Life

Monkey: I LOVE you! You’re so cute!

Cat: Ugh

Monkey: You feel so good, I think I’ll sit on top of you.

Cat: Must you?

Monkey: I need to feel closer to you. I wish I could just crawl inside of your soft, furry little cat skin.

Cat: I already feel crowded…

Monkey: I want to kiss your face. No, that’s not even enough, I want to breathe your breath. Kiss, kiss, ohhh, your face! I squeeze that cute face!

Cat: Is it hot in here? Uh, I can’t breathe…

You guys,
Sure, this is adorable. Unless you’re the cat.

See the monkey? I used to be the monkey. I used to “love” just like the monkey you guys.
And it’s adorable for like, five minutes.

Five MONTHS later? Not so much.
The cat ends up hairless with a twitch and a bad case PTSD.
The cat hides from the monkey and eventually stops returning her calls.

Mauling someone is not “being affectionate”.

“Janet, you don’t love, you take hostages.”

My therapist at the time dropped this pearl of wisdom one day in the middle of her office. It landed with a thud and then rolled underneath the couch where I was sitting, and once I was done being offended, I got down on my hands and knees, pulled it out into the light of day, and tried it on—and it marked me for life.

I’ve never forgotten it.

Don’t love like the monkey.

By-the-way, that’s not love, that’s a bottomless pit of neediness and thank god there was no YouTube or cellphone video back in the day because I swear to you. I was the monkey.

Carry on,
xox

Mishap/Miracle #74 – Expectations

I have come to believe that life is a series of strung together mishaps and miracles that stretch us, inform us, teach us, and more often than not — amuse us.

At least, that’s the way my life has looked so far.

But the things that never cease to bite me in the ass—are my expectations.

Never ones to disappoint, good or bad they meet me, leaving their sharp, pointed little teeth marks on my tushy as they leave.

Sometimes all you can do is laugh. One such story goes like this:

As a thank you, a client gave my husband an extremely generous gift certificate to the latest, greatest, can’t get a seat for a year restaurant.

After staying up one cold December night to be the first caller to their unlisted reservation line, which is answered for only fifteen minutes at three in the morning (slight exaggeration), I was able, with an adequate amount of lying, begging and my AmEx card number, to secure a reservation for a Tuesday evening the following June (no exaggeration).

When the big night arrived it was unseasonably warm so my husband decided on a tan brushed suede jacket in lieu of a traditional sports coat.

Actually, he pulled it out, put it on, and put it back on the hanger three times, and here’s why:

That jacket was purchased on a whim at the Barney’s Warehouse sale, after too much wine at lunch…and robbing a bank. You see, even at the reduced price it still cost more than our monthly mortgage payment. Times three more. It was so expensive I even blanched — but love is love.

The reason my frugal hubby paid this kings ransom for a jacket is because the moment he put it on it was like wearing a second skin (literally) or marshmallow cream– it is that comfortable, and comfort is his middle name (Marcel translated into English = comfort).

It is made of a suede that is so light, buttery soft and supple it is literally a chamois (shammy) cloth. Are you getting how soft it is?

Chamois, as everyone knows, are super absorbent by nature.
They are thirsty little devils that draw liquid to them and as such are never to be worn in the humidity of Miami. We felt safe in old parched, drought-stricken, wizened raisin California.

What could go wrong?

Oh hell, I don’t know, maybe this…?
My husband wore that jacket three or four times.
Each time when he returned home there was a giant “spot” on the front or the sleeve.

That little chamois assbite had quenched its thirst on olive oil or mineral water or some other random liquid at the next table.

And it cost us. It cost us dearly.

You see, when you buy such an “investment piece” for your wardrobe, you are required to call your money manager to set aside a maintenance budget.

We neglected to do that.

Hence, the cleaning bills for the magnificent, thirsty, chamois jacket were budget busters. We ate Spam for weeks in order to pay them.

So you can imagine our expectations on that balmy night in June.

Wear the jacket, feel great, look fantastic and throw caution to the wind?
OR
Leave the jacket at home and be able to afford a vacation?

I checked our bank statement. “What the hell! Let’s live!”, I yelled, yanking the jacket off the hanger and swinging it over my head like the hellraiser with deep pockets that I am. NOT.

Doesn’t the ad say –– “Wearing your favorite f-you expensive, wildly comfortable chamois jacket to the obnoxiously haughty, over-rated, of the moment restaurant – PRICELESS!?”

But on the ride to the West Side, in the back of our minds… we were expecting the worst.

So we hatched a plan.

They don’t have coat rooms in LA, so he was to take off the jacket when he sat down and put it to the side. Preferably as far away from food as it is possible to do in a restaurant.

As they sat us in a big, comfy booth we surveyed the scene and put our plan into effect.

I took the chamois bastard, folded it neatly, and tucked it halfway under the table on the seat next to me. Then I pushed it even further away, to the far end of the booth.

Whew! Safe!
We toasted our good fortune with a lovely Bordeaux, and as the gregarious waiter who was feeding off our giddiness, went to put the bottle back on to its coaster, it didn’t quite make it.

As if in slow motion, all three of us watched in horror as the three-quarters full bottle of red wine teetered…then wobbled…then fell over onto its side –– glug, glug, glugging its contents directly onto his light tan chamois jacket, turning it the most beautiful shade of red.

The waiter, unable to right the bottle in time to stop the calamity was mortified, he gasped so loud the entire room turned around and went silent.

Bus boys came running from every direction with white towels, but there was no need—not a drop to clean up. Nope. Chamois is efficient that way.

It had soaked up the entire bottle.
I think I heard the jacket hick-up.

My husband and I looked over at each other and when our eyes met we burst out laughing.
Not an appropriate, embarrassed giggle. Oh no! Huge  loud, face contorting guffaws.
The kind of laughter that’s contagious; working its way around the room, making other people laugh for no apparent reason.

I could tell by their faces that most of the patrons were convinced we were insane.

Our sides hurt from laughing, I cried my false eyelashes off.

Within seconds, the waiter, who was certain that fateful night was his last, led the manager to the scene of the crime in order to smooth things over and calm us down. I think our hysterical laughter unnerved everyone more than if we had started cursing and yelling. Interesting, right?

“I can get this cleaned for you, or we’ll replace it” she offered in her best managerial voice.

That just made us laugh louder. “Too…expensive…” My husband gasped.
“You’d have to sell the place first” I managed to say, dabbing at the eyeliner that had run all over my face.

Then at the same time, we assured her “Oh, don’t blame the poor waiter…it wasn’t his fault — it’s this damn jacket!” Bahahahaha.

Expectations met. Jacket ruined. Check that one off the list.

*Addendum: The manager kept the chamois nightmare insisting she had “people” who could get the red wine out or they would replace it. We never expected to see it again. My husband found the charge on his AmEx just in case. Then we forgot about it.

Three months later she called to say that it was ready to be picked up. “Good as new” were the words she used.
I was skeptical, but there it hangs, in the closet, our little tan chamois mishap/miracle that reminds us all the time — you get what you expect.

Carry on,
Xox

If you haven’t read this yet…you must. I mean it.

I’m visiting a friend who is about a decade older than I am and often runs circles around me—and I love her for that! She was remarking with great disappointment the other day, how all her contemporaries do when they get together is complain about their health.

Fuck that!
I say, get younger friends!

One newish member of my tribe is thirty-five. Which mean she could be my daughter. The beauty of having her in my life, besides the snort laughs and introducing me to different emojis, is that fact that I know Steph would NEVER tolerate me going to bed early when she visits or hearing me complain about my sacroiliac (whatever that is).

So read this. It’s by Liz Gilbert and it may change your mind about things.
Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones –
This is a line my (73-year-old) mother said to me the other day while she was issuing a gentle warning not to fall into the trap of letting your life get smaller as you get older.

She was talking about how frustrating she finds it that — somewhere around the age of 50 or 60 — she watched as so many of her peers stopped making goals and long-term plans for adventure and exploration in their lives. Instead, they began shutting down, and making their lives smaller, and their minds smaller, too. She got so weary of listening to them making self-deprecating jokes about how old they were, and how much their bodies hurt, and how bad their hearing and eyesight was getting… She felt they had surrendered to age far, far, far too soon. My mom said, “Nothing is more frustrating to me than listening to people who are still vital saying, ‘Well, at our age, you have to be careful…'”

No. She begs to differ.

As you get older, there is no more time to be careful, and no more REASON to be careful — at least as my mom sees it. Instead, this is time to seize as much life and joy and adventure and learning and novelty as you possibly can. As my mom said, “I hate seeing people slide themselves into the grave far before their time. Death will come when it comes — but it’s crazy to sit around waiting for it. If you’re not dead yet, you’re not done yet.”

My mom thinks that everyone should have a five-year plan for their lives, and also a ten-year plan, and a twenty-year plan — and that every few years you have to revisit your plans to see if your goals and aspirations have changed…and that you should never stop making these plans, even as you age. (Especially as you age!) She has shared with me the travel she wants to do in the next 20 years, and work she wants to finish, the projects she wants to begin, the cultures she wants to explore, the people she wants to enjoy, her fitness goals…

It’s inspiring.

I have heard people speak of their lives as if they were finished at 30, done at 40, washed up at 50, too late to start over at 60, no more chances at 70…

But are you still here?
Then you aren’t done yet.

Don’t make your life smaller as the years pass. If it’s time to start over, then it’s time to start over. If you aren’t where you planned to be, then it’s time to make a new plan.
Today, I ask you all to share the most inspiring stories you know (from your own life, or the lives of others) about people who refused to be done yet because they aren’t dead yet.

Rise up, everyone, and keep rising.
We are still here. There is much to be done and enjoyed.
Let’s go.
ONWARD,
LG

“It is easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission”

This quote is attributed to Grace Hopper, a crusty old broad who, if given the choice, I’d want to sit next to at most dinner parties. Except she’s dead.

It should be attributed to my husband since he swears by it, lives it and quotes it almost daily.

He’s also pretty crusty and he breaks the rules. Rules are just suggestions to him. Gentle recommendations that are made to be broken. I find that quality sexy in a person. In men in particular. Really sexy. (I’m going to see if he’s still at his desk and tell him so. I’ll be back in…thirty…)

So sorry about that. Please forgive me.
Anyhow…

When you see a No Trespassing sign do you turn around or do you keep going? I keep going. I can’t help it.

I trespassed the shit out of my hikes around the hills of Soquel this week and it unleashed my inspiration.

My pup and I explored all sorts of forbidden paths, trails and otherwise off-limits parts of this gorgeous backcountry. Several Ted Kaczynski’s unleashed their hounds on us (no biggie, my dog is a one-woman welcoming committee, like the head of the local PTA, and the hounds all loved her. They’ve organized a bake sale and are coming over for tea at three.)

We happened upon a babbling brook, found someone’s abandoned Airstream trailer, stopped, kept from making eye contact, and turned around when we came across a guy, in the middle of nowhere, sitting in his junk heap of a pick-up truck, staring at us while he listened to a banjo strum slowly on the radio.
I’m not kidding.

Undeterred, we kept on walking the road less traveled (in the other direction), and two things came to mind.

In LA I powerwalk. I try to notice my surroundings but most days I’m focused on completing my 10,000 steps and getting my day started. These hikes among the pines, oaks, and lush green hills are food for my soul. I walk slowly, inhaling the scent of the moist, dark earth, moss, wet grass and the occasional field of wildflowers.

One road we trespassed on became so steep in the middle that I had to practice my yoga breathing in order to keep my heart INSIDE of my chest where it belongs when I noticed all of the delicious smells I’d been enjoying were gone. That’s just one of the things I hate about cardio (there are at least 500 more. I have a list.), it robs you of your senses.

My mouth was open so wide, gasping for air like a naked astronaut on the surface of Mars—that I couldn’t smell a thing.

So, number one: You must walk at a leisurely pace in order to smell the roses, so to speak. A full sensory experience cannot be had at 135 beats per minute.

Number two: Nothing interesting or noteworthy happens on the beaten path. It’s the safe route. Well traveled. Crowded actually. Every rock has been turned, every idea hatched.

I am convinced that in order to reach inspiration you must NEVER ask permission because more than likely—the answer will be NO.

Nope. You must trespass in life—then beg for forgiveness…then bring pie.

Carry on
xox

I’m visiting friends in Santa Cruz this week while my hubby races cars.

I know. Don’t cry for him Argentina. (Or as my friend’s seven-year-old daughter used to sing at the top of her lungs, “Don’t cry for me Art and Tina!” So, Art, Tina, don’t cry for him. He’s got a great life.)

And calling all potential burglars, you can help yourself to the leftovers in the fridge because besides those, there is nothing of any interest or great value left in the house.

All that being said, it was extremely windy here last night.
Like, up-end trees and decapitate wind chimes windy, which unnerved the boxer-shark. She doesn’t care much for any of the chaos brought on by this fast-moving air thing.

Occasionally it sounded like a freight train and at one point a door slammed loudly nearby, causing us both to jump out of our fur. Being that she was completely incapable of relaxing into it, every gust woke us up. I was an idiot for trying to sleep while wearing a dog as a hat because as everybody knows— misery loves company and dogs over fifty pounds, even on their best day, make terrible fashion accessories and bed companions.

Being that I was wide awake, I got to thinking…I am cursed with the four-legged version of the neurotic child I never had AND fast-moving air is similar to fast-moving water. It is loud and rambunctious and once maximum momentum has been achieved it can carry things away. Like leaves, hats, picnic table umbrellas — and at one point in my life, all of my hopes and dreams.

But when you harness their power — it can literally move mountains.

And just like the dog, we can get triggered by the messiness, the unpredictability, the volume, and the speed of fast-moving things, making us twitchy and scared—with a bad case of helicopter hair.
We tend to want them to slow down or stop altogether. Which if you think about it is like paddling upstream. Instead of using that forward momentum…we make everything, even sleeping, an upstream battle.

We become salmon. Except salmon have tiny little brains that have been taken over by their instinctive urge to spawn. And spawning wins. It just does. (Just so you know, there are no urges or spawning happening here in Santa Cruz. At least none on my part. You’ll have to ask Ruby if that holds true for her.)

In the past, I’ve done it repeatedly in relationships, spawning swimming upstream because I was feeling as if things were “moving too fast”.

Certain projects have acquired so much momentum that my instincts advise me to put the kibosh on them, to drag my feet so I can catch my breath.

It’s an energy thing. I start off in the direction of something I want really, really badly, and then I can get overwhelmed by the speedy trajectory. The fast-moving air thing. The torrent of water.
Metaphorically speaking of course.

Does that ever happen to you?

Recently, I’ve been getting into the habit of going with the flow and I’ve gotta tell you, it makes life so much easier than swimming upstream.
I can see how useless it is to fight momentum, it’s as moronic as the dog wishing the wind would stop.
And besides, my arms were getting tired.

Carry on,
xox

I have an admission to make. I love politeness.

I know that may seem untenable considering my foul mouth and general disregard for all things having to do with rules and decorum and yet…I love it when people are polite.

I’m about to reveal something so perverse you may want to hide your kids and gird your loins.
Here it is. Ready?

I’m polite.

To a fault. I open doors, Without being asked I give up my seat for those who are older than me (whose numbers are diminishing), I handwrite personal thank you notes, not emails, using real paper, and a pen. Then I actually mail it. With a stamp.

I dispense pleases and thank you’s like Tic Tacks. I even have the bad habit of thanking Siri which can start a whole “who’s on first” sort of endless labyrinth of questions. I don’t recommend it.

I let people with only a couple of items go ahead of me in line at the market, I help old ladies and the disabled navigate stairs, and I’ve been known to run two blocks to return a lost sock to a barefoot little kid in a stroller.

We all do that, right? No, not really. If it were commonplace it wouldn’t feel like such an anomaly. 

All of this to say, I know what it looks like, I recognize it in others and when its shown to me—I show great appreciation when I can. Like now.

The other day in the parking lot at Target—while unloading my overfilled cart (because, hey, it’s Target), I dropped my keys getting into my car.

I was rushing, which as we all know is the silent signal to the Universe that it must step in and slow us down—hence the key drop. Seeing that my hands were full, a lovely gentleman the age of a very expensive bottle of wine bent over to help me. I didn’t know he was there and that’s when we bumped heads…and I dumped the entire contents of my purse all over both our feet.

“Owwww!” we exclaimed in unison, laughing and rubbing our heads. He rubbed his own head not mine. In some countries rubbing another’s head makes you as good as married—so we were careful to keep our head rubbing to ourselves.

Luckily, we got distracted because simultaneously, out of my purse poured numerous packs of gum, my poo-poo spray, wallet, fifteen tubes of lipstick and enough spare change to send a kid to Harvard for four years.

Polite grandpa wasn’t even fazed although I saw him do a double-take as he handed me the pine scented toilet spray. “Yes, it’s a thing, old man. Women don’t want to stink up public restrooms so now there’s a spray for that. I know. I wish I’d invented it too. I’d be getting into a Rolls Royce while my chauffeur fetched me the Grey Poupon. ”

Anyway…as he stopped a double-A battery that was threatening to roll under my car with his foot (it was a dead battery from something, I can’t remember what, and I wanted to dispose of it properly so naturally it had been living inside my purse), I thanked him profusely for taking the time to help me out. He could have kept walking just like all of the other men and women who were trying not to stare.

That’s when he crossed the line. The line between mere politeness and hard-core chivalry. He opened my car door for me while I awkwardly climbed inside, apologizing the entire time.

Here’s the thing. I married my husband because he opened my car door for me on our first date—and every day since. Rain or shine the man opens my car door for me. That cancels out a lot of bad shit in my book. He could have the face of Shrek and smell like a thirteen-year-old boy’s feet and I would be able to overlook all of that and live with him in wedded bliss—because of the door thing.

Men, being polite to women?
Why is that so damn rare these days?

When you watch the old movies, all of the men opened car doors. (As an aside, you cannot find a photo later than 1960 showing a man opening a women’s car door. Seriously. I looked.)

They also lit cigarettes, pulled out chairs and actually stood up when a women entered the room!

The feminist in me used to find all of that demeaning, now I’m not so sure.

I blame women’s lib. I know it’s not a popular position to take, but it’s mine. I can’t blame the men these days. Any man under forty has no idea that that sort of thing, that respect toward women, used to be commonplace. When we burned our bras we also started opening our own doors and pulling out our own chairs, and all of that other stuff—because we could—and the men just followed our lead.

Don’t underpay me or talk down to me, you do that at your own peril, but it’s perfectly fine to hold the door so  it doesn’t slam in my face. I believe those things are mutually exclusive.

I suppose they’re a dying breed from another era. Men like that. My Target parking lot guy certainly was. As for my husband, well, he’s French and they still put women on pedestals made of cheese—and that’s okay by me.

Carry on,
xox

“A finite game is played for the purpose of winning, an infinite game for the purpose of continuing the play.” – Kevin Kelly

Oh Holy mutha. With everything I’m learning about life after death, about being immortal, continuing to play the game…because we’re never done…wow.
Carry on…and on…and on,
xox

I love this post from last year. I sat with my dearly departed Dad, In a church. wtf? Actually, church has been calling me again this year, not to sit through a mass, just to sit — what’s up with that?
Tradition. Life, Death, Love. Maybe you guys can relate.
Love you!
xox

DEVOTION

de·vo·tion
dəˈvōSH(ə)n/
noun.
1.) Love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity
synonyms: loyalty, faithfulness, fidelity, constancy, commitment, adherence,allegiance, dedication.

2.) Religious worship or observance.
synonyms: devoutness, piety, religiousness, spirituality, godliness, holiness, sanctity
“a life of devotion”

3.) Prayers or religious observances.

Devotion. What does that mean to me? What does it mean to you?

As a Catholic I thought I had an idea, but the edges have blurred and I’ve been left to define it for myself.

This is an interesting time of year.
It’s ripe with the energy of endings; and new beginnings.
Deaths and re-births —— figuratively and literally.

We can practice our devotion inside this energy of change with Easter, Passover, the full moon, eclipses, and all other assortments of ancient and new age cosmic rites of passage.

Take me for instance; I am sitting as I write this, in a pew, basking in the warm glow of stained glass, inside of St. John The Baptist De La Salle Catholic Church— the church I grew up in — the church of my youth.

The one where I whiled away hour after hour of my childhood.
Some in innocent devotion, kneeling with sweaty little girl hands piously folded together, fervently praying my little girl prayers and later, in a pre-pubescent stupor, stifling yawns during my eight years there in the late sixties, early seventies.

Now, I’ve gotta tell ya, this retired Catholic is finding it…surreal to be back here, and I have to make this snappy.

I could spontaneously combust if the powers-that-be realize that I’m here, or the light from that stained glass baby Jesus hits me just right.

All kidding aside, recently my Catholic roots have been calling me. Their siren’s song running lightly in the background of my life.

It all started when I began burning Frankincense incense in the mornings. I attempted subconsciously to counteract its effects by simultaneously playing a Buddhist chant, with mixed results — that smell to me, still to this day signals Lent.
Then I noticed, lo and behold it is exactly that time of year. Hmmmm…

That smell transports me back to Stations Of The Cross, a ritual of remembrance of the absolute worst day in the life of Jesus Christ.

As a little girl I loved rituals.
The smells, the cool, dimly lit ambiance, the notes played on the organ that resonated inside my chest and head, and the drone of the priest’s voice. They all conspired to “send me” to another place and time. (still do).

As I write this there is an actual organ rehearsal happening right this minute. Sending me…

Yet, even as that devout little girl I had a hard time wrapping my brain around commemorating the days leading up to someone’s horrible, torturous, barbaric death and THAT little kernel of doubt, that one right there, started my life as a seeker.

Devotion as religious observance.
I sat with my dearly departed father Friday in another church much closer to my home, (that now makes it twice in one week, a personal record as an adult).

We sat together devoutly, he with his invisible hand on my knee to keep me from bolting during Stations Of The Cross, the first one I’ve sat throughout since eighth grade. It was faster and much…dryer than I remembered.

And no fragrance of frankincense — a crushing disappointment.

Still, I sat with my dad on the tenth anniversary of his passing… in a church…during Lent. And only one of us made it out alive…barely.

I’ll tell anyone I did it for him, but truth be told, that experience was calling ME.

Devotion.  

To others?  To a practice?  To a cause? 

I think we can all relate to that.

How about…

Devotion as Love and loyalty, enthusiasm for a person or an activity.

To tradition.

To family , friends and matters of the heart.

To times past.

To ritual.

To the planet.

To sacred places; temples, sanctuaries, churches, nature, Sephora, the bakery.

To whatever sends you and floats your boat.

To kindness and courage.

To mala beads, crystals, chanting, yoga and meditation.

To ancient childhood memories resurfacing.

To triggers; Smells. Sounds. People.

I’m getting a bit misty-eyed over here.
It must be a combination of the lousy organ music (he just needs more practice), and the fact that my fifty-seven-year-old butt is currently seated on the same hard wooden bench that my innocently sweet, but always questioning, seven-year-old butt sat.

Devotion to change.
I used to believe that religion and spirituality were mutually exclusive.
One told you no, the other said… perhaps.

Call it old age, or just a general unclenching of the fists that happens naturally over time; but I’m finding myself more and more belonging to Team Meh where our motto is: “Well, that’s not my thing — but good for you!”

Devotion to Neutrality or I’m in a Switzerland State of Mind
Daily I struggle with judgment. I know, it’s just me.
I’m striving to be for more things than I’m against.

I feel like after this week I can move the Catholic religion to my neutral list. At last!

Some people hang out in groovy cafes and write.
I sit weeping in Catholic Churches.

Who knows what’s next?

Can you explain devotion? What are you devoted to, I’d love to know.

Happy Easter & Passover my loves,
Xox

Hi you guys,
Same day, different year!
I’ve posted this essay for the past three years and well, it’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!
Love you, Carry on!
xox

It’s my birthday today.
Yep, another year older. I’m game for that. It still remains better than the alternative.That is until death makes me a better offer.

Once upon a long time ago, a wise man told me that it’s very important to meditate on the day of your birth and to set an intention for the year to follow.

He also told me a story that I swallowed hook, line and sinker, and it went something like: Either the night before, or the night of your birth, you go before a council, in your dreams. You then state your case as to the reasons why you should be allowed to remain on the planet for another year.

What will you add?

What mark will you leave?

Will you move further toward your purpose, or stay asleep?

When he explained that to me over coffee and a huge dose of caffeinated conviction –– I took it very seriously…and I still do.

I used to look around at the people who appeared to just be marking time, figuring their council session probably didn’t go so well. Until I realized, someone could be wondering that about me. Everyone’s entitled to have an off-year, right?

The older I get, the more I understand that this is not a dry run. This is the real deal.

You’ve gotta try your damnedest to find out why you’re here, and then get on with it.

What do you think you last told the council?

That you’re going to spend another year at that dead-end job, or in that abusive, loveless marriage?

That you’re not going to take that trip you’ve always dreamed about…again?

That you’re not going to take any chances…you’ll be sitting on the sidelines, playing it safe again this year?

How would that go over with them? I’m thinkin’ not so good.

We may be given some slack in our twenties, ’cause we’re newbies, but by now, we had better make a hell of a case for walking the planet for another 365 days.

I only get the privilege of being me this one time around. I’m not looking at blowing it.

Maybe I stood before the council last night, or maybe it will be tonight. Doesn’t matter. I’m prepared, notes in hand, maybe even a PowerPoint presentation, my intention set.

I plan on kicking some serious butt this year.
Wish me luck.

Xox