Life

Hi Y’all,
This is a beautiful short film which I encourage you to take a moment to watch.

If you’re at work, gather your pals around at lunch.
If you want to have a better day, watch it before you leave the house.
If you had a crap day, lose yourself in it before you go to bed.

We all forget to practice gratitude. I’m the worst!

Even though I’d classify myself as an optimist, I can pick a nit from here to eternity!
You want to know what’s wrong wth something? Ask me. I’ll tell ya.

THAT ladies and gentleman is NOT gratitude. Far from it. That is what I’m calling: Mind flatulence—A lot of hot air with no substance!

Whenever I remember how lucky I am to have been born on this planet at this time in history, it makes me weep.

Let this short film do that for you. Let it help you remember. Let it fill you with gratitude.

I love you all,
Carry on,
xox

(This photo —I can’t even!)

For about six months back in the 1970’s I left my armpits unshaved.

For me, it was a bold and calculated act.

I wanted to fit in with the California hippy subculture whom I held up as the greatest examples of what was current in the world around me. They were the touchstone for all things necessary to fit in as a young, budding feminist in the post-patriarchal zeitgeist at the time.

Plus I saw pictures of Joan Baez and Grace Slick with long black hairy armpits. And besides that, the twin’s older sister Martha, who listened to Frank Zappa, and was so naturally organic and liberated, made it look pretty. Almost sexy.

Then I decided to let the hair on my legs grow out.
Mostly because no one noticed my radical armpit statement on account of the fact that the hair was blonde…and relatively sparse… and also because I wore a short-sleeved white cotton blouse as part of my uniform in Catholic High School so my pits were perpetually covered.

So, just as a watched pot never boils, my leg-hair took forever to grow long. But when it did, it shone in the sun like a pair of corn silk knee socks beneath my minuscule pleated plaid skirt.
I loved it.
Everyone loved it.
Even Martha, whose opinion meant the world to me, thought it was “rad.”

There was about a year or so in 1974-75 that the hair on my legs was longer than the hair on my head.
My dad actually pointed that out at Thanksgiving dinner with all of our relatives present—and not in a “proud father” kind of way.

Everyone I knew had long, straight hair, parted in the middle that fell to the middle of their backs. I wanted to be different so I cut mine to barely 1/4 inch all around. Think Jean Sebring or Twiggy.

This rendered Martha speechless the first time she saw me. She actually dropped her cigarette and missed a few lyrics to Ziggy Stardust. I had not received a higher compliment before—or since.

When Martha daned to drive the gaggle of her twin sister’s young friends to the movies or the mall or somewhere else fabulous, I caught her, several times from the back seat, staring at my hair in the rearview mirror.

If we had all perished that night in a fiery crash I would have died happy, completely satisfied—with a smile on my face.

I’m not exactly sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it has to do with finding my way in the world. Maybe you’ve had similar experiences. Figuring out who you are is hard. And hairy. There are a lot of options out there to embrace.

Perhaps you’re like me and others of a “certain age” who are in the process of a mid-life re-invention.

Standing here at fifty-nine, there is not a single thing about me that is the same as when I was sixteen.
My hair blonde hair is course and gray, my stomach, once taught and tight is now soft and squishy, and black hair grows in places I’d rather not discuss.

But I can feel those teenage emotions like it was yesterday. How new and invigorating each act felt. Like I was both the sculpture and the sculptor with my hands the clay. Creating myself as I went along.

I want to feel that again, don’t you?

Without apology, I am a culmination of all of those decisions. Good, bad and ugly. And so are you!

You can’t tell me you didn’t absolutely LOVE your mullet when you first got it.

Or that ghastly tattoo on your ankle that you had removed on your thirtieth birthday.

What about the multiple self-inflicted ear piercings?

Or the bust developer you ordered from the back of The Enquirer.

Mohawk? Nice.
Purple eyebrows? Even better.
Lambchop sideburns for the guys? Meow.
Pierced tongue? Ouch, but okay.

What we did to define ourselves along the way helped make us who we are today you guys. Some are mic-drops. Most are not. I can only hope I do as well this time around.

When I look back I really have no regrets. Except…

I will have to live with my disco era over-plucked eyebrows until the day I die.

What are the best fads you followed from the past? And what would you rather not remember?

Carry on,
xox

Hey loves,
This is a blog post by Pam Grout—optimist extraordinaire, and LOA advocate. Her books are listed at the bottom and I highly recommend you read them ALL.

When it seems as if the world is crashing down around you and all  you hear is danger! Danger!

RELAX.

Chickens have been screaming about a falling sky for eons and last I checked—all is well. Take it away Pam!

Carry on,
xox

Problems seem insurmountable? Hold your horses and read this.

by psgrout

“Drag your thoughts away from your troubles…by the ears, by the heels,
or any other way you can manage it.” ― Mark Twain

The universe is attending to your needs whether you’re aware of it or not. It works on your behalf at all times. You don’t have to earn it or jump through any hoops. It’s yours through grace, not because you prayed hard enough or followed the right commandments.

So no matter what it may look like, everything in your life is working beautifully. I recently heard a story that puts everything into perspective.

Back in the 1900’s, the American public was warned that grave danger lay ahead. An energy shortage was imminent, we were told because not enough horses were being bred. Horses, after all, were used to plow our fields, deliver our mail, provide transportation. Here’s the plea that went out: “In a few years there will not be enough horses in this country to take care of the commercial needs of the country. Americans, do something!”

So for anybody that buys the “danger, danger” party line, just keep in mind that there is something a whole lot bigger and smarter and more loving that’s running the show, no matter how it may appear to our five senses. We are constantly evolving and being cared for. Our only mission is to let down our resistance, give up our fears and love every glorious moment.

As for that horse shortage? In 2016, the Bureau of Land Management reported having 45,000 unclaimed wild horses.

Pam Grout is the author of 18 books including E-Squared: 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality and the recently released, Thank and Grow Rich: a 30-day Experiment in Shameless Gratitude and Unabashed Joy.

A bit of Wednesday Wisdom from me—via the School of Hard Knocks.
When Having Something Is Better Than Nothing

A number on a scoreboard.
Dust at the bottom of a bag of potato chips.
Flip flops on hot sand.
A single match.
A piece of shit car.

Tits.

A thimble full of milk for a bowl of cereal.
Crooked teeth.
Cankles.
A light sweater in a blizzard.
An ancient stretched out bikini in a hot tub full of strangers.

Common sense.

A hand towel after a shower.
Somebody’s toothbrush.
Map folding skills.
A bottle of Vodka in the freezer.

Talent.

But never, ever, under any circumstances do these apply:

Any man/woman/dog who you no longer care for—in your bed.
A crap-ass bridge job.
A rat infested rent controlled apartment.
An abusive partner.
A cubic zirconia.
Mean friends.
Moldy cheese.
A Toupee.

Are we clear?

Carry on,
xox

“You belong in every room you enter.”

I don’t know where to attribute this quote. I’ve heard it more in the past three weeks than I’ve heard my own name.
That must mean something? Right?

Shonda Rhimes, the magnificent writer of all things twisty on Thursday nights, attributes it to Oprah.

I vaguely remember hearing Oprah give Maya Angelou the credit.

I read somewhere that Jesus said it to Maya when they walked into the wedding at Cana because Maya was feeling a little underdressed.

In any case, I love the reminder. Don’t you?

Who hasn’t felt out-of-their-depth at one time or another?
I can recall an embarrassing amount of situations (like walking into the Ritz in Paris for the first time) where I was convinced that the wallpaper and drapes were better qualified to be there than I was. (Which actually makes sense if you think about it because they were there first—and somebody picked them— but you know what I mean.)

Underqualified.
Underdressed.
Underinvited.
Undersmart.
Underrich.
Underpretty.

I’ve felt all of that, haven’t you? But wouldn’t it have helped so much to remember these words from Shonda/Oprah/Maya/Jesus as you stood outside the door, contemplating going in?
YOU BELONG IN ANY ROOM YOU ENTER.
It sure would have helped me! Maybe it would have kept me from inhaling all of the little smokie sausages at the last cocktail party I attended where I felt out-of-place.
Or maybe not.

Have a great week and carry on,
xox

This morning. Interior — My house — Husband’s office.

Janet enters the room dressed in workout gear. She sits down on the step for the first time in three weeks without wincing and puts on her shoes. Her husband is at his desk distractedly looking at car porn on the computer.

Janet: I’m going to try the hike today.

Husband: Do you think that’s a good idea?

Janet: I’m feeling better. Besides, I’m tired of sitting on my ass. I need some fresh air.

Husband: But the hike? We have air here.

Janet: Sally will be with me…

Husband: That’s what worries me.

Janet: I told her I would only do the first half. (Beat) I’m walking toward the pain.(Beat) Hey, tell me I’m brave.

Husband: Are you? Is it? Is it brave or is it stupid?

She stands up, gives him a kiss on the back of his neck and leaves.

So, yeah, that happened this morning and it got me thinking.
What is bravery anyway? Doing something IN SPITE of the fear, right? Marching ahead. Not being swayed by the voices in your head who’ve cautioned you, and warned you, and have now called a special session in order to intercede on your behalf.

But wait. Doesn’t brave always look like stupid first?

Half a hike is all the brave I’m capable of these days. A tiny shot glass full of bravery.
I’m not out there slaying dragons, raising kids or starting organizations that curb the spread of human trafficking.
I’m putting one tennis shoe’d foot in front of the other—on a dirt hill—three weeks after surgery.

The repercussions of this simple act could be terrific—or horrifyingly stupid.

But isn’t that the way you walk that kind of tightrope (literally and figuratively?) You cross your fingers (Dear God not your toes) and you hope if you fall that you have panties on when your skirt flies up and over your face, that you don’t scream something you’ll regret, and all the way down —you pray for a net .

You want to change jobs. The voices all yell “That sounds stupid”, as they hand you the fourteen-page manifesto on why that’s such a bad idea.

The same goes for changing spouses, hair color, sexes, or your mind.

“Isn’t that stupid?” they ask with concern, and they are genuinely concerned about the really bad choice it looks like you’re about to make.

But I say it’s brave.

It’s scary as shit—but you’re doing it anyway. Walking straight into pain. Yep, brave always looks like stupid first. Mostly to the cautious and uninitiated.
Or to the husbands who have to pick your sobbing ass up off the floor when you “overdue it.”

Anyhow, that’s my belief and I’m sticking to it.

And just so I don’t feel bad, let’s say, for now anyway, that it’s okay to take our bravery one tiny shot glass at a time.

Carry on,
xox

“Dear God, please change this person/place/thing so that I can feel better.”

What kind of prayer is that? If you said disempowering, you get a pony!

We all know that change is an inside job, goddamnit! 

The patron saint of that prayer is the caterpillar, but can you blame her? She has eaten herself silly only to find herself inside of the equivalent of a deprivation tank. You can call it a chrysalis if it makes you feel better. That’s such a pretty word for a device of torture. Or a coffin. Or the box magicians use to cut ladies in half or turn rabbits into a Maserati’s.

Metamorphosis — A change in form or nature of a thing or person onto a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means.

That sounds magical, right? Death…rebirth…

(Screech) Not so fast.

Let’s check back with the caterpillar.
The guy on the corner in the dark glasses and the trench coat, otherwise known as The Big Guy—or God—he promised her wings. To fly and shit.
But first she had to part with all of her worldly possessions; her BMW, her westside condo— her ravenous appetite—and her wallet.

It all sounded too good to be true to her. No more black back fuzz. No more Spanx. Just color and beauty and flight.
What could go wrong?

What she wasn’t aware of, what no one had told her, what wasn’t even listed in the small print—was the goo part.

In between caterpillar and butterfly, the poor thing is…simply put…well, she is goo. A gelatinous mixture of arms and legs, fuzz and butt cheeks, heart, soul, hopes and dreams. It’s ugly AF but this stage cannot be skipped. This is where the magic happens. The change.
And where the fervent prayers began.
The bargaining.
The begging.
The looking for every loophole.

The nearest exit. The thingy to break the glass on the fire alarm. The cord that stops this runaway train of pain.

If you had the ability (which, thank god you don’t) to hear her muffled cries for help and you, in all of your misguided frenzy to free her, cut the chrysalis open at this stage to hand her a lifeline or her cell phone—she would ooze all over the place like so much snot.

The goo stage. We’ve all been there and unfortunately, there is no short cut.
If there was I’d have found it and sold the patent to some twenty-two-year-old silicon valley wunderkind for a bazillion dollars. I would be sipping a Pina Colada, sucking the toes of the cabana boy on my own private island and I most certainly would NOT be writing to you about goo.

Anyway… back to metamorphosis.
If there was a handbook it would be titled “On Your Way to Better—Via Hell.”
Using alchemy. And magic. All of that eye of Knut and horn of toad kind of stuff.

Who said this was going to be fun? Oh, that’s right. no one!

Listen, nobody wants to be goo. We may want change but we sure as hell don’t want to go through the really messy part in the middle. The part where we’re not quite a butterfly but we can’t go back to being a caterpillar. The point of no return.
In other words the goo part.

I have written more goo related notes to myself and my friends these past few months than I have my entire life.

Everyone seems a little gelatinous lately. It appears we all prayed to feel better and now we’re stuck between a rock and a wet place.

If you can relate take solace in the fact that you are not hanging upside down from that branch alone. There are a whole bunch of us here and you know the old saying “Goo loves company”, well it’s true. We do.

Here’s my theory and I’m convinced it’s true. Only the bravest of caterpillars take the dare to metamorphose into butterflies. The others opt for the cash and free passes to the all-you-can-eat buffet and never look back.

Wings don’t come cheap y’all. There’s always some sacrifice involved.

“If you were born without wings do nothing to prevent them from growing” ~ Coco Chanel

Hang in there (pun intended) you courageous ones.
And
Carry on,
xox

You guys! I wanted to let you know that we did it! As per my post on Tuesday, my dear friend got her test results back and lo and behold, she’s fine! The cat was alive you guys! Thank you to everyone who helped us out with this thought experiment. We are SO fing powerful!  She is out of the goo and has her wings!

xox Love you!

“I mean, you live in a great, big, vast world that you’ve seen none percent of. Even the inside of your own mind is endless; it goes on forever, inwardly, do you understand? The fact that you’re alive is amazing, so you don’t get to say ‘I’m bored.’” ~ Louis C.K.

Once upon a time, there was a theoretical physicist named Erwin Schrödinger.

I know. Yaaaaawn. Don’t nod off. Stay with me here because this is about cats—and it’s going to get interesting, I promise. Plus I just quoted Louis C.K. to you for crying’ out loud!

He, not Louis C.K., that other guy, Schrödinger. He developed a theory way back in 1935 that even had Einstein scratching his head and with that flyaway white hair of his that was no easy task. Plus he had a big brain and big brains have a hard time making u-turns when it comes to rules of the universe, reality, and cats. In that order.

Schrödinger’s theory went something like this (and I’m simplifying it DRAMATICALLY so that even I can understand it):

If you put a cat in a box with poison and close the lid, the reality that the cat is alive AND the reality that the cat is dead exist at THE SAME TIME. Only when you, as the observer, open the lid does one outcome become a reality.

Wait. What?

He went further. The cat and the observer are linked by something called entanglement (which is the theory that all of our atoms are mixed together so they affect each other) so that makes the outcome affected by the observer’s expectations.

Expect the cat to be dead—open the lid—the kitty is muerto.
Expect a live cat—open the lid—your have a very alive, very pissed off cat who climbs up your arms with its claws and eats your eyebrows.

Both realities exist until you open the lid. The one with the dead cat and the one with no eyebrows.

Don’t you fucking love science? And theoretical physics? See why Einstein was head scratching?

By-the-way, I can hear you and no cat was ever hurt during these experiments. They are theoretical so I’m guessing migraines were the only casualty of this big thinking theory.

I heard about this for the first time about a month ago.
Then I read about it.
Then it was on a podcast.
Then it was mentioned by Monroe (because he’s the smart, sciencey one) on the Grimm T.V. show finale.
So, apparently, it has become part of the popular zeitgeist.

What does this have to do with me and my life you ask?

Nothing.
OR
Everything!

Listen, if we have the power to entangle our way out of shitty results, well, why wouldn’t we?

So, like you do when a quantum theory crosses your path—I decided to test it. On a friend.

I was talking to a dear friend the other day about some test results she’s waiting for. Actually, she’s dreading them. Like we all do with something that could our take our life in a direction we’d rather not go.

So of course, I mentioned the cat!

“There are both good and not-so-good outcomes for the test results UNTIL they open the envelope and you read them,” I assured her.

…Crickets…

“Seriously. You have the power here. What are your expectations?”

“Well, the doctor said to be prepared for the worst…”

“Okay, well, I fucking HATE your doctor! You might want to mention to her that her bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Just so you know—HER cat died. Because it was a cat—and it listened to her—and she’s a morbid bitch in a white coat.

YOU, on the other hand are a human being. YOU can change your expectations.”

“I can?”

“Sure! You can expect one of two results, Right? Why not steer yourself toward the one you want? The positive outcome. Entangle all of your atoms over THERE. The universe is waiting for you to decide!”

She gets her test results at the end of the week and regardless of what happens—she’ll get through it, she’ll regroup—and ultimately—she’ll be fine. 

But today. Right now, right this very minute WE have the power to help her because science has proved that our atoms are all entangled. Let’s expect a happy ending. Let’s expect the cat to live.

Will you do that with me?

xox

(Two days later)

**You guys! I wanted to let you know that we did it! My dear friend got her test results back and lo and behold, she’s fine! The cat was alive you guys! Thank you to everyone who helped us out with this thought experiment. We are SO f*ing powerful!

xox Love you!

*This pales in comparison to what I saw.

I wanted to give a shout-out to the woman wearing the largest Easter bonnet I have ever seen outside of an Easter parade. As a matter of fact, it was an Easter parade float—on her head.

I was with Sally (the hike Nazi), and we weren’t in a church where you might expect to see a giant bonnet or two.

Nope, we were shopping. Or better said, she had taken pity on me, her bent-over, cut-open friend, and had offered to drive me to the market for macaroni and cheese. You know the shitty kind they have at the service deli that doesn’t contain one single natural ingredient. I’m sure the noodles are plastic and the orange dye is toxic but I was craving it—what can I say?

The fact that this woman was wearing a ginormous bonnet loaded up with colored eggs, fuzzy yellow chicks and assorted foliage inside of  Ralph’s supermarket didn’t seem to faze her in the least.

She was bipping cheerfully across the front end of the market seemingly unaware of the fact the everyone was staring at the float on her head. You couldn’t help it. First of all, this spectacle happened last Tuesday, a full five days ahead of the Sunday holiday.

Even in my debilitated state I couldn’t help but smile. And point and stare. I’m a sucker for a funny hat.

“Sally!” I yelled feebly not wanting to use my diaphragm muscles for volume lest I pass out from pain right there in the self check-out line. “Get a load of that!” I grabbed her shoulders and pointed her entire body in the direction of the float wearing lady because that’s what good friends do—we point shit out to our besties so they don’t miss it.

Especially funny shit.

She looked up distractedly, (do you blame her? She was at the market—with an invalid—on her day off), broke a smile, nodded her approval, and went back to slamming the groceries against the glass to get them to scan. Clearly, my Good Samaritan friend had lost her patience with life, me, questionable mac-n-cheese, supermarket scanners, grapes with no code, and women who wear costumes to shop.

I, on the other hand, was totally enthralled with this woman. I was dying to take a picture with her but my phone was in my back pocket and that day I was completely incapable of the contortions that would require me to perform.

I had been marinating in post-surgical moroseness (or morosity as I like to call it), and THE PURE JOY emanating from this happy-go-lucky, completely un-selfconscious, float wearing woman was like a beam of sunlight parting the black clouds that had gathered around my head. I couldn’t help but stare. And laugh.

But not AT her—WITH her.

She was delightful.
I wanted to BE her.
I wanted to crawl up inside of her bonnet which was the size of an extra-large pizza box—suck my thumb—and see the world from that vantage point.

God! It must be great to be her!

So thank you, giant Easter bonnet wearing lady. Just the memory of you has made me smile this entire week and I can’t ask more from another human being than to make me that happy.

Can you?

Carry on,
xox