imperfection

It Distresses Us To Return Work Which Is Not Perfect – Throwback Thursday

* This post is from about a year and a half ago. I loved his story and I still agree with the sentiment…curious to hear how you feel.

In an interview he did in 2007, Peter O’Toole, that beautiful, blue-eyed, scalawag actor, was asked the question, “What do you want written on your tombstone”?

He leaned back and told the story of his beloved tattered leather jacket.
He said it was soaked in sweat, covered in blood, Guinness and corn flakes?!
Which of course made it his favorite.
Eventually it went to the cleaners.
It came back with a note pinned to it, that all these years later still made him chuckle.
It read:

“It distresses us to return work which is not perfect”

That’s was his answer, and I couldn’t agree more!
Because otherwise, what’s the point!?

When I leave this mortal coil, I want to be “distressed.”
I want to show I’ve lived.
That perhaps it wasn’t a pure and “perfect” life, but dammit! It was a life well lived!

Just like his jacket, I want to be worn in, with the wrinkles and scars to prove it.
I want to be covered in sweat, and dog hair, with smeared lipstick and wine stains.
…Maybe even corn flakes!

I want unpaid parking tickets in the pockets.
Along with a motorcycle key, a condom and a wad of foreign currency.

I want my leather to smell like a combination of caramel, tobacco, Shalimar, and coffee,
I want it to be found on the back of a chair in George Clooney’s suite in a Paris Hotel.

I want to remain impossibly irresistible yet perfectly imperfect.

Then I want to be “returned to sender, postage due.”

How about you?
Xox

What’s Your Blind Spot?

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Late the other night at the Carmel writing retreat, after three plus hours in a masterminding session listening to and giving feedback on everyone’s books, my roommate Jeannie and I had become giddy from equal parts exhaustion, exhilaration, and chocolate.

In between fits of laughter, we would tell stories from our lives, peeling back the layers to reveal a bit more about ourselves.
We’d pull something out of our sacred stash of writings that we’d never read aloud to anyone before, offering ourselves up for critique, only to have our trusted roomie leap across the room and throw her arms around us. “You have to read that to the group!” We’d exclaim. Then we’d double over in a giant fit of the giggles. It was like summer camp for adults.
Pinkie swear.

One great story that Jeannie told, had to do with a crooked tooth.
She may be in her forties, and a highly successful entrepreneur, but she has the face of a pixie, a disarmingly charming southern drawl, the eyes of an imp, and a slightly crooked incisor (which I didn’t even notice until she told this story).

This tooth is part of a big beautiful smile, it is not unsightly, it’s certainly not calling attention to itself, and it is NOT a snaggle tooth. I know a snaggle tooth when I see one because my old boxer has a wicked one.

image

Anyway, Jeanne is living a perfectly lovely life, slightly crooked incisor and all. As a matter of fact – she doesn’t even see it when she looks in the mirror.

So as she tells it, recently her mom asked her, quite seriously, “Honey, are you ever going to straighten that crooked tooth of yours?”
What?! I have a ….what?!” She ran to a mirror to survey the scene.

Yep, sure enough, there before her was a slightly turned in tooth.

‘Was it THAT bad? Why hadn’t she noticed it?‘ Her mind raced. ‘Is it holding me back? Are people repelled?’
You know how the mind works. Suddenly, because it was her mom calling attention to it, she had the teeth of a troll.

Hardly!

She just had a blind spot. Something she was so used to seeing, that she didn’t even notice it anymore.

God, we laughed about that tooth. “Yeah, I was wondering about that, when ARE you going to get that fixed?” I said, wincing and making gagging sounds. We laughed until our sides ached.

Then I remembered a blind spot story of my own, so I shared.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a flesh colored bump on the tip of my nose. I guess it’s technically a mole; but it’s not black, and there’s not a hair growing out of the center, so I’m not a witch—I can hear you, stop thinking that!

Anywho, I’ve had it removed twice, once sliced off and once frozen, and both times it grew back. Seems it felt cozy on that piece of real estate on my face, and it had no intention of vacating. So I left it alone.
To be honest, I never saw it when I looked in the mirror, it was just a part of my face.
Ahhhhhh, and then there’s my shitty vision—a blessing and a curse.

Cut to: A blind date, the 1990’s. I’m dressed to the nines, hair, make up, the whole enchilada. I’m seated across the table from an attractive man, at a VERY expensive, and perfectly pretentious Beverly Hills restaurant. I am picking at the $65 salad while he orders a bottle of something red, and when he finishes, he gets a big warm smile on his face, leans in like he’s going to kiss me (so I put down my fork and stopped chewing) then he reaches up and touches my nose lightly and says “You’re a pretty girl—you should get that fixed.”

He mole shamed me.

Motherf*cker, please. I spent an hour getting ready, I shaved my legs, I’m wearing my best…everything, I’m smart and witty (and humble) and you can’t take your eyes off my mole??

I grabbed my purse, politely excused myself and drove like a bat out of hell all the way home. I literally ran to the bathroom to study my face in the mirror, and there it was, my persistent friend.
(You really did have to get in just the right light to see it…I swear).

The next morning I called the dermatologist and had it removed…this time for good.

The things that I mentioned are minor, but what if we have a blind spot to something that is actually holding us back?
What if that guy was Mr. Right? Yeah, not in a million years. BUT…what if? I really knew deep down that I had the nose wart, I was just in a state of perpetual denial, so, maybe we shouldn’t shoot the messenger.

What else am I in denial about? Thinking I’m an organizing fool when I’m really just a fool?
Am I blind to the fact that I really cannot cook? Or keep to a budget? Or stay interested in a man for more than a year?

I’m convinced we ALL have a blind spot story. What’s yours?

Love you, warts and all,
Xox

“It Distresses Us To Return Work Which Is Not Perfect”

In an interview he did in 2007, Peter O’Toole, that beautiful, blue eyed, scalawag actor, was asked the question, “What do you want written on your tombstone”?

He leaned back and told the story of his beloved tattered leather jacket.
He said it was soaked in sweat, covered in blood, Guinness and cornflakes?!
Which of course made it his favorite.
Eventually it went to the cleaners.
It came back with a note pinned to it, that all these years later still made him chuckle.
It read:

“It distresses us to return work which is not perfect”

That’s was his answer, and I couldn’t agree more!
Because otherwise, what’s the point!?

When I leave this mortal coil, I want to be “distressed.”
I want to show I’ve lived.
That perhaps it wasn’t a pure and “perfect” life, but dammit! It was a life well lived!

Just like his jacket, I want to be worn in, with the wrinkles and scars to prove it.
I want to be covered in sweat, and dog hair, with smeared lipstick and wine stains.
…Maybe even cornflakes!

I want unpaid parking tickets in the pockets.
Along with a motorcycle key and a wad of foreign currency.

I want the leather to smell like a combination of caramel,tobacco, Shalimar, and coffee,
I want it left on the back of a chair in George Clooney’s suite in a Paris Hotel.

I want to remain perfectly imperfect.

Then I want to be “returned to sender, postage due.”

How about you?
Xox

Im Not Good At Everything!

Im Not Good At Everything!

I’m not good at EVERYTHING!
And I’m trying to be okay with that!

Recently trying to navigate the healthcare system,
searching plans, making sure I’m comparing apples with apples,
I was sure my head was going to explode!

I felt the same way with all details of forming a trust, 
and basically all legalese reads like Pig Latin to me.

As long as I’m at it, I will admit that many functions on my 
computer, and even my phone, are lost on me.
I do NOT belong to the generation that came in MP3 ready.
My typing style is still hunt and peck, 
I text with my forefinger, not my thumbs,
and I use capitols and (get ready for it)
Punctuation!

Here are a few other things I struggle with:

Remembering birthdays, 
I try so hard every year, yet I fail sometimes.
So, happy belated birthday, 
You know who you are.

Directions, 
my husband has a joke, (which he thinks is hilarious, and I never laugh at).
That if I walk out a door and turn right, which I always do with great conviction,
He KNOWS our destination is to the left!

Cooking, 
I’m just adequate. My sister can make even a PB & J a work of art!
The bread is toasted to perfection, the peanut butter is at room temp and perfectly
salted, and the jelly is like nectar of the gods! Ugh…

Small talk, 
Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE to talk…just not with people I don’t know!
And, I don’t even have being an introvert as an excuse.
I’m an extrovert, so I will walk directly into the center of a room,
and then freeze, with a dumb ass smile on my face,
waiting for someone to come talk to ME!

Talking and driving,
I can talk, or I can drive, I can’t do both well.
If we have an amazingly intimate and insightful conversation, and I’m driving,
we will pass our exit, I can guarantee it.
We will probably end up in Mexico.

Alas, I cannot dance.
Not even a little bit.
I can “move” to the music, but remembering steps and synchronizing with other people?
Definitely a challenge!

What has happened as I’ve gotten older, is that I’ve realized this:

There are things that I excel at. Many of them.
I could make a list of those too…but I won’t now.
Because the REAL issue is embracing the fact that 
those things mentioned above, and there are others,
Are just NEVER going to be in my wheelhouse!

No amount of research, practice or even prayer is going to 
make me better at those things!
And you know what?
That’s what makes ME…ME!
And I’m okay with that!
I even can laugh about it now!

What about you?
What have you made peace with being terrible at?

Xox Janet

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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