Life

What trends do you follow and why?

Back in the day, I used to slather myself with baby oil and squeeze lemon in my already blonde hair because that was what the fashion magazines told us to do. Sunscreen didn’t exist yet and neither did any common sense. I have the dermatologist bills to prove it.

Sunburned blonde girls with blue eyes and skin damage were trending.

My right hand grabbed a bag of Mango Licorice at Trader Joe’s this morning faster than my left hand could bat it away.
“Mango Licorice…hummmmm…” I heard myself say with the same curiosity I expressed the first time I saw a Diva cup.

Just like I did with yellow beets, fingerless gloves, Kobe beef, a fax machine, burrata cheese, and avocado toast.

“Yeah. They have mango everything these days”, said the purple haired girl stocking nuts nearby. (What a great sentence that was to write. The purple haired girl stocking nuts nearby—Even better the second time. Sorry, writer geek-out. Ha!)

Anyhow, she’s right! I just bought Mango lemonade last week and it lasted all of thirty seconds at my house because—it was LEMONADE! With MANGO! My husband snacks on dried soft mango strips. There are Mango Newtons out there (like Fig Newtons—only mango), and a few days ago I tried a piece of dark chocolate covered frozen mango that was so delicious I had my memory voluntarily erased so I wouldn’t be able to find my way back and have more.

Mango is trending.

Broccoli is also trending.

I love broccoli so that makes me happy, and luckily for me, I can’t go to a restaurant here in LA without seeing some broccoli mash-up on the menu. Seared broccoli with a balsamic reduction. Broccoli and bacon. Broccoli, kale (another trender), and some other obscure green that used to be flattered to make it to the plate as a garnish. Now we pay fifteen bucks for all of them shredded into a slaw with grapefruit sections—in a light MANGO dressing (extra points for a double trender).

But I know a lot of people, and maybe you’re one of them, who were traumatized as children by broccoli.

They would no sooner eat broccoli than sliced dolphin.
Yet, I see them try a bite every now and again when we order it.

Because it’s trending.

Speaking of trending, let’s talk about social media. The very minute I got comfortable with Facebook, I HAD to start Tweeting. Then I HAD to have an Instagram account. Then I did Blab. And Huffington Post Live. Now you’re nobody without Snapchat. By the time I get good at that—it’ll be obsolete.

Kinda like my iPhone.

Businesses need to have an internet presence.
Retailers sell their wares online.
I get it.

Publishers now want their writers to have huge social media platforms. To craft an online persona and sell ourselves. They want us all to be trending. They want already pre-packaged social media celebrities—just add water. Tweeting and vlogging, podcasting, blogging and hashtagging…apparently anything but writing.

That is a trend I may not follow. I have tried it and I say, yeah, not for me.

Oh, the irony…

I’ll stick with what I like and what I’m good at and maybe, just maybe, at age 58, I’ll have the common sense to stop chasing the trends.

What do yo think?

Carry on,
xox

If you’re like me, I can bet that you’d just as soon forget some dances from your past.

I engaged in some pretty sketchy moves. I did. I may have tangoed with a few men, a rose held firmly in my frozen grin, who I realize now were not the best dance partners for me.
But I have to admit—it was fuuuuun.

I, the woman with two left feet, may have attempted Bob Fosse choreography at the age of fifty-four, and I cringe every time it comes to mind.
Which is never.
I never need to remember that.
Right?

But I danced with a chair. And the chair had better moves.
And I’ve never laughed so much in my entire life!

What about all of the partnering that has danced me to where I’m standing right now?
The collaboration and the joy?
Just thinking about it makes me smile.
And cringe.
But mostly smile.

Life is a dance. We make it up as we go along and it is stunning in its complexity.
A beautiful series of fast footwork and sidesteps, backwards motion and even a few graceful leaps into the air that carry us where we need to go—and nobody, NOBODY—can take that away from us.

Not even ourselves.

Carry on,
xox

The is a picture of Terra Cotta. She is a life-size bust and beautiful example of papier-mache but at a glance everyone thinks she’s terra cotta pottery and she likes it that way. Hence the name.

I purchased Ms. Cotta the last day of a jewelry show after begging the grumpy old guy who was using her as a necklace display to sell her to me. I imagined a better life for her. She is now the Matriarch of the Mantle having graced our living room for more than fifteen years.

Now, don’t let her serene beauty bamboozle you. Terra Cotta is a grand dame in every sense of the word. A Diva. She makes the Mona Lisa seem warm and extroverted.  Terra Cotta’s face may read docile, her smile might imply a kind of quiet contemplation, but I know from experience that if she doesn’t like you or your choices, she will launch herself off that mantle in less time than it takes to say “I don’t believe an inanimate object has opinions.”

When we remodeled our house, I moved her around from time to time to keep her out of harm’s way.
Covered by a sheet most days to protect her from the drywall dust, I could feel her, in the dark, seething. She expected better treatment AND she wasn’t at all sure about the wall color I was choosing.

When the room was finally finished I uncovered her and placed on the focal point of the room, in her seat of honor in the center of the mantel. The next morning I came out to find her face down on the floor.

Apparently she loathed the shade of white we had picked. It did nothing for her skin tone.

Eventually, after several more face plants, we found a blue that she approved of. I am forever grateful that she is indeed papier-mache and not pottery. By now I’d have a ceramic plastic surgeon on speed dial.

When the time came to place a piece of art on that wall, I did so with trepidation. The Queen of Cotta had her strong opinions and her nose would not be able to endure much more suicidal mantle jumping.

I was determined to save her from herself. I can remember placing her on a table across the room as we propped various oil painted scenes and watercolor landscapes up on that mantel to see what fit the room. On an adjacent wall, there is a very large and brightly colored abstract portrait. She barely tolerates it, and pretty much anything we hung above the mantle clashed.

I think I heard her say “I told you so”, several times. What I actually kept hearing was Something like me.

I’m not one to shy away from collections, I have many. Hummingbird’s nests and heart-shaped rocks. Skulls and hands and chairs large and small. Coffee table books and Eiffel towers just to name a few, but I couldn’t picture a group of busts on the mantle. Or more papier-mache for that matter. So I halted my search and waited for inspiration which came several months later in the most unlikely form imaginable.

Our lot was a construction zone in the back. Or a trash heap. It all depended on your perspective and how many dry wall nails you had stuck in the bottom of your flip-flops. For months, stacks of roof tiles, old medicine cabinets and discarded lumber lay strewn around in the dirt that had formerly been our back lawn. Added to the mess were old garden pots, the box our new dishwasher came in, and some old rubber floor mats, the kind they use in restaurant kitchens to save the chef’s feet from making him so miserable that he spits in your soup.

One day I was organizing the chaos, (moving stuff from place to place to make myself feel better), when I turned one of the large mats over and noticed that on the opposite side of the soft, cushy part was a web of the intricate relief work and designs. This is so cool my brain said. Too bad nobody ever sees this side. That’s when inspiration struck. Why not? Why don’t people see the cool underside of a plain rubber mat? Because no one has any imagination! With that, I heaved the large, cumbersome behemoth over my shoulder and ran inside to see if my hunch was correct.

Would it fit above the mantle and could we hang it there easily?

The answer turned out to be yes and yes! It fit the space perfectly!
My husband was skeptical until the last nail was hammered and we stood back to access. Then even he had to admit—it was perfect. And because we hung it about an inch away from the wall, the light from the sconces on each side cause the perforations to cast these cool shadows. And there was plenty of room for Terra Cotta, who was thrilled with the decision. It didn’t steal her thunder and it was exactly as she’d suggested. It was something like her.

It had been saved from its previously boring fate, and reimagined—as art. AND it is a shape-shifter. It looks like something it is not.

Almost everyone who notices that piece thinks it’s metal. Just as Terra Cotta looks like pottery, the underside of the mat hung on the wall looks like metal. It just does. So much so that when one of our snotty, haughty, decorator friends visited the house, she snorted “Oh I love that piece. That artist (she named some guy) does such extraordinary things with metal.”

I had to hold Terra Cotta back to keep her from launching herself into that woman’s glass of Chardonnay.

So there are multiple morals to this story.

Decorating is a collaborative effort. Every piece in the house has a say.

Listen to your instincts.

And remember…NOTHING is as it appears.

Carry on,
xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking slowly through the canyon on my way to the hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how streets with cars lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Singles mothers can never catch a break.

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that it’s luck had run out. Splat!

There it is. I can see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering was over.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. But it was true. No one was swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing. I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve a little!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was. This roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It was a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

This is a post from early last year when we lost our beloved ten-year-old dog, Querida.
She died on her own terms, instantly in the back of my husband’s truck after a rousing game of Frisbee. She had been sick with a brain tumor, but it was still a shock to find her lifeless after a twenty-minute drive home.

But it’s always that way, isn’t it? We all know how this story ends, yet death, as inevitable as we try to forget it is, surprises the shit out of us when it takes someone we love.

A pet.
A parent.
A sibling.
A close friend.

Pain is pain—because love is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love. (To quote Lin-Manuel Miranda’s brilliant sonnet.)

But I believe that the risk of a broken heart is far outweighed by the innumerable rewards and blessings that love bestows.

Maybe you needed to hear this today. I did.

Carry on,

xox

“Grief; it covers you with the weight of a wet blanket and smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack—
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…it’s about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

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:

http://www.zillow.com/santa-barbara-ca/

When my sister completed our family genealogy some years ago, there were not too many surprises.

Okay, well, maybe one.

I’m a combination of German, Italian, Irish…and MacGuyver.
Not Scottish.
MacGuyver.

That do anything, make everything possible and figureoutable guy from the 90’s TV drama of the same name.

I make the joke that my husband is part MacGuyver with his survival training and uncanny ability to fix anything, and he is, don’t get me wrong.

But so am I, and I’m guessing you are too.

I have MacGuyver’d the shit out of my life.
At times, all I had was my ingenuity. A paperclip, a credit card, and a prayer. But I suppose, with so much MacGuyver in me, my prayer aways ended up being, “Anything Is Possible’.

Darling reader, you’ve read endless stories of my misadventures, and I’m sure it explains a lot, now that you know my MacGuyver lineage, but think back on some of the seemingly insurmountable challenges you’ve encountered.

All the jams you’ve gotten out of.

All the hats you’ve pulled rabbits out of.

The late nights with no sleep.

Driving eighteen hours straight to get where you needed to be.

All the times you never gave up, you made shit happen. With your paperclip and your tenacity.

You’re a fucking Mac Guyver too.

I knew it.

Carry on,
xox

“Writers are cannibals. They really are. They are predators, and if you are friends with them, and if you say anything funny at dinner, or if anything good happens to you, you are in big trouble.”
― Nora Ephron

Morning Peeps,
This is from last year but it’s something that happens on a regular basis and it makes me howl with laugher…on the inside…while I dictate notes into my phone.
Carry on,
xox

“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much every day for almost three four years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?”  Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.

I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. These days I can barely remember to wear pants.

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel immense unending gratitude for all of you.

So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper to me with pleading eyes.
Even in the car.
Like I’m wearing a wire!

Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Huffington Post, The Washington Post or something. Like I’m going to publish an essay about their shitty boss, how much they hate their boobs or describe what their husband’s sex face looks like. And funnier still, that their boss, boobs, or husband would ever get wind of it.

It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a “friend” in the blog—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride, and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

So here’s the official disclaimer: If I say “a girlfriend”— it’s not you. Even if I mention your name—it’s probably not you.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself? Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: ‘I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.’

Well, it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in the third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me every time.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”

I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

I love giving things away.
It makes me feel good.

But…has someone ever given something to someone you know—and they don’t want it—and they try to give it to you—but you’re too polite to say no?
Yeah, me neither.
OR, have you ever given someone something and they were completely ungrateful?

I could say I’m not attached to the reaction of the recipient because we all know that’s a trap and we don’t give only to receive—but if I said that I’d be lying.

Case in point.
I cleaned out my refrigerator the other day. And “cleaned out” might not be exactly the right term. I reached for a bag of apple slices (I buy them already sliced in a convenient reusable bag because I CANNOT be bothered to cut my own apples), and when they looked less than appetizing, kind of brown and mushy, instead of putting them back in the drawer and looking for some other snack, I took them out to throw them away.

I think we can all agree, “cleaned out” does work here.

Anyhow, as I made my way to the trash I had an idea.
This was not a fresh, shiny, new idea. It was actually the same reoccurring idea I get when I have fruit that has turned unfit for human consumption. I will put it out front for the squirrels!
Just two weeks ago I gave them a couple of apricots that had turned to jam all by themselves in the bottom of the fruit bowl—and they loved ‘em! Gone in five minutes!

I love that! It’s such win, win situation. They eat my perfectly squirrel-edible fruit and I don’t have to feel guilty about the fact that eighty-five percent of the fruit I buy spoils before I can eat it.

So…let me just tell you about these squirrels.

We have an entire community of extremely boisterous, horney and hungry squirrels that came part and parcel with the house, which came part and parcel with the giant Ash tree out front.

Someone in the neighborhood feeds them peanuts, the shells which I find in all of my planters…and my dogs’ poop. They have also been key players in The Mystery of The Steak Bones From Nowhere.
A reoccurring drama where we find beef and steak bones (is that redundant?), randomly on our property more than I’m guessing you do.

They appear out of nowhere and find their way into our house, I suspect via my dog’s mouth. I have felt suspicious of their appearance from the start but that’s just me. I have a suspicious nature.

On the other hand, my delightful husband with not a suspicious bone in his body, suggested that the squirrels were bringing them over. This is exactly what he said, “I think someone is giving the bones to the squirrels and they’re bringing them to the dog”.

Of course, I immediately balked at the idea of that.

Most of the bones are bigger than a squirrel’s head, some larger than their entire body I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the aerodynamics of it. Still, they kept showing up. Then the other day, when I was pruning the Bougainvillea, a perfectly round beef bone the size of my fist, fell out of the air and onto my head. It must have fallen into the boug from the canopy of the Ash tree that covers our patio. Otherwise known as the squirrel Trump Tower.

My husband was as vindicated as you can be without saying “I told you so”, the dog was as grateful as a dog can possibly be without exploding. Me—I was neither.

All this to say, our squirrels pretty much accept any and all hand-outs.

Except apparently, brown apple slices. They lay there for three days covered with snail slime until the ants finally unionized enough to carry them away.

Oh sure, bones the size of a grapefruit are fine, but apples that have oxidized a little are unacceptable?! What happened to gratitude?

Which reminds me. They also hate grapefruit. But only the white ones. Pink they love.

Carry on,
xox

P.S. Once, when I was leaving a cafe in Venice, I offered a homeless man sitting nearby the rest of my perfectly yummy, warm and untouched dinner. He accepted and I felt terrific. As we drove away my heart swelled as I watched him open the container…and throw the contents against a wall.
I’m not sure which felt worse. That or the squirrel snub.

Two very rare tree bones

Baba Rajneesh.words for the wise the word FUCK by Mazanga_Von_Badman

My friend Steph sent this to me the other day.
Her husband thinks we need to start following this guru. It could be that he thinks we would appreciate his blissed out nature or his silvery spacesuit, but I’m guessing it’s because of his deep and profound UNDERSTANDING of the word, fuck.

I love this Baba, I really do, and I’m sure you can guess why.

If you gave me a dime for all of the fucks I’ve said OUTLOUD, I’d be richer than that idiot, bigot, candidate with the orange face and horrible comb-over.

If you laid the fucks I’ve written end to end, well, we could all walk a road of fucks to Mars and colonize it this weekend.

I’m telling you. This guy gets it. He really does.

But be warned: watching this is a little like watching Mother Theresa being interviewed by Howard Stern.

It’s so wrong it’s right.

Carry on,
xox