hard work

Hi Guys,
It’s mid-summer and the tourists are out in full force here in LaLa Land. Unfortunately, some of them stick out like sore thumbs and it isn’t the white socks with sandals or the acid washed jeans (although I’ve been told they’re coming back in style, and I’m in denial)—it’s the stingy tipping. I know tips are built into the bill in Europe, I also know Texas is in the United States.

Please tip generously. And enjoy your weekend!
xox

“Never trust any who treats a waiter badly.” ~ Anyone with a soul (Also my number one rule for choosing friends.)

I’ve had a lot of jobs in my life. I worked my way through my twenties as a cashier in a supermarket while many of my friends waited tables, catered and tended bar. Based on our nightly bitch sessions, I can tell you without hesitation, that selling people their food and serving it to them are two completely different experiences.

Food service is grueling work. And it can be absolutely soul-sucking if people aren’t nice. Nobody has to lick your face or nibble your neck—just your standard-issue, basic-human-decency nice would suffice.

I’ve sat at the table with snippy divas. Women who are prickly, easily annoyed—on the lookout for trouble. It has always been my belief that if you’re lookin’ for trouble, trouble will not only find you. Not only find you, it will pull up a chair, order a drink, charge it to your tab, and over-stay its welcome.

We all know these women. They huff and puff and send stuff back. They act indignant, disrespected. Like me when I get carded by a millennial named Brick.

Maybe she doesn’t like the look of the lettuce. Or the ice is too cold or the coffee tastes burnt, so she shames the staff. Seriously?  The only time I ever sent something back was when my wine glass had a lipstick stain on the rim and I hadn’t sipped from it yet. And I apologized so profusely my husband had to shoot me some stink-eye just to shut me up.

Listen, I’m not particularly judgy. But be forewarned. I WILL judge you harshly for treating people in the service industry rudely.

That includes being a cheap tipper. I’m not even sure this has to do with generosity. Some of the lousiest tippers I know are extremely generous in other areas. They are the first to donate to disaster relief or send money to get a three-legged dog a prosthetic paw. Why do you think that is? Maybe they’ve forgotten what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck.

Lots of folks supplement a crappy base salary with commission or tips. It can be the difference between making ends meet and having to pick up a second job. Please, think of that the next time you’re tempted to hand the young man who ran three blocks in the rain to fetch your car—a lousy buck.

I’ve seen that.

One measly dollar. You know what one dollar buys these days? Uh…nothing.

The same is true for the young man or woman who spends twenty minutes hand drying your car at the car wash. I saw a lady the other day hand the guy ONE dollar after he not only hand dried her vehicle, but at her insistence spent extra time polishing the fancy chrome rims on her giant SUV—in ninety-degree heat.

Lady. This man is not your personal chauffeur, nor is he your indentured servant. You guys, I could smell the stingy. What is that anyway? Entitlement? Bad upbringing? I don’t care, just don’t be that lady. 

Get change for a twenty if you have to, but please be a decent tipper. Trust me, if you’re well off enough to get your car washed, eat at a restaurant, or use the valet—that person needs the cash a lot more than you do.

All this to say; this seems to be a polarizing time of me or them.

I might suggest that we find some common ground. Like hard work, industriousness, and hustle—and the fact that we’ve all been there. Then we’re just us.

Right?

Carry on,
xox

Lately my happiness has been so conditional it’s not even funny. So Seriously NOT funny you guys!

If my happiness relies on the people and circumstances around me being just so, well, …I’m fucked.

So I’ve pretty much lived in and out of my own fuckdom these past few weeks; and maintaining the least bit of equilibrium has been work.

Hard work is an understatement . It is some of the hardest work I can remember.

Meaning: I’ve had to be mindful. I’ve had to meditate, distract myself, bite my tongue, walk outside, listen to music and REALLY deliberately center myself to maintain happiness from moment to moment—from the inside, out.

I’m here to report that its been harder than I expected and I’ve screwed up and been launched onto the rocks quite a few times.
I have the scraps and bruises to prove it.

Previous to the end of July things had felt pretty good. Things had been on track. Things and been humming along nicely, and in truth, MY immediate things are still humming a happy little tune; but this eye of the hurricane which I’ve found myself traversing feels precarious.

All around me high velocity chaos is whooshing and roaring, leaving me flummoxed and dizzy. If you look close inside the shitstorm you can probably see me clicking my heels, shouting loudly over the din to maintain that secure feeling of calm.
There’s no place like clarity!
Theres no place like peace!
There’s no place like happiness!
Whoosh……………………rocks.

I actually had this thought the other day: Can we even trust happiness?
For most of us it is so fickle; fleeting and conditional, that the safer money would be to bet on sadness.
Sadness is a given.
Sadness is reliable and punctual. It never RSVP’s, why would it bother? It always shows up.
Sadness is trustworthy, it never disappoints.

“Fifty percent happy, fifty percent sad, THAT is the Ideal Life Ratio.”

I was once told that if you could maintain that ratio, keeping the scales balanced equally between the two, that was an amazing accomplishment and a life well lived.

Really? Fifty percent was the best I could hope for?
Do those sound like good odds to you? Not me.
I didn’t agree with those odds then and I still don’t, and neither should you.

You give me fifty-fifty, and I want more! People, we need to have higher aspirations.

I like my bacon well done, my eggs over medium, and I like my happiness the same way I like my love—unconditional, or at least as unconditional as humanly possible.

If I can manage to disentangle my happiness from the circumstances that surround me, I stand a much better chance of maintaining it. But how?

First I had to know, without a shadow of a doubt that I control NOTHING. I have absolutely NO control over anyone or anything. The ONLY control I have is over my own feelings, thoughts, and perceptions.

Whew! What a relief!

I know if I join the swirling chaos, even for a few minutes, the current carries me away, off into the rocks of confusion, powerlessness, and ultimately—sadness, and often it wasn’t even my own shit. I let someone else’s shit sweep me away. Bravo me.

So…what to do?

What if I could accomplish the seemingly impossible?

What if I could witness a bunch of shitstorms around me, but not get sucked in? What if I could help in whatever way possible, but maintain a secure lifeline back to my own clarity, calm and happiness.

Holy shit! What a life-changer that could be!
To no longer be at the whim of every assjack on the other end of a phone or steering wheel!
To no longer fall down the rabbit hole of an illness! To no longer fall prey to doubt or disappointment of myself or others!
To no longer let fear spin me around and around while wearing a blindfold and holding scissors!

Unconditional happiness. What? That’s right, you heard me!
Happiness based only on what’s going on INSIDE not OUTSIDE of me. The eye of the hurricane. Literally.

But Man! I’ve gotta tell ya, it takes a LOT of focus!
It is some of the hardest work I’ve ever done and I’ve gotta say, it’s a lot easier to let yourself go to sad, (or crabby, or teary, or pissed, same thing).

Sometimes, it even makes fifty percent look like a blessing…

Ideal Life Ratio my ass! Not for me!
Eighty/Twenty. That’s MY goal.
Hard work I know, but I’m worth it.

Carry on my peeps,
xox