“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.” – Chuck Palahniuk
“Tread lightly and do no harm. Approach the problem from a passive direction and everything will simply come together.”-Skunk
“Oh, F*uck, Ruby!!!”
Our boxer-pup Ruby has been skunked three times in past nine months, the last time being Saturday night. I know what you’re thinking: What a glamourous life you lead!
Everything we own has the lingering aroma of skunk woven into its cellular structure. I say aroma instead of odor because the inhabitants of my home react to it like it’s a new scented spray from GLADE, or a particularly cloying potpourri because well—we’ve all gone nose-blind.
We don’t smell the residual skunk in our shower, on our blankets, or in our clothing until we leave the house and come back.
And you know what? I have to say, it’s really not that bad!
Human beings are mysterious creatures. We are so incredibly adaptable and as if to prove that fact my entire family has adapted to the stench.
The first time, it caused my eyes to water profusely and I drooled like a cartoon wolf eyeing a pork chop.
The second time I gagged. Loudly.
This time the smell barely made me flinch.
Even the little brown dog seemed unfazed and her sense of smell is ten hundred billion times more sensitive than mine.
Here’s the thing, if you visit me three times…you’re a totem. I don’t care what you are. Grasshopper. Praying mantis. A Girl Scout selling Thin Mints. And since I am not one to miss an opportunity to ask “why?” I looked up “skunk totem.”
“If Skunk is your Animal Totem;
You are the ultimate pacifist, always preferring to avoid conflict and turmoil. You walk a very fine line between being a people “pleaser” and balancing your own self-respect and always maintain a “do no harm” attitude. You know how to be assertive without ego. You know how to attract others and are very charismatic. You have a good understanding of energy and how to use energy flows to get what you want.”
This makes no sense. It fits absolutely NO ONE in my house! Not one word of it. The three of us bicker like a angry pack of honey badgers. Ego is our middle name, and if charisma smells like skunk, well then okay. Otherwise…
My husband insists that this only goes to show that sometimes a “cigar is just a cigar, Janet—and a skunk is just a nuisance.” This all makes me mad because it proves that he is right yet again.
And so…this bleeding heart has agreed to catch and release—the trap has been set and the skunk-scented potpourri is about to leave the building.
Geesh.
Happy weekend y’all!
Carry on,
xox
“Never trust any who treats a waiter badly.”
~ Anyone with a soul
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 food and serving it to them are two completely different experiences.
Food service is grueling work. And 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 tables 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, 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, dis-respected. Like me when I get carded.
They don’t like the look of the lettuce, the ice is too cold or the coffee tastes burnt—so they shame 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 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.
Lots of folks supplement a lousy 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 guy 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.
Same with the young man or woman who spends twenty minutes hand drying your car at the car wash. I saw a lady hand the guy next to me ONE dollar after he not only hand dried, but at her insistence spent extra time cleaning and shining up the chrome rims on her giant SUV—in ninety-degree weather.
You could smell the stingy. Don’t be that lady.
Get change if you have to, but please be a decent tipper. Trust me, that person needs the cash a lot more than you do.
At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m tempted to be cheap. I’m not immune to feeling broke but if I have the good fortune to spring for a mani-pedi, or get my car washed, park valet or go out to lunch—I’m better off than most.
This seems to be a 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 it’s just us.
Right?
Carry on,
xox
Dearest brave ones,
All I can say is that after the past six months—for almost everyone—including me—and tens of my friends—this could not feel more relevant.
Carry on,
xox
I found this a while ago…somewhere…I can’t remember.
I’m sure I was bleary eyed, in need of sleep, and I only had the presence of mind to copy/paste.
I wanted to show this to you guys. It’s by Katy Bourne and it’s so good I can’t even…there are no words.
This is for the ones going through hell right now. You know who you are. And for those of us that have been there and back. Katy obviously has, and her words are here to soothe all of our souls.
Enjoy your weekend,
xox
“You’re dangling precariously.
You’re frozen and trembling. You’re gripped with uncertainty and the ominous unknown. The wolf is at the door.
The bills are piling up, but no money is coming in. Or maybe your baby left you, walked right out. Perhaps you’ve made an epic mistake, with disastrous and irrevocable consequences. You can barely breathe, suffocated by the unwieldy weight of your own broken heart.
You frantically scan the landscape, looking for clues or any kind of lifeline. But the vista is barren. You’re shredded into a million bewildering pieces. You’re hanging on for sweet life. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re hanging on to anymore, or if you even can.
This is survival mode. And it will be okay.
Raw vulnerability is the midwife to grace.
Stripped of your old safety nets and certainties, you have nothing but openness and new eyes. There is a pouring in of all the things you never noticed before. Even a dew-soaked leaf takes on a fresh poignancy and buys you a nanosecond of peace and beauty.
The very light of day changes. It softens and clarifies. Your pain is not here to batter you. It’s just making passage for perspective, transcendence, and rebirth.
No matter the mayhem of the present moment, your heart is still steadily pounding. Your lungs are still expanding and contracting. Oxygen is still coursing through your body. And as you flail around in your anguish, your inner warrior is hard at work behind the scenes: rendering first-aid, holding your broken soul and keeping you alive.
He or she is fighting for you, more ferociously and diligently than you can imagine.
Your mind is your best weapon and your biggest obstacle.
It can spin you into infinite madness or ground you in brave resolve. Panic can make it chatter relentlessly, but you can bring it back to earth again.
Step outside. Turn your precious face upward. Breathe. The air and the sky and the sun will calm the clamor. You don’t have to figure it all out right now.
Grief is the natural and real response to loss and hardship.
Despair, however, is grief on steroids. Grief holds its own gentle resolution. Despair is resignation, a long-term forecast for gloom. Fear has an ugly snarl but limited power. Still, it rages like a lunatic, leaving you disoriented.
Courage moves through the chaos, one steady step at a time. Your heartache is like a free fall. You can scramble to fill the void, grabbing for whatever fix you can to numb the jagged edges. You can also persevere with quiet dignity. In every moment there are choices, even in survival mode.
The hardest part of survival mode is the ambiguity.
It will not budge. There is no clear pathway to relief or even a guarantee that you’ll find it. You are at the mercy of time and forces beyond your control. Such is the nature of ambiguity. Your present circumstances merely accentuate the point.
But even within the ambiguity there is possibility.
Although you’re shaking on the edge, there is a larger view available. This current difficulty, with all its sorrow, dread, and anger, is just a blip on a much greater narrative. There is spaciousness, wonder and the divine gift of impermanence.
All are there for you. There is elegant liberation in releasing your weary clutch. You have already traveled for eons. Grace is the tender seraph pulling you home, wherever that may be.
And you will be okay.”
Katy Bourne is a self-described ‘basic goober making her way in the world’. A child of the Southern plains, she spent her Oklahoma childhood throwing rocks, blowing saxophone in the school band and riding horses. The youngest of four, she was often left to her own devices and entertained herself by making faces in the bathroom mirror and dressing up the family pets. Having navigated numerous life challenges over the years — addiction & recovery, the death of a child, divorce, the ups & downs of parenthood, the music business — she is particularly interested in exploring themes of survival, grit and grace in the face of ambiguity. Katy makes her home in Seattle, WA. By day, she writes promotional copy for musicians and bands. By night, she sings jazz at nightspots, festivals and private events throughout the Northwest.
{You’ll Be Okay}
You could contact her via her website.http://katy-bourne.com
I am not proud of what I’m about to say next but I need to vent…so here goes.
I HATE to be carded.
Above is a picture of me with my beloved tribe taken on our trip to Nashy (Nashville) last week. That face is the default annoyance setting that my face naturally morphs into…when you card me…and then take my freaking picture.
My face can’t help it and neither can I.
This “carding everyone” has apparently become a “thing”; a regular practice in hipster bars across the country. Never one to pass on a ridiculous fad I expect as much in LA, but Nashville, you? You definitely surprised me.
Being carded at thirty, or even forty is squeal worthy. Trust me. Although it happened infrequently (which is just a kinder way of saying almost never), I’ve squealed the flattered squeal with the best of ‘um.
But now, three days shy of my fifty-ninth birthday I am by no means flattered by this charade.
I wear my gray hair with the purple fringe with pride.
I exercise and take pretty good care of myself.
Genetics, (for which I can take absolutely NO credit) has been kind to me.
But there are no circumstances, no amount of great lighting or make-up, of farsightedness under which I can be mistaken for under twenty-one. I know it. You know it. And if we stopped a random person on the street and asked them, they’d know it.
So cut the crap.
Here’s the thing, I’m totally okay with it. I earned this head of gray. Every. Single. One. So don’t condescend to me by telling me you’re “required to card everyone”, or smirk as I fumble for my license while you hold my overpriced artisan cocktail for ransom. Show me the respect I’ve earned.
I have handbags older than you. And books. And memories. In bars.
There. I said it. I’m finished. But be forewarned. I may slug the smug off of the next millennial who asks me for I.D.
Carry on,
xox
http://mb.ntd.tv/2017/03/04/3-year-old-taekwondo-devotee-recites-student-creed-slays-us-cuteness/
Throughout my life, I have switched up my spirit animals on a pretty regular basis.
I’m fickle that way.
Although, I have to admit that it’s not been as often as I’ve changed my hair color.
If you’ve been living under a rock and don’t know what a spirit animal is, here is the “real” meaning:
“A Power animal, a shamanic belief of a spirit which guides, helps or protects individuals, lineages, and nations. Spirit guide, a spiritualist entity that remains a spirit to act as a guide or protector to a living incarnated human being. Totem animals, animals revered as sacred or possessing supernatural powers.”
In order to be chosen as my spirit animal you must:
Possess an inordinate amount of self-confidence, passion, concentration and focus,
Be a straight-up badass,
Set a good example for me,
Make me think I can be a better person by emulating everything you do,
Be excellent.
You know, a combination of qualities I just didn’t get or know were available to me when I was mindlessly standing in line getting a second helping of that wicked predisposition for belly fat—and frizzy hair.
Some of my previous spirit animals have been Madonna circa 1980’s, Lara Croft, Maya Angelou, and Dory.
You get the picture.
Take a look at this three-year-old. I adore everything about her, most especially her whale-spout pony tail, and I aspire to take her oath every morning for the rest of my life! Seriously.
Carry on,
xox
Have you ever given that much thought? I have.
The fact that we’re trying to maintain our balance on a planet made mostly of liquid, that is spinning at 1000 mph?
Then imagining that big wet blue ball hurtling through the void of space at 67,000 mph.
No wonder I fall down so much. Just thinking about it makes me want to vomit.
I know science says it all has to do with centrifugal force, gravity nd blah, blah, blah…
But I think it’s a freaking miracle.
This rare jewel. This Goldilocks habitat, in the middle of a vacuum. How did I get so lucky?
When I contemplate all the places, all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the worlds, in all of the Universes, where I could have ended up, I must have drawn the long straw, because I could have been born as a gnat on the ass of a Wookie.
It is my belief that we volunteered to come here at this time in Earth’s history.
We waited in line.
We knew things wouldn’t be easy. But we knew they wouldn’t be boring either.
It would be a time of great change, and we knew we could make a difference. It would be a challenge to fit all of our magnificence into a body. It’s uncomfortably tight at times, like squeezing into size zero skinny jeans.
And those emotions! How the hell do they work?
They looked really fun from an outsider’s perspective.
But the beauty. My God, the beauty.
Trees of green and skies of blue. Purple mountains majesty.
I’m in awe whenever I see an elephant or a whale, or a wild wolf.
Watching hummingbirds in my backyard or starlings flying in formation.
The smell of cut grass, and orange blossoms and puppy breath.
Those are just a few of the things that help me maintain my balance here.
I KNOW we all came in with a purpose. God or whoever does not make extra people.
That’s not the way the Universe works.
No one and nothing is superfluous. And all life is connected.
Remember that the next time you’re feeling lonely, unsettled and out of balance.
Then open your eyes and look around. Take a deep breath and realize how freakin’ lucky you are. How lucky we ALL are.
Then get to work, you with your mad skills.
XoxJanet
“I know a man who gave up smoking, drinking, sex, and rich food. He was healthy right up until the day he killed himself.”
~ Johnny Carson
I had a startling realization about myself recently, I am to the diet/health connection what the deniers are to climate change/global warming. I know that all of the studies are true—it’s just so fucking inconvenient!
Case in point.
I love to eat. Food makes me happy. Almost happier than good sex with bad boys.
Most of the time I try to eat healthily but I’m far from fanatical about it. Unless you count donuts. Donuts are my Kryptonite and they are banned from entering my house lest I devour an entire dozen, naked and dripping in raspberry jelly in the space of an hour. And here’s the thing, my body doesn’t react in a negative way at all, at least not in an overtly obvious way. I’m sure the blood sugar spike is off the charts, I just can’t see it so it doesn’t exist. The only thing I CAN see is the shame on my face in the bathroom mirror so that is deterrent enough for me.
Denial. That has been my default setting up until now.
Last week my husband and I did a cleanse. Not one of those highfalutin celebrity cleanses that promise you clear skin, shiny hair and an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. Nope, my husband absconded with some literature (basically, the how to’s—whys — and what for’s) of a client’s wildly expensive, doctor supervised cleanse.
Never ones to take things at face value and because we happen to be as cheap as the day is long, we decided to follow the basic tenet of the program—but morphed it to our liking.
Instead of their spendy protein shakes twice a day (at breakfast and dinner), we drank what we had on hand, our old faithful, Shakology.
We also included coffee.
And pumpkin pie.
Just kidding, No pie.
The rest of the day you are required to juice and I know how lazy I can be, especially when I’m in full victim mode, like during a cleanse, so I went to the grocery store (ours has a juice station in the produce dept.) and bought some juices to go so I’d have no excuse.
The cleanse advocates a healthy lunch of fish or a lean meat and filling up on tons of fresh veggies and fruit. My husband was great about that especially since the dinner of a protein shake loomed large for him.
Me, not so much. Once I get in full deprivation mode I tend to run with it in a religious pilgrim kind of way. I swing to an unhealthy extreme. If I was into pain I’d self-flagellate.
I know, what can I say, I need help.
All week for lunch I switched between albacore tuna out of a can, a baked sweet potato, or raw apples and celery. Instead of juicing them I ate them raw so I had something crunchy to gnaw on in lieu of my own foot.
We were both diligent. Our stick-to-itiveness impressed even me and I have impossibly high standards.
He was dropping weight at a slow and steady rate. I don’t weigh myself (long, violent story. A lot of scales were killed along the way so I won’t tramatize you with the details). Suffice it to say my skinny jeans moved out of the torture device category and back into fashion where they belong.
Then this happened. Nothing. At least not what I expected.
I didn’t get tired. I was filled with energy.
I slept great. I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (I finally know what the means).
I wasn’t angry about anything. My moods stabilized, giving me a perpetual skip-in-my-step giddiness.
I barely pooped and when I did it smelled like violets (okay, maybe a slight exaggeration).
I figure it even changed our character a little. We didn’t cheat. Not even little. And we kept on going through the weekend which is unheard of for us. It’s just a thing we’ve silently agreed to. We use the weekends, which of course start Friday night and last through Sunday, as neutral territory. Nothing sticks. No fight, no diet, and no freaking cleanse. Duh.
Except for some reason, this one lasted until a baby shower we were both required to attend on Saturday late afternoon.
I was reluctant to eat. I felt tentative around the crudites. Skittish. I eyed the cheese with suspicion.
He piled his plate with fresh bread and a perfectly ripe camembert but passed on the red wine.
Did you hear me? He passed on the red wine!
Who were we?
We were the freshly cleansed. That’s who.
After the smell of the dark, freshly baked bread took up residence inside my nose, hanging drapes and laying carpet, I caved too.
Cut to a couple of hours later with me in the car, prone, my pants unbuttoned, moaning.
I felt like shit. Worse that shit.
I felt like the foul smelling shit on the bottom of shit’s shoe.
When we got home I went straight to bed without my shake. So did he. It was 7:30.
Never in my long and illustrious life as a foodie have I noticed the connection between food and how it affected the way I felt more than I did that day. It made me a believer. A convert. And now a zealot.
I’m currently on a writing vacation with my tribe, happily eating my way through Nashville but I have to confess– I can’t wait to get back to my cleanse and the way it made me feel.
Has this ever happened to you? I need to know.
Carry on,
xox
What in the hell was going on? I had unwittingly been given a front-row seat to a disaster that I’d known was going to happen—for a year!
Why in the hell was I in Hawaii again? What was my part in this tragedy?
I never wanted to be someone who predicts disasters. Seriously Universe? Give me another talent.
Glass eater.
Fart lighter.
Anything.
Something else. Something not so fucking scary.
Be careful what you wish for. Now I talk to dead people. But not the scary ones. Funny ones. The bossy but kind ones.
Thank God for small favors.
Anyway…the local anchor came back onscreen to inform us that one of the deep ocean buoys had registered a tsunami fifteen feet high and getting larger, with a velocity of over five hundred miles per hour, headed directly towards the Hawaiian Islands.
It would get to us in five hours.
3 a.m.
Fucking three a.m! Of course, it was coming in the middle of the night!
The witching hour. The time when nothing good ever happens. Oh, and by-the-way, dark water is one of my biggest fears.
I was petrified.
Ginger was feeling sick and went bed. The guys opened another bottle of wine and started playing cards, remaining lighthearted, partying while waiting for the inevitable. It felt like gallows humor, like the deck of the Titanic.
I went back to our room, shivering under the blankets with anxiety, glued to the TV while the disaster siren wailed in the background.
Right around midnight, they announced the second buoy reading. The wave was larger and picking up speed as it headed our way.
Suddenly the intercom came on inside the condo. Nobody even knew there was an intercom connected to the main resort which was run by Marriott. (You can hear it on my 3/11 Instagram)
A voice cleared its throat.
A young man’s voice, extremely nervous, shaky, cracking and squeaking, blared loudly throughout the condo. Haltingly, he instructing everyone in units below the fifth floor to evacuate to the roof. “Bring blankets…pillows…water and, um, your shoes, it’s going to be a long night”. His anxiety was palpable.
Uh, okay Voice of Authority.
Didn’t they have anyone available with a more mature tone? Something deep and fatherly? A voice that could console us and instill calm. I was thinking Morgan Freeman or James Earl Jones.
This kid’s voice and delivery were comical to me. In my imagination, he was the pimply faced nephew of the lady who fed the stray cats behind the parking garage. One minute he was doing his calculus homework, the next, he was behind a microphone, advising hundreds of tourists during an impending disaster. He was the only one that was expendable in an emergency. Everyone important had a task.
Holy crap, he was the best they had!
Thank God something was funny.
One of trembly, squeaky, scared guy’s announcements advised us all to fill our bathtubs in order to have plenty of drinking water in case the sanitation plant was wiped out.
Intermittently he’d come back on with further instructions, Anyone with a vehicle in the lower garages, please move them to higher ground behind the main hotel, he advised, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears.
Not long afterwards I heard voices, car keys, and the front door slam as the guys went to move our cars.
In the dark from our balcony, I watched the groundskeepers running around like headless chickens, rushing to clear the sand and pool surround of hundreds of chairs. Then they emptied the rental hut with its kayaks, snorkels and fins, inner tubes and dozens of surf and boogie boards.
If you watch the Thailand tsunami videos it is those seemingly innocuous beach toys that become deadly projectiles in fast-moving water. You may not immediately drown, but a surf board or a beach chair coming at you at hundreds of miles an hour will kill you for sure.
It was too much. The destruction in Japan was too much for me to handle.
I watched multi-story buildings get washed away like they were kids toys. We were so close to the water. Could our building withstand the rush of the initial wave? How high would the water come?
The third floor, the fourth—or higher? Was the sixth floor high enough? What was going to happen?
I turned off the TV. The dark room fell silent and instantly I felt a drop in my anxiety level. You can get sucked into the endless loop of death and destruction—it’s addictive, like a drug.
I unhooked the CNN IV, grabbed my phone, inserted my ear buds, pulled up a meditation, and started to calm my nervous system down. Slow…deep…breathing. In…and out… after a few minutes, I could feel my shoulders drop and my face relax. My jaw throbbed. I’d been unconsciously clenching it for hours.
My mind started to unwind. The siren went way, fading into the distance, the boy’s terrified voice becoming a muffled form of white noise.
I actually slipped into a half sleep state. Aware of my surroundings, but extremely relaxed.
The meditations came to an end. Silence. I was still okay.
No longer spinning in fear I decided to calmly ask a question.
“What’s going to happen, how bad will this be?” I asked no one in particular.
Here’s where the magic happened.
A very loving, clear and calm voice answered back:
What do you want to happen? How bad do you want it to be?
What? You mean I get a vote? This answer left me flabbergasted. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this felt extraordinary.
Somehow, instinctively I knew that I couldn’t say make the tsunami go away—there are some things we are powerless to change.
What I could change was MY experience of it. What did I want to happen to me—to us?
Script it the voice said, and that has changed my life.
Okay…I said in my head, remembering the videos from Thailand, you can come up to the palm trees that line our pool area and define the boundary between the beach and our resort. That’s it. To the palm trees only, NOT into the pool and NOT into our resort.
No further conversation was needed. No idle chit-chat, no more Q & A.
I fell asleep. A deep sleep rich with meaningful dreams that I no longer remember.
Inside one, a muffled voice that felt like it was underwater warned: Stay away from the ocean…Do NOT get near the water…We are on lockdown…stay inside your rooms…
It must be happening crossed my mind, but I was too deep to care.
Only as far as the palm trees…up to the palm trees…echoed in my mind.
When I finally opened my eyes I could see daylight. Raphael was asleep next to me and I could smell coffee.
Obviously, the tsunami had come and gone—and everything seemed…normal.
These are pictures of the waterline the tsunami left behind. It is still waaaaay up the beach at this point, about three hours after it came ashore. It surged forty feet UP the beach, over dry sand, and stopped right at the palm trees that line the pool, and our resort.
Script it. Imagine it. Feel it. Ask for it. Relax.
That proved to me, without a doubt, that we can script our circumstances. There are things we can’t control, but there are so many that we can.
Get calm, and set boundaries. How bad/good do you want it to be? What do you want to happen?
We have control over our immediate circumstances.
Script it.
This changed my life–I hope it changes yours.
Carry on,
xox
“No apology has meaning if we haven’t listened to the hurt party’s anger and pain.”
~ Harriet Lerner
Have you ever been on the receiving end of a half-assed, half-hearted apology?
I have and it feels terrible. You almost wish the apologizer hadn’t opened their mouth at all.
We all know that someone who gets defensive the minute you disagree with what they’re saying.
Suddenly a discussion turns into an argument. They escalate it. They get BIG and they get LOUD.
Especially in public. They want to be right and they want you to drop the subject.
They try to humiliate you into dropping it.
When you get in the car (invariably you came together—you probably even live together), there’s an awkward silence and then maybe this…
“I’m sorry if you feel bad about …”
THAT is NOT an apology.
I’m no saint. I’ve also completely blown an apology. It’s usually so garbled, so difficult to get the words out since I can’t seem to remove my big foot from my mouth.
Take a look at this video. It’s a quick (a whopping minute and a half) snippet of a conversation between the all around awesome Brene Brown and relationship expert Harriet Lerner about how we’re wired for defensiveness.
https://www.facebook.com/SuperSoulSunday/videos/1234564259924425/
Bullet points in case you can’t find less than two minutes in your schedule. (You’re welcome—and shame on you!)
- You’re too busy listening for what you don’t agree with. ( So, then are you really listening?)
- You’re listening for exaggerations. (At our house it’s the two words NEVER and ALWAYS—we decided long ago that those two words are not allowed because nothing in life NEVER happens and ALWAYS happens.)
- You’re listening for the inaccuracies. (Keeping score, debunking percentages used, you know, general jackassery.)
I felt we could all use this little reminder going into the weekend when a couple of glasses of wine mixed with politics at dinner can be a recipe for disaster.
You guys, let’s all pay it forward, let’s learn how to say an authentic “I’m sorry.” The world will be a better place.
Care to share the best apology you’ve ever received?
Carry on
xox
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