to me that love is everywhere.
Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy,
but it’s always there – fathers and sons,
mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends.”
~From the movie LOVE ACTUALLY
Happy Valentine’s Day My loves, God only knows what I’d be without YOU!
xox
HAPPINESS
1. “Happiness is a mental or emotional state of well-being defined by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy. A variety of biological, psychological, religious and philosophical approaches have striven to define happiness and identify its sources.
”
And they can’t.
Because defining happiness is like describing a boobie to a blind man. You just have to feel it.
Uh, that word happiness. It’s such a trigger.
I once heard happiness described as being “As important to living as oxygen.”
At the time, it pissed me off something awful. What wing-nut would equate happiness with life? You can live a perfectly fine life as a miserable bitch—just ask my dog.
Listen, our Founding Father’s did. They even wrote it into our country’s Bill Of Rights — “Life, Liberty and The Pursuit of Happiness.”
Have you ever tried to pursue happiness? The big smiley face kind? I have.
That is one slippery, elusive, and habitually unattainable little fucker—when pursued.
That’s the thing. You have to let happiness come to YOU. Find YOU.
What about JOY. If you hate the concept of pursuing happiness, you’re going to loathe the word JOY.
I hear you, Joy sucks. Does it even exist? Joy? I mean really? Who walks around JOYFUL?
Stop being so angry for a second and consider of this:
Have you ever felt curious about something? Approaching it with wonder and awe?
Have you ever been in love? Maybe romantic love has passed you by, but did you ever win a fish at the inky-stink neighborhood Carnival? Or collect ladybugs at the vacant lot around the corner? Or help a hummingbird find its way out of your house?
What about when you fix something that’s been broken? Or find something precious that’s been lost?
I helped a little boy who was lost in Target find his mother.
We are completely blind to the ordinary occurrences in our lives, forever looking, PURSUING, the big, jumping in the air, new pony, fireworks and screaming, Red Ferrari, giant Happy Face moments which, if we’re lucky, happen a handful of times in our lives.
I needed a steadier stream so I learned to redefine what it meant to feel happiness and joy. I expanded the parameters ( Yes, you can do that) to include, well, everything, and I retired my track shoes. I ended the pursuit and opened my eyes.
This says FIND THE JOY IN THE ORDINARY. I say, SEE THE JOY IN THE ORDINARY, that feels SO much more doable to me. How about YOU?
Happy Hump Day y’all,
Carry on,
xox
I love this post by Liz Gilbert.
I was going to write a similar one (ya huh, yes I was, she just beat me to it—with a catchier meme and a better graphic that’s all).
Anyway…it was going to be based on this quote: “If you ask someone for something, make sure they are the person that has the power to give it.”
Which has a similar connotation (yes it does, quit arguing), that being: GO TO THE RIGHT SOURCE FOR WHAT YOU WANT (yes, that was yelling—no, I’m not mad, it’s meant to make a point).
Oh for crying out loud you’re so feisty for a Friday!
Take it away Liz~
xox
Quote of the day: STOP GOING TO THE HARDWARE STORE FOR MILK.
I was introduced to this expression the other day by a friend of this page (thank you, Kim!) and I’m in love with it already. Please interpret as you like, as it applies to your own life.
Is there a love relationship that isn’t working out for you, because you keep trying to get milk from that hardware store — and all they offer is hammers and drills?
Is there a job that isn’t working out for you, because you keep wandering the aisles of that hardware store, looking for milk, and coming up with…well…screws?
Is there a spiritual or religious path that has become frustrating for you, because every time you ask them for sweet, sweet milk, they merely direct you to the section of the store that sells plumbing equipment and padlocks?
Is there a city that you can’t stand living in anymore because they simply don’t sell the kind of milk there that you need?
Do you find yourself getting angry at the hardware store (whatever “hardware store” may represent for you) for never having milk — instead of asking yourself why you keep searching for milk at a place that never gives you anything but cans of pain-thinner and turpentine?
Is it maybe time to stop going to the hardware store for milk?
Is it time to admit this isn’t working?
Is it maybe time to find your nourishment elsewhere?
DISCUSS.
ONWARD,
LG
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