“We are Starstuff and we remember what we forgot”
~Carl Sagen
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W.B. Yeats
Marinate in those two thoughts today you guys and make your Sunday a great one!
Carry on,
xox
This week needed its own anthem and thanks to a friend of the blog, Billy, we have one!
Fuck This Shit I’m Out!
This past week at our house has been an interesting mix of tomfoolery and shit.
We had a surgery, a completely fried computer hard drive, a kitchen drawer full of rat poo, doctor visits, three FULL glasses of a liquid that got knocked over and spilled EVERYWHERE! (The last time I spilled a full glass of anything was when I was five.) We also have a blown sprinkler that shoots so high into the air that it waters the moon, a little dog with breath so bad you want to slap your mama—a bar-b-que that’s on the fritz—and a migraine. Not to mention Friday is tax day!
On the upside, nobody died, I have blue/purple in my hair again and got to power wash the outside patio area in anticipation of new furniture. Yip.
So, yeah.
It may only be Thursday, but Fuck this shit I’m out!
How about you?
Carry on,
xox
“Hiding takes many forms. Inappropriate attention to detail is a big one because it feels like a responsible thing to do.”
~ Seth Godin
Take a look at the two quotes above.
Attention to detail. Good. Necessary for greatness.
Attention to detail bad. Perfectionism. Hiding.
I agree. With both. Seriously.
My belief in the quality that lies in attention to detail remains unwavering.
HOT water causes peonies to open.
Dirty fingernails telegraph all your nasty secrets.
Cloth napkins. ONLY cloth napkins.
Clean underneath your patio furniture. God forbid someone moves a chair and a family of ten thousand baby black widow spiders decide it’s time for a meet-n-greet. (I speak from personal experience on this one).
Make sure you’re wearing your glasses when you shave your bikini line. You don’t want to leave unseen strips of grown out stubble that are long enough to braid. That’ll ruin any day at the beach. (Again with the personal experience.) And men, the same holds true for nose hair. Glasses on, and…Clip it.
Those are just the tip of the iceberg for me when it comes to paying attention to the details, and it’s easy for me to go overboard.
Here’s the thing, as unbelievable as it may seem to some, I’ve lightened up significantly the older I’ve gotten, and you know what? Things still look great—and I‘m so much happier.
As far as hiding in the attention to detail, never one to pass up a neurosis—I’ve done that too.
It’s easy as a writer to convince yourself that “it” will be so much better if you just work on it for a few more days. Who hasn’t done that with a project they care about? It’s got your name attached, so it better be perfect. Right?
Days turn into weeks, weeks turn to months, months to years and all you have are drawers and files full of “rough drafts”.
Just send the freakin’ article! Just enter the photograph in the contest! Jeez! Pahleez! There may be a typo, flub or a mistake.
Big. Deal.
Truth be told, tired eyes miss typos. They just do. I’ve seen typos in published material that was edited by industry professionals! It’s okay, it actually makes me smile and you know what? I’m pretty sure nobody died in the making of that minor error.
I know an artist AND a writer both of whom are so intellectually adept that they over think their creative endeavors to. a. fault. They’re always reading one more book, or taking yet anther class—when they should just be painting and writing! Enjoying the process.
No more details! Flip perfection the finger!
The rest of the Seth Godin essay:
“There are endless small details to get right before you have something you’re truly proud of. No doubt about it. But there are frightening and huge holes in any bridge to the future, and until you figure out how to get across, I’m not sure it matters if you have a typo on page 4.”
One way I figured out to get across the scary bridge is the fact that I take consolation in knowing there always has to be a FIRST DRAFT. Always. For everything.
Carry on,
xox
We’re at a family wedding.
Not immediate family. Extended family. The worst kind. The judgiest ones in the bunch. The one’s who keep inviting you as an afterthought, because, well, you never come anyway, so when your husband convinces you that it’s an afternoon of cake and dancing, you RSVP Yes + 1—and blow their judgy little minds.
I’m the black sheep of our family, one of several, and so they’ve seated us at the “loser’s” table. I actually overheard someone at the wedding call it that.
It really is the loser’s table.
It’s the absolute worst table in the room. It’s way in the back, next to the kitchen, so far away from the action that the music takes a minute or two to reach us. It’s so bad the band’s lips are out of sync, like an old Charlie Chan movie. They run out of food by the time it’s our turn to hit the buffet. And cake. My hubby and I shared the last sliver of cake.
We are seated with two non-recovered alcoholics who are shit-faced and speaking what sounds like pig-latin to each other, what looks to be someone’s fourteen-year-old pregnant niece, an old hippie who took way too much LSD in the’60’s—and a convicted felon.
In stark contrast, the horrible bitch-faced woman who was married to my dad and quite literally drove him to his grave, is smiling sweetly at my husband from the bride and groom’s table (I can see her with my binoculars)—because she knows how to write epic thank you notes—and she plays the game.
I can remember looking at pictures of myself as a baby and wondering if I’d been a stowaway on a ship from some far-off galaxy that was looking for signs of intelligent life and when they realized this was an okay place to leave me—they did just that—in Santa Monica California—so, not too shabby.
With my thick white hair and tanned skin, I didn’t resemble my pale, dark haired, freckle-faced siblings in the least.
I also arrived with the most vivid imagination, a song in my heart and a skip in my step. And it saved me.
Rickets skinny with large buck teeth, I forged my way through childhood wondering if my people were ever going to swing back by this way and pick me up. That had never been their promise but still, I held out hope.
I’ve always been different. I can’t explain how or why and at times it caused me a world of hurt.
As much as I loved Catholic school, (especially the uniform, see, I told you, weirdo), the dogma never made sense to me.
The wrath of God? A punishing God?
Whose God were they referring to anyway? Mine told me knock-knock jokes and led me to the fields with the most lady bugs to catch. Mine wasn’t hanging over my head bleeding on a cross, mine lived happily, laughing and loving in my heart.
This caused me to question things. Mostly authority. I could never do or believe something just because someone older told me to. And I just could NOT bring myself to “play the game.”
That spells trouble for a kid. Trouble, with a capital T.
And not the obvious punky trouble. Rather, the kind that challenges parents and teachers with all of it’s “Why’s”.
I will ALWAYS pledge allegiance to the wild side, and by wild I mean overgrown. The unbeaten path.
I remember asking my fifth-grade teacher what I was actually promising by pledging my allegiance to the flag. It opened an hour long conversation about Patriotism and love of country and she seemed genuinely happy to be asked something she’d ‘never before given any thought to.’
I broke some of our unspoken family rules as a teen by addressing the elephants that had taken up residence in pretty much every corner of our house. It sounded like sassing, backtalking, and disrespecting authority and it was resoundingly unappreciated. But because I kept my 4.0 GPA and honor roll status, it saved me from long weekends grounded in my room.
I was an anomaly at the time. Not a paint-by-numbers slacker and not your typical hippie-druggie—just a high performing, insufferable, pain-in-the-ass.
Black sheep.
I think my dad first labeled me. He could never figure me out. That day it had something to do with the fact that I got an A in Science Class without ever buying a book, yet, I wanted the teacher fired for being a dumb-ass.
Black sheep. I’m guessing most of you were black sheep too.
I quit college to act.
I retired from Catholicism.
I prefer the cookie dough to the baked cookies. Always have.
I didn’t want to work the “family business”.
I believe in energy and the power of thought.
I was divorced by twenty-six.
I decided NOT to have kids.
I’m unafraid of confrontation.
Until I went gray, I couldn’t have told you what color my hair REALLY was I dyed it so many different colors.
I don’t like ambrosia salad.
I hate green jello, bridal showers and babies breath in flower arraignments.
I love to sing and dance. Anytime, anywhere.
And that vivid imagination that led me to believe that there was something greater out there for me. I know many of you feel the pull as well.
I’m back at the wedding, with all of its criticisms hidden in polite discourse.
“So, I guess no children for you, Janet?”
“No Aunt Barbara, You do realize I’m over fifty now.”
“Huh. And you’ve finally married. A Frenchman. American men aren’t good enough for you?”
I decided right then and there, in the midst of this family of strangers, to declare my status.
“I guess not. You know, I’m a black sheep.”
The old woman looked up at me with something…recognition?…as I gently guided her back to the “winners table”.
Carry on,
xox
Got any good “black sheep” stories?
Happy Sunday you guys!
I advise you, this wonderful Sunday morning, to take the time to read this.
I’ve written about this subject numerous times, I’m a fucking pro at NOT THIS. But as usual, Liz Gilbert manages to hit a home run with this essay.
I know about fifty gazillion people who are in the midst of their NOT THIS moment right NOW—myself included.
(Any two cents in parenthesis is mine, just so you know.)
I think you’ll feel a little bit better after reading this. At the very least, better understood.
I did.
Carry on,
xox
Dear Ones –
Most of us, at some point in our lives (unless we have done everything perfectly…which is: nobody) will have to face a terrible moment in which we realize that we have somehow ended up in the wrong place — or at least, in a very bad place.
Maybe we will have to admit that we are in the wrong job. Or the wrong relationship. (I’ve left both. You?)
With the wrong people around us. Living in the wrong neighborhood. Acting out on the wrong behaviors. Using the wrong substances. Pretending to believe things that we no longer believe. Pretending to be something we were never meant to be. (yes, yep, uh huh and yep.)
This moment of realization is seldom fun. In fact, it’s usually terrifying.
I call this moment of realization: NOT THIS.
Because sometimes that’s all you know, at such a moment.
All you know is: NOT THIS.
Sometimes that’s all you CAN know.
All you know is that some deep life force within you is saying, NOT THIS, and it won’t be silenced.
Your body is saying: “NOT THIS.”
Your heart is saying: “NOT THIS.”
Your soul is saying: “NOT THIS.”
But your brain can’t bring itself to say “NOT THIS”, because that would cause a serious problem. The problem is: You don’t have a Plan B in place. This is the only life you have. This is the only job you have. This is the only spouse you have. This is the only house you have. Your brain says, “It may not be great, but we have to put up with it, because there are no other options.” You’re not sure how you got here — to this place of THIS — but you sure as hell don’t know how to get out…
So your brain says: “WE NEED TO KEEP PUTTING UP WITH THIS, BECAUSE THIS IS ALL WE HAVE.”
But still, beating like a quiet drum, your body and your heart and your soul keep saying: NOT THIS…NOT THIS…NOT THIS.
I think some of the bravest people I have ever met were people who had the courage to say the words, “NOT THIS” out loud — even before they had an alternative plan. (On the GPS map of life, the blinking red dot shows that I’m “currently here”).
People who walked out of bad situations without knowing if there was a better situation on the horizon.
People who looked at the life they were in, and they said, “I don’t know what my life is supposed to be…but it’s NOT THIS.” And then they just…left.(Did you see the word BRAVE? You know who?)
I think my friend who walked out of a marriage after less than a year, and had to move back in with her mother (back into her childhood bedroom), and face the condemnation of the entire community while she slowly created a new life for herself. Everyone said, “If he’s not good enough for you, who will be?” She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything about what her life would look like now. But it started with her saying: NOT THIS. (Are you getting this cryptic message Liz and I are sending you? You know who you are.)
I think of my friend who took her three young children away from a toxic marriage, despite that fact that her husband supported her and the kids financially…and the four of them (this woman and her three children) all slept in one bed together in a tiny studio apartment for a few years, while she struggled to build a new life. She was poor, she was scared, she was alone. But she had to listen to the voices within her that said, NOT THIS.
I think of friends who walked out of jobs — with no job waiting for them. Because they said NOT THIS.
I think of friends who quit school, rather than keep pretending that they cared about this field of study anymore. And yes, they lost the scholarship. And yes, they ended up working at a fast food restaurant, while everyone else was getting degrees. And yes, it took them a while to figure out where to go next. But there was a relief at last in just surrendering to the holy, non-negotiable truth of NOT THIS.
I think of friends who bravely walked into AA meetings and just fell apart in front of a room full of total strangers, and said, NOT THIS.
I think of a friend who pulled her children out of Sunday School in the middle of church one Sunday because she’d had it with the judgment and self-righteousness of this particular church. Yes, it was her community. Yes, it was her tribe. But she physically couldn’t be in that building anymore without feeling that she would explode. She didn’t know where she was going, spiritually or within her community, but she said, NOT THIS. And walked out.
Rationally, it’s crazy to abandon a perfectly good life (or at least a familiar life) in order to jump into a mystery. No sane person would advise you to make such a leap, with no Plan B in place. We are supposed to be careful. We are supposed to be prudent. (Uh, Steph?)
And yet….
And yet.
If you keep ignoring the voices within you that say NOT THIS, just because you don’t know what to do, instead…you may end up stuck in NOT THIS forever.(We know these people. They live in a state of quiet disappointment.)
You don’t need to know where you are going to admit that where you are standing right now is wrong.
The bravest thing to say can be these two words.
What comes next? (My mantra is: What Now?)
I don’t know. You don’t know. Nobody knows. It might be worse. It might be better. But whatever it is…? It’s NOT THIS.
ONWARD,
LG
For one brief and shining moment in the mid-nineties, I had a live-in boyfriend.
And as I came to find out, live-in anythings tend to ruin most of your possessions, especially the ones that they do not have a dollar invested in—which is pretty much EVERYTHING.
That goes for all significant others, dog, cats, pygmy pigs, and children. They systematically destroy all the material things you love the most.
Case in point, I had an expensive bespoke coverlet made to match the fabric of a very cool bed that had an upholstered headboard that resembled a couch. I know! right?
It was the color of buttercream frosting, it cost me a fortune, and I loved it more than coffee.
Okay, I mention coffee here because it plays an important role.
One glorious Sunday morning, in a lapse of better judgment, I overlooked the fact that said boyfriend had broken a cardinal rule, the one which stated NO COFFEE IN BED.
He had frothed us each a cup of particularly delicious cappuccino and in a show of my appreciation, well, things got a little out of hand. I’m not going to get into it lest you think poorly of me or worse yet, ask me for details. But let’s just suffice it to say…
A foot (or some other body part, this memory is a bit fuzzy for me), met with two, 3/4 full cups of coffee on the nightstand, which caused one to fly up and into the ceiling fan spraying coffee and frothy milk EVERYWHERE, while the other landed face down in the center of my priceless duvet cover.
It would have been funny if there hadn’t been so much brown on the buttercream and if I’d had a sense of humor at the time.
While we cleaned the floor, walls, and the ceiling, the coffee/milk stain caused our Siamese cat to pee on the bed. Numerous times. I get it. Coffee does that to me too. It was a phenomenon that had never occurred before and never happened again—but it added insult to the injury.
To stop the madness, the brown and smelly bedspread took up residence in my car until I could figure out what to do. Apparently, the giant coffee stain was the least of its problems.
After I got the coffee out of places where coffee should never be, I went to search the cat pee drenched coverlet thingy for a care tag. You know, those tags that have all the symbols telling you how to clean it, but since it was custom-made, no tag.
I was just about to wash it in one of our giant apartment laundry room washers when I remembered that they had teeth and preferred to dine on expensive fabric. Never the stuff from Target. Explain that to me.
So, I decided to accompany a friend to the laundromat, but when she saw the velvet brocade type of fabric on that thing she advised that I get it dry cleaned. That made sense. The fear of this prize possession getting ruined was ratcheting up. Can you feel it?
So, to the dry cleaners I went. The expensive one. The one that had a guarantee and specialized in decorator fabrics. Only the best for this investment of mine.
What could go wrong?
They called in their resident “fabric expert”, a stern woman with black fuzzy caterpillars as eyebrows and huge, magnifying lensed glasses on a chain around her neck. She did a thorough inspection of the coverlet, rolling the thick fabric between her thumb and forefinger, then she paused, skewed her mouth which in turn crinkled her entire face, causing the two caterpillars to kiss just above her nose and form a spooky looking unibrow. She then grabbed a nearby pencil which looked as if it had been chewed to a nub and wrote something on a piece of paper, slide it across the counter to me—face down, and looked at me with her over magnified eyes and the two judgmental caterpillars—waiting for a response.
I turned it over and the dollar amount made me gasp. Her lip turned up slightly at the corner into a smile..or a sneer…I couldn’t tell which.
“Zhah chat urineeen schemel meh nahver comb out, oot zhat meehlk meh churrdle”, she said attempting English in an accent that sounded like a combination of Dutch and Chinese.
I nodded, pretending to understand. “Fine, that’s fine”, I replied signing that scrap of paper as verification that the equivalent of a monthly car payment would be the price paid to save my beautiful coverlet.
About two weeks later I received a call from the cleaners. There had been a “problem” and I needed to come and talk to the manager Mr. SomethingorOther. The trouble was that every time I showed up for the chat…he was out to lunch, off the premises, or had just gone home. Black caterpillar lady was nowhere to be found, and when I asked to talk to her they acted like I wanted to have an audience with the Pope.
I’m going to cut to the chase—here’s the good news: The bedspread that had committed suicide by cat pee wasn’t brown anymore. But it wasn’t a bedspread anymore either. Now for the bad news: It looked like it had run with scissors—or fallen into a wood chipper.
It resembled a shredded mass of buttercream velvet held together by cat hair.
Well, you have to fix this!” I screamed.
“It’s no charge”, said the tiny Hispanic woman who had obviously drawn the short straw in the back room. She crumpled our paper agreement and threw it away as she pushed the buttercream mess my way.
I pushed it back in her direction.
“Fix it.” I hissed, knowing full well that unless they had a loom in the back that was pretty much going to be impossible.
That night, as I plotted my revenge, I splashed wine with abandon all over the cheap cotton duvet cover that was acting as understudy until the Star returned. Should I sue them? Should I make them pay to have it replaced? By midnight, I knew what had to be done.
But days turned to weeks and I never went back to deliver my ultimatum.
One morning when my boyfriend got back from a bagel run, he was acting weird, clearing his throat, mustering his courage.
“Did you ever solve that comforter cover debacle?” he croaked.
I felt my face instantly catch fire. “No! I need to go back there…”
“You’d better wear your asbestos underwear”, he murmured, walking into the kitchen.
“What are you talking about?”
“The place burned down last night. It’s still smoldering.”
We immediately jumped in the car and went to join all the other patrons around the caution tape, ready for a fight. But when I saw the utter destruction and the people crying over their burnt up wedding dress or the loss of their daughter’s baptismal gown, I realized what an idiot I was.
I saw the part my fear of losing a material possession (albeit a beautiful one), had played in this entire fiasco, how I continued to make one bad decision after another, how I couldn’t see how much the freakin’ bedspread just wanted to die…and that’s when I finally laughed.
Carry on,
xox
Oh, oh, oh! Do you ever need to read this! You know who you are. It’s an oldie but goodie…still, take heed…and quit carrying on.
xox
GRUDGE
grudge
ɡrəj/
noun
1. a persistent feeling of ill will or resentment resulting from a past insult or injury.
synonyms: grievance, resentment, bitterness, rancor, pique, umbrage, dissatisfaction, disgruntlement, bad feelings, hard feelings, ill feelings, ill will, animosity, antipathy, antagonism, enmity, animus;
chip on one’s shoulder
verb
1.
To be resentfully unwilling to give, grant, or allow (something).
synonyms: begrudge, resent, feel aggrieved about, be resentful of, mind, object to, take exception to, take umbrage at
I used to work for someone who was the King of the Grudge Holders. He was brilliant at it.
If you had a grudge that needed to be held, you could count on him to do it for you.
His family used him over the years as their sanctioned grudge holder.
That left the rest of them free to live an unfettered, happy life.
He held a grudge toward his brother for being a dick to him as a teenager, you know like older brothers are.
Dude. It’s a right of passage — let it go.
Nope. Over twenty years later and they barely spoke.
It got to the point where he didn’t even know why he hated someone — he just did.
His dad had once told him the story of some slight that befell him after the war. Not the Vietnam war, that would have been bad enough, no, we’re talking WWII — the 1940’s for god sakes.
I watched my boss act as cold as ice to a seemingly very nice older gentleman who came into our store, and after he left I questioned him about his behavior. “What the hell was that?” I said in a tone reserved for people who kick dogs.
“I don’t want that guy in here” he responded defensively, “Besides, he’s got a lot of nerve. He and my dad got into a bar fight once over a girl.”
“Uh, really? When? The Neolithic period? Your parents have been married for over fifty years, I think the statute of limitations on post-war fights over girls who are now almost eighty has been exceeded.”
He wasn’t having it. He folded his arms tight, pursed his lips, and stomped away.
I used to joke with him, “Give me the list of who you’re not mad at, suing, or holding a grudge against — it’s the short one.”
Bygones could never be bygones.
And that’s the thing with some people. They have a dog in every fight. They’ll latch onto a story they hear about something gone awry and they’ll run with it, holding the grudge long after the situation has been rectified.
“That guy owes Jerry money.” he sneered one day as he walked by me to put something in the safe.
I looked up to see some nondescript someone I didn’t know, writing a check to another dealer in the building. “How do you know that?” I decided to bite, it was a welcome distraction from all the paperwork.
“Jerry told me in Miami” he replied, standing at the counter staring the guy down. His face was turning red. I could feel his blood pressure rising.
“That was over six months ago, maybe he’s paid him, besides I can see the line of people who owe Jerry money from here. You guys all owe each other money. Shit, Jerry owes YOU money!”
He just grunted and mumbled something under his breath as he sat back down behind his desk.
Dog in someone else’s fight.
Nose in somebody else business.
Mood ruined.
Grunge held…for Jerry.
He really should have charged for his services. His obituary will read: He never met a grudge he couldn’t hold.
The problem with holding a grudge …is that your hands are then too full to hold onto anything else.
-Seth Godin
It has been my observation (I did almost twenty years of research), that what chronic grudge holders are incapable of holding because their hands are full of …grudge… are joy and gratitude.
Grudges turn toxic and eventually soul numbing.
It was physically impossible for him to feel appreciation and gratitude. That chip was missing.
We used to be able, with the help of copious amounts of alcohol, to coax an uncomfortable “thank you” out of him after trade shows.
He had a good life. A successful business, healthy family and money in the bank, and I watched him year after year take it all for granted. Like it was owed to him.
And for many, many years I witnessed a complete lack of joy. Actually, all the higher emotions were missing. I never really saw love, empathy or compassion shown toward anyone.
But over time, I learned to cut him a break. I understood. After all — his hands were full.
I’m happy to report that like cheese, age has softened him and we are still friendly, but when I thought of the word grudge, his face immediately came to mind.
Who do you think of when you see that word?
Carry on,
xox
“Love is a lot like a backache, it doesn’t show up on X-rays, but you know it’s there.”
~ George Burns
Someone asked, so I was going to give you advice on love —but I can’t.
That’s like me giving diet advice. Or advice on how to grow the biggest zucchini or play classical piano. All of which I’ve tried and sort of succeeded at. Except for the piano which I tried for like a minute, but I think the teacher moved without telling me. (Adults should take up a musical instrument only on a dare. And only if the payoff is over one hundred dollars. Only then.)
But I digress…
Telling people how to succeed at love is dicey. And by dicey I mean impossible. You can’t tell people how to feel.
Sure, there are rules and guidelines, but anyone who’s been in a long-term relationship knows that all of that—is bullshit. If someone tells you they have it all figured out—they’re lying.
You fly by the seat of your pants.
Until you reach altitude.
Then you serve drinks and a movie until the turbulence begins, at which point you can straighten your seat back and tray table into their upright position, put on your parachute and bail (like my piano teacher did), or you can stick it out and wait for smoother skies.
It really does boil down to those two choices. Bail, cut and run, break-up, whatever you want to call it—or wait and see what tomorrow brings. Which in its base form looks like an ostrich with its head in the ground, and in its purest form looks like you’re a saint.
And by-the-way, having been someone who has bailed, been an ostrich…and a saint, I can’t advocate for any of them. They all made perfect sense at the time, which leads me back to the first sentence.
I can’t tell you what does or doesn’t work. Some of the best relationships I’ve had, including the marriage I’ve been in for the past fifteen years, look terrible on paper and make no sense at all. We’re both Aries for chrissakes, and we belong to different political parties—we should have killed each other by now!
Even being married doesn’t make someone an expert on love. How could I be an expert at something I’ve failed miserably at MANY times and that I can’t explain how or why it works. If I were a brain surgeon who said that to you—would you let me operate?
Love’s alchemical. That’s my explanation and I’m sticking to it.
And don’t let anyone tell you it’s all roses.
It’s a lesson in compromise. It’s dirty socks on the floor, heated differences of opinion, vertical toilet seats, and bad politics. And that’s just a Friday night. But, listen, he could say the same or worse of me.
We put up with a lot of shit. We do. That constitutes turbulence in my book.
I guess I decided it was the kind I could weather, but honestly, I don’t remember making the decision.
And I guess that’s what it comes down to, a day by day, slow drip, decision to keep loving.
Some days are easy, others can be hard. And by hard I mean excruciating.
When my husband has the flu or a sunburn it is everything I can do NOT to put a pillow over his face while he’s complaining.
If I had to make one rule—here it is:
Your person should make you laugh—at the very least—once a week.
They should try to bring you coffee—at the very least—on the weekends.
They should give you that “Omg, you’re fucking adorable” feeling…once a month?
It would be really nice if they showed you some affection on a regular basis. Not sex. Affection. There’s a difference.
Shit howdy, will you look at that, four “rules” —and I’ve already told you, I’m full of shit.
Just love the best you know how and then try to do better tomorrow.
Carry on,
xox
“Women like confident bald men.”
~ Larry David & My Husband
Your beliefs become your thoughts
Your thoughts become your words
Your words become your actions
Your actions become your habits
Your habits become your values
Your values become your destiny
I think Mahatma Gandhi said this…or Oprah. I can’t keep them straight.
That’s big stuff right there. A big concept.
Because most of us, most of the time, myself included, think that all of those things, those actions, words, habits, thoughts—are all separate—disconnected. That they have nothing whatsoever to do with one another.
Wrongo Bongo! We could not be more stupid, misguided, delusional, misinformed, naive, forgetful.
You know this stuff.
I know this stuff.
My freakin’ dog knows this stuff.
So, just a gentle reminder to be mindful of your beliefs, thoughts, words, actions, habits and values because they are all coalescing to form your destiny.
If you’re sloppy about it like I can get from time to time, you can say and think that you’re eating kale, but the kale is really donuts, and your belief in the destructive power of warm, yeasty goodness is too powerful to overrule the word kale, and just like that—the donuts I ate this weekend goes straight to my ass. So…
Not sure of what you’re creating? Look around at your life. It’s a big clue. HUGE.
You like what you see? Fantastic! Keep doing what you’re doing.
Not so thrilled with the lump of a chump on the couch? Even better! Because ALL of those things, those thoughts, words, blah, blah, blah—can be changed.
By you.
Right this minute.
Or after you finish your donut. Isn’t that worth knowing?!
Wait. I think we just created a new belief. Let’s run with it! (Put down the scissors first).
Carry on,
xox
