Life

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.

The things that never ceases 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 the 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 apparently robbing a bank after too much wine at lunch. You see, even at the reduced price it still cost more than our monthly mortgage payment. Times three more. It was so expensive even I blanched — but love is love.

The reason my frugal hubby paid this kings ransom for a jacket is because it’s like wearing a second skin (literally) or marshmallow — 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 almost attract liquid to them, and as such are never to be worn in Miami. We felt safe in old parched, drought-stricken, wizened raisin California.

What could go wrong?

Oh gosh, 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.

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 in the back of our minds on the ride to the West Side 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 onto 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 was mortified, he gasped so loud the entire room turned around and went silent.

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

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

When we looked over at each other and 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 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. We never expected to see it again. My husband found the charge on his AmEx just in case. Then we just 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

Welcome to another Jason Silva Sunday!

With all of the cosmic shenanigans happening around us as I write this, portal openings, alignments, energy shifts and new potentialities –– this is true now more than at any other time…the edges of what is real are blurring and boundaries are being dissolved.

xox

This is a sculpture I own which I call LETTING GO.
I had to show you the entire piece, but if you zoom in on her face –– it’s eerily peaceful…in her free-fall into the abyss. Hauntingly so.
I learn from her every day.

This poem by Safire Rose is the perfect reminder for this BIG energy of NEW BEGINNINGS that is currently pouring in. FIRST you have to Let Go. BTW –– it is in no way gender specific…men too!
Carry On,
xox

She let go.

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear.

She let go of the judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.

She didn’t search the scriptures.

She just let go.

She let go of all of the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.

She didn’t call the prayer line.

She didn’t utter one word.

She just let go.

No one was around when it happened.

There was no applause or congratulations.

No one thanked her or praised her.

No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort.

There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.

It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face.

A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…

~ Rev. Safire Rose

You know that phenomenon that occurs when you spill red wine? How it is attracted to anything residing in the white color palette?

And even though it was only half a glass (okay maybe 3/4 of a glass – it was shitty day) the spillage appears to be more like an entire bottle and requires four rolls of paper towels to clean up.

You familiar with that scenario?

One glass of wine that has now ruined:
1) Your new silk and linen blend light beige pants that you’re wearing for the first time.

2) The white flokati rug that has the nerve to sit under your friend’s coffee table. (Who has white rugs?)

3) Your reputation as someone who can balance a glass of wine, a cocktail napkin, eat some kind of tartlet stuffed with cheesy goodness — and tell a funny story, without spilling a single drop.

What about a drop of black dye in a cup of water?
It swirls and undulates, acting as if it’s alive as it permeates every molecule.

Until in a matter of seconds it appears as if by magic that the entire contents of the cup had turned the color of midnight.

A single drop.
An entire glass.
Saturation.

When I wake up in the mornings, even before I get out of bed, I practice gratitude.

I’m thankful that I had the good fortune to wake up, that I can smell coffee in the other room, and that I don’t have to be woken up by the shrill ringing of an alarm.

I do that to get myself into a good feeling place. To keep my imaginary glass of water clear. It makes for a smoother, better day all around.

Most days I can stay there on pretty solid footing.

Other days I can’t make it to the bathroom without the spilled wine worries invading my thoughts; staining everything I think.

Recently, it seems as if black ink has been saturating me right as I come to consciousness. I think one nice thought and I get hijacked. BLAMO!

Black ink in the form of a troubling thought is swirling in my head as I try to find my balance; it’s reminding me of something awful, making gratitude the boulder I’m now struggling to push up the mountain of my mind.

If it takes hold I’m screwed. Covers over the head, might as well go back to sleep and reset, kind of screwed.

You all know how that goes. Once the wine or the ink stains your brain, once it permeates the entire glass of water, it is such an effort to escape –– it can ruin a whole day.

Then I remembered what my husband told me he was doing. Instead of letting an awful thought take hold and then attempting to play catch-up all day; he just kept his gratitude driven thinking going 24/7.

It took work but he was up to the challenge. The alternative was unacceptable –– it felt like hell.

“You can’t process thoughts from opposite parts of the brain at the same time.” He reminded me. “It’s impossible! Try being sad and grateful at the same time. Or happy and anxious. Love or hate. You just can’t do it. So I just drive around these days, ALL day –– feeling appreciation and gratitude. It keeps my thoughts from going dark”

He was right! (Damn, I hate when he’s right – insert forehead slap here) but what he’s doing is SO much easier than trying to turn your emotional ship around after its run aground.

You have the choice to pick a better thought. You do. I challenge you to try it.

Don’t get me wrong, some days are going to be a fight.
A fucking fist fight street brawl.

It will feel like using a tweezers and a magnifying glass to look for a needle of happiness inside of a haystack of sad.

But don’t give up. I know you; you won’t. You’re scrappy like me.

Feeling grateful, or something above despair, even in the shit times, is like those drops they give you to take to the Amazon to clear the water of all those swimming amoebas that’ll kill ya.

You swirl it around for a couple of minutes and viola! Your cup is full of crystal clear drinking water.

Let gratitude clear your glass of water. If gratitude is too far of a reach try a happy place moment.

I go to a beach on Maui on a seventy-two degree day, with zero wind, perfect rolling waves, warm water and my twenty-five year old body…sadness, at a least for a few minutes – out of sight, out of mind.

It’s a start, and SO much better than an entire day of feeling bad.

That’s all.

Carry on,
xox

This speaks volumes…lets free ourselves, shall we?
Let’s all mind our own business.

Carry on,
Xox

“If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.”
-Emile Zola

Hi Guys,
I freakin’ love this!
Ask yourselves –– What would you do in this situation?
(I’d be super squeamish about cutting up an entire fish, blech!)
I think we should ALL push ourselves outside our comfort zones more often. Who’s with me?
Carry On,
xox

You Guys!
I’ve started playing this new game recently. Actually, I’m obsessed with it.

It’s called seeding. No, I’m not planting wildflowers, I’m planting money$.

Yes, you heard me, I’m leaving money on the ground wherever I go.

It’s a practice that’s been around for a while, and I was recently reminded of it by something written byPam Grout of “E-Squared” fame.

The idea is to leave a few dollars on the ground or indiscriminate places along your daily path. It’s more than just leaving a few extra bucks in the Starbucks jar, it involves the element of surprise.

You know the thrill you get when you find twenty dollars in the pocket of a jacket you haven’t worn in a while?
I do the happy dance when that happens because I love an unexpected windfall. Hey, who doesn’t?

What about finding money on the ground?
I used to find dollar bills or wads of cash on my hiking trial on a regular basis. It made me feel lucky and special and …rich.

And that’s the point.

I don’t really have the extra money to be throwing around right now, but I’m getting such a rush from this game that I can’t help myself.

I wrapped a five dollar bill inside of a one dollar note because of the wow factor. That happened to me recently and it made my day.
I thought I found a couple of bucks but as I unpeeled the wad each bill got larger. It was twenty-eight dollars in all –– an absolute found fortune and it bought my friend and me lunch!

I’m a firm believer in what goes around comes around, but I swear you guys, that’s actually secondary to how much fun this is, picturing people finding your little seed money. (You WILL start finding money BTW.)

Trust me, NO ONE is so jaded that finding some cash doesn’t make them smile.

What I know for sure is that the money finds it’s way to the people who need it. That’s the intention behind this little experiment, so don’t be worrying that Joe Fat Cat is gonna run away with your seed money. It ain’t gonna happen, so don’t use that as an excuse.

Believe me, the ones who find it will be extremely grateful. They will feel blessed and fortunate and lucky. Those are the seeds you’re planting. What a gift you’ve given them –– and yourself.

Try it. A couple of dollars isn’t going to make or break you and I swear –– it’s addictive.

My friend leaves a buck or two under her seat in the subway.

I drop a wad of ones outside my car just before I drive away.

I left three dollars in the park.

I leave dollar bills under tables and booths in restaurants, for the person who sweeps up to find as they close up.

I scatter money on my walk in the mornings (no, I won’t tell you the route).

I live in a walking neighborhood with lots of families, kids and dogs, so I left some cash in front of my house between my driveway and my neighbors and no one found it for a whole day. (As a side note, it’s weird, most people don’t look down at the ground.) Anyway, I kept checking and when it finally disappeared…it felt like Christmas –– I smiled my ass off.

I left four dollars on the floor of my car at the car wash –– and the lovely, honest guy who was vacuuming came and found me to give it back. Don’t you just love humanity?

Drop some seed money this week and write and tell me how it went and how great it felt. You won’t be disappointed.

Carry On,
xox

*Below is a post from last year that got a lot of play. I like the story and I stick with my observation about people in LA. I should know, I was born here after all.
Watcha think?

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox

Uh oh…this one’s a real challenge for me.

When you’re grieving a loss it is impossible to escape the memories. No place is safe.

Every room, chair, blanket, toy, vomit stain, neighborhood walk, and piece of grass is a minefield of emotions.
That applies to the loss of a dog.

For a human being you can just multiply that by a quadrillion.

Since daylight savings time had the bad taste to pick last weekend, the weekend of her death to bestow upon us its gift of an additional hour of daylight, I had the poor judgement to sit out in the backyard and write.
My bad.

It was one of her favorite places.
It is dog Disneyland, containing all the essentials required for canine happiness.
Grass, toys, balls and frisbees, and the arms with which to throw them (ours), so our OCD dog could wrangle you into a game of catch no matter what other plans you had made for yourself.

Nap? Nope – Catch.

Settle in and read a book? Nope – Catch.

Bar-B-Q, talk with a friend, write a book? Nope, nope and double nope. But good try.

Time for a relentless five-hour game of catch!
You get the picture.

The boxer-shark puppy, Ruby, did not inherit the ball, frisbee, play catch gene.

She inherited a whole myriad of other traits that are even more annoying, like digging up lawns and eating expensive furniture, but that particular “play catch/fetch” gene? It skipped her entirely.

If you throw a ball her way it will hit her in the head and then she’ll watch it as it rolls right past her. Believe me, I just tried to play fetch with her on Sunday.

But that was then –– this was Monday evening.

We were sitting in back, remembering the old girl and crying.
Okay maybe not we, me, I was. My husband I’m sure was thinking: please for the love of God woman, give it a rest.

But grief didn’t care. I was grief’s bitch. Grief was the boss of me.

Anyway…after a half an hour of hearing me carry on, waxing poetic about how Dita would be playing ball right now, Dita would be next to me with the Frisbee,something had to give. With an exasperated sigh the puppy got up off the ottoman, stretched, sauntered over and picked up a tennis ball in her mouth, brought it over to me and dropped it at my feet.

Then she looked up at me with her big soulful eyes, so full of compassion that said: Shut the fuck up already, Here! Throw the God damn ball!

I half-heartedly picked it up and gave it a sideways toss onto the grass, never for one minute expecting what happened next. Instead of watching it whizz by her head like she usually did, the puppy bolted out to the lawn, stopped its momentum, picked it up in her mouth and ran it back to me… Just like Dita.

I jumped to my feet,“Did you see that?” I yelled, wiping the tears from my eyes to clear my vision. Had I imagined it?

My husband straightened in his chair. “Do it again” he said.
And I did; over and over for almost a half an hour. She fetched every ball, just like Dita. As a matter of fact EXACTLY like Dita. Same energy level, same ferocity, she even made the same little growl when she picked it up off the grass.

“If I bounce this ball and she spikes it with her nose, I’m gonna lose my mind” I announced very enthusiastically to my bewildered husband. “Because then I’ll know. That dog isn’t Ruby, that is Dita in that puppy body, playing catch with me so I’ll stop being so sad.”

And on the next bounce she did. She spiked the ball off her nose and caught it in mid-air. Just. Like. Dita.

“If I hadn’t just seen that with my own eyes…” my husband said, shaking his head, eyes welling up with tears.

Here’s the thing:

Our animals, family members, and all the people we hold so dear would never want us to suffer over their loss, that I know for sure, so I think they give us the gift of their presence, even just for a minute, to lessen our grief, and let us know they are near.

I’ve heard and read numerous stories about occurrences that cannot be chalked up to coincidence.

Favorite perfume in the air, music they loved on radio, seeing their name everywhere, even an athletically challenged, previously uninterested puppy playing an all-star game of fetch.

All that just to let us know that they’re fine, they are with us and for God sakes stop crying!

Addendum: That incident helped me to really feel her near me, which then in turn gave me comfort –– she didn’t feel so far away. I feel so much better AND I tossed a ball Ruby’s way this morning…it hit her in the leg and rolled unnoticed into the bushes…just sayin’

Carry on,
Xox