Life

This is a recent Facebook post by Dr. Lissa Rankin (whom I Love).

xoxJ

Take it away Lissa:

About a year ago, when I was posting something about a life challenge I was experiencing, Kelly Flanagan sent me an email quoting Susan Thomas Underwood.

It was exactly the guidance I needed, and I have a hunch that YOU need this today:

“I used to think that any door could be opened.
Some stood freely open, some could be opened easily; some were harder to penetrate. Sometimes you had to knock, sometimes bang, sometimes charge; but always, a door could be opened. Goals in my life were accomplished this way. No matter what I wanted; I accomplished it because I was willing to pound and pound against its door.
But I no longer live this philosophy, because I walk the path Creator prepares for me. Maybe I am not supposed to pass through a particular door. I have quit deciding which doors I wish to pass through. I have learned to let Creator open them for me.

You see, I am a rancher and I raise cattle. I know that my cattle and I do not speak the same language, and I cannot tell them where I want them to go. The way I show them is by opening gates. If I don’t want them to go into this or that pasture; I shut the gate. If I want them in a certain place, I open a gate. If there is not gate, I get between them and the place I do not want them to be with my horse or my truck, I provide obstacles. I guide them in this way.
Because the language of this world and the spirit world is different; communication is obscure.
I have learned that Creator guides me in the way that I guide my cattle.
Now, I look for open doors, for they are open for a reason. Doors are shut for a reason.
I am not saying the path is easy; there is much work walking the path Creator places before us. However, our precious energy does not have to be spent pounding against doors. Our energy can be saved for the path beyond the door. I’m saying to look for the open doors; for they mark your special path, your purpose, your dreams.”

I love these as a litmus test.
We should be able to stand behind one of those one-way mirrors that they have in police stations and episodes of Law and Order, and put that “special someone who we’re thinking of committing to, through these circumstances.

They don’t have to pass all three – how about two out of three? I’m not a total ass.

I’ve seen men walk with a CLOSED umbrella over their heads. Like its emasculating to try to stay dry. “Real men get wet.” Sorry guys, that’s a fail.
Kinda like not turning on the windshield wipers until you can barely see – so as not to scratch the glass. (One guy’s excuse, as we narrowly missed hitting a pedestrian) Fail.

I once traveled overseas with a guy who had purchased brand new expensive Hartmann luggage.
The whole matching set. They were so new and beautiful they screamed STEAL ME.
Alas, the garment bag didn’t show up for 24 hours.
He didn’t need ANYTHING in that bag that day; it was 2am when we landed. He had his toiletries and two other suitcases of stuff, yet he pitched a fit that came close to starting an International incident, in a room that had one naked little lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and a clerk who I’m positive spoke not one word of English. He just kept nodding, handing us coffee, and paperwork to fill out. Mountains and mountains of paperwork.

Well played airport luggage guy. I didn’t sleep for two days from all the strong coffee, but I found out who I was dealing with the minute I landed on foreign soil.
Fail.

Now, I can snark away at the previous failures because it is I who fail the tangled Christmas light test. EVERY FRICKIN’ YEAR.

I will swear under oath, on my mother’s life, that I put them away neatly wrapped into a tight circle with the ends plugged into each other, yet, when I take them down from the attic every year, they look as if they have been stolen by honey badgers to make a nest, or used to light the Eiffel Tower or to start a yarn ball; and then thrown back in the box as the biggest, tangled mess that ever existed.
Lights are missing; some are broken.
How is that even possible? They obviously live a life from January to December; that I know nothing about.

AND they NEVER light the second year. What’s up with that?

The box guarantees: will light up even if lights are missing.
It’s a mortal sin to lie at Christmas – Christmas Light Company. Don’t BS a Catholic.

Impossibly tangled with only half the strand lit up. I can feel my blood pressure spike.

Now it’s a thing. They do it to mock me.

But I’ve created my own solution:
I have two imaginary twin sons that help me decorate for Christmas, since my husband is related to the Grinch and stays as far way as possible on tree trimming day.
Timmy and Tommy.
They are gay and they are fabulous. They wear Christmas sweater vests and make Martha Stewart look like a hack.
We make cider and put on the carols and then I make them take the lights out of the box. I see them trying to hide the tangled mess from me, behind their backs. I’ve kicked my Christmas tree until it begged for mercy – out of frustration.
Two hours to untangle the fucking lights and then they don’t light? Do you blame me?

So the past few years I’ve just gotten drunk on egg nog or spiked cider, sung my Karen Carpenter carols and let my imaginary boys do it all for me.

So now you know. I have a wicked temper, a vivid imagination and I need to get a life.

Hey, I said two out of three, remember?
Maybe my husband isn’t the Grinch. Maybe he’s just smart.

What are your two out of three?

xox

I really love Kate Northrup. She is a fresh, new voice in the “Spiritual Self Improvement” genre.
I’ve been a devotee of her mom, Dr. Christiane Northrup for years. Her books about navigating menopause have talked me down off the ledge many, many times. More times than I’d like to admit.
I discovered my beloved naturopath, Dr Holly Lucille, through her website, back in the day.

I found this article of Kate’s particularly insightful and we’ve been discussing it in the Wednesday Woman’s Group for two weeks, and again today in my writing Mastermind session.

So here’s the question: What’s the payoff for staying stuck?

When days, months, years or even decades go by, and you haven’t accomplished what you say is your heart’s desire…could you have an even deeper, more subconscious desire that overrides all that?

For instance, you may be able to trace the fact that you never get the time or opportunity to travel, which you say you’re dying to do, back to an even deeper desire for routine and normalcy, the VERY THINGS travel shoots to hell. So those deeper, ingrained desires will cancel out the travel – every time. Get it?

Here, take a minute to read Kate’s article, and start to become aware and make the changes you need to get unstuck.

Happy Friday!

xox

http://www.katenorthrup.com/what-are-you-getting-out-of-staying-right-where-you-are/

http://drhollylucille.com

http://www.drnorthrup.com

Hey Loves,
It must be Wisdom Wednesday or Humpday Happiness or something to that effect because…Here’s more of my man – Jason Silva.
Better than a shot of espresso.
You’re Welcome.
xox

When my inner Miranda comes out, asking the hard lawyer questions, being all judgy and playing the perpetual devil’s advocate – I want to kick her ass.

Seems she’s my inner cynical adult. She doesn’t believe in love or magic or happy endings.
I didn’t cast her in that role, yet, there she is – big shoulder padded business suits, short, choppy red hair and all. She snuck in there around the millennia…and stayed.
“Well, what does that mean? You’ve GOT to be kidding me. What are you going to do about that? When are you going to take care of that?” she asks, with no hint of inner sweetness, just lawyerly cross examination, tinged with disdain.

My inner Judge and confidence executioner is Miranda Hobbes from Sex And The City.

While single and in my late thirties, early forties, I never missed Sex And The City.
I could totally relate to the friendship between the four girls, and the similarities between their life and mine.
New York, LA, it didn’t matter. Dating was dating; and several episodes felt so familiar, I had a sneaking suspicion that my apartment was bugged, my phone conversations were taped, and there was a mole in my circle.

The parallels were uncanny.

For about five years I spent almost every weekend either at a wedding, IN a wedding or at a bridal or baby shower, just like the girls.

I was tragically single – no kids. Shoes, dating, shopping and eating at the latest, greatest restaurants were my hobbies. I spent every dime I made until my accountants had a literal intervention with me, and made me buy a house. Like Carrie.

I may have had my sexually promiscuous moments (okay, years) but it was all to avoid true intimacy, like Samantha.

I didn’t feel so bad when Miranda fell hard for Steve and then ended it because – well – he was just a big hearted, underachieving, bartender, and not so ironically at the time I had just endured a break up with a handsome, unemployed actor – with a heart of gold.

And I too had divorced a perfectly lovely man with mother issues, just like Charlotte.

I would say, at that time, I was a composite of all the girls.

For two years I even had a Mr. Big.
He lived in New York. Tall, dark, handsome and mysterious, with the big job, the driver and the arrogant attitude. He found me interesting and a challenge; I thought he was always pulling a fast one. He and his life didn’t seem for real.

Just like Carrie’s Big, he called me kiddo or kid, which I hated, because I wasn’t a kid, it felt condescending as hell, and I was convinced he’d just forgotten my name.
So many cites, so many women.

Sometimes we were pals, sometimes we were lovers.
It was all very confusing. We’d bicker incessantly and one of us would end it about once a month. Then, after about two weeks, a first class plane ticket, an Hermes scarf or something from Tiffany’s would arrive via FedEx, or he’d call me from the airplane (which was a huge deal back then) or wish me good night with Italian church bells ringing in the background.
These romantic gestures were enough to open the lines of communication, and the next thing I knew, he’d schedule me into his life for a weekend, or I’d fly to New York for great make-up sex.
We finally stopped trying to make it something it wasn’t – a relationship; and within six months, it all just faded away.
A friend of mine who lives in New York reports that he’s still single and quite the player.

So years later, Mr. Big on SATC would make me squirm – too similar – hey, maybe my Big’s phone was bugged.

But I digress. Back to Miranda.
I caught a SATC marathon the other day, as a guilty pleasure, while I was under the weather, and Miranda was really annoying me. I always found her to be a perfectionist, a hard ass and difficult to please and… Shit – Miranda, my least favorite character, I now realize, SHE is the shitty voice inside my head.
Doesn’t that just figure? She’s a perfect fit for the embodiment of the critical me.
Makes sense since that was the role she played so well in the series.

I’m going to contact Critical Casting and see if I can change things, switch it up a bit. Miranda is someone from a life so long ago; I think I can give my inner bitch a more current persona; like lets say…Chelsea Handler?

Who personifies your inner critic? Whose the voice of your inner bitch? Is it time for an update? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below!

xox

One is interesting – Both are true.
Have a great Sunday everyone!

Xox

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me.
I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons.
I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities.
In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement.
Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals.
And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

This quote has been making the rounds recently, attributed to Meryl Streep.
The problem is, this quote is actually from the pen of Portuguese self-help author/life coach José Micard Teixeira – not a woman, and not an elder, but a younger man who is suddenly becoming the “not Streep” Internet celebrity of the month.

It makes no difference to me, I’ve got no patience for that stuff.
I just love the quote.
Happy Wisdom Wednesday!

Xox

We need to carry this chart around with us at all times, because
most of us have a hard time articulating our level of pain.

My husband goes to the head of the class.
Classic story.

It was back a few years ago, when he discovered (on Web MD in the middle of the night) that he had appendicitis.
I scoffed at his self diagnosis, of course, suggested he had gas; and told him to buck up and take a couple of Motrin.
Wife of the Year, I know.

Since he was due to leave on a motorcycle trip to the Sierra’s the next day, unbeknownst to me, he went to the doctor.
THAT should have told me something right there, because he’s someone who can have a chainsaw stuck in his neck and he will sidestep a visit to the doctor.
“Oh that? Nah, I don’t need a doctor, I’m just going to observe it.”

He called me at work from St John’s, where he had been sent immediately by his doctor for an MRI.

He got the results while I was on the phone. He was told to go directly to Emergency, where they would admit him for surgery; seems his appendix had a slow leak and I was going to have to give back my medical diploma.
Gas it was not.

I drove like a maniac, in a thunderstorm, to make it across town at rush hour, to see him before they took him in to operate.
When I got there (late) he was in Emergency, hooked up to antibiotics and pain meds, waiting for his turn in surgery; doing his Sudoku and entertaining the nurses.

“What’s your pain level, one to ten?” the friendly nurse asked while I was hugging him hello.

“Three or four” he said, without even a cringe.

“Really? What’s a ten to you?” The nurse was curious, since appendicitis is up there on the pain scale – for most mere mortals.

“Being skinned alive or boiled in oil” he responded, completely serious.

“Huh… okay Braveheart, have you felt that? How would you know? I’m asking you as a point of reference.”

But that’s a great question.
What is a five or an eight or even a ten?

I wondered, have I felt a ten? 

We all know those individuals to whom a paper cut is a ten. Are most of us even aware of our pain tolerance scale?

Minutes later his appendix burst.
If he’d been riding the back country of the Sierra’s—he’d have died.
He hadn’t been accurately portraying his pain, because he didn’t know how.
“It’s a ten, it’s a ten, maybe even eleven!” he yelled as she injected morphine straight into his IV, his whole body relaxing, his eyes rolling back into his head.

They rushed him into surgery and he is now happily appendix free.

It appears to me that this list could apply to emotional pain as well.
Will we tolerate three’s and four’s as we “observe” the situation?
What constitutes a ten? The equivalent of emotional stigmata or boiling oil?

Food for thought.

Copy this list and keep it with you – in case someone asks.
I especially love the faces.

Love,
Xox

Here he is again. My man, Jason Silva.
Three of my greatest unspoken wishes are to have just one tenth of his enthusiasm, one quarter of his ability to speak extemporaneously, with great passion, about pretty much any subject, and one third of his curiosity and wonder for life.
Do yourself a favor, take a look.

Happy Saturday Everyone!
(My favorite day of the week)

xox

“I don’t trust people who don’t love themselves and tell me, ‘I love you.’ … There is an African saying which is: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.” 
― Maya Angelou

And here I thought you’d all run me out of town with pitchforks and torches.

Whoa and Wowza you guys!
The post about “becoming the other woman” went viral! 

Once again it just proves my theory (which over a lifetime of study SO extensive, that I’m going to seek Government funding) is this:
There are more of you tramps out there than I ever imagined.
NO! NOT THAT ONE!

Whatever we’ve all done in our lives, the good, the bad and the ugly; there are others out there that have been gooder, badder and uglier. (Tweetable – oh maybe not)

In other words, it’s human nature.

Some of you were brave enough to share your stories with me by commenting on Facebook and the blog, while others of you are still in the Dating Married Men Witness Protection Program, so you just emailed me, using an alias, or wrote something in lipstick on the inside of a matchbook and left it on the windshield of my car. 

Hey, no judgement here.

I think the take away is that no matter at which stage you realize something is wrong; it may be being confronted by the wife, or temporary incarceration (what?) you can turn the ship around and do the right thing.

Sorry, I don’t care WHO you are. If you’ve had the privilege to live into middle age, this I know FOR SURE:
We ALL have rips in our moral fiber.

We’ve ALL made some questionable decisions that lead to some really shitty mistakes.

We’ve hurt people. Innocent, decent people; and maybe we didn’t even know it – or perhaps we did.

We’ve spent money that wasn’t ours, or pretended to be something we weren’t; we told lies.

That’s one of the biggest things about cheating and betrayal – the breech of trust.
It leads us to always wonder; ‘If they lied about THAT, what else are they lying about?’

I’m actually glad I had that experience with lying and sneaking around, so young.
After the fact, even though I could justify it to myself by thinking, ‘Oh, my husband ignores me, and I’m in an unhappy marriage’, it required me to do some heavy soul searching.

I wondered, ‘Am I someone who cheats? Am I someone to whom lying comes easy?’ and the answer was…NO.
A resounding NO. I had tried it and I sucked at it. It made me sick and a nervous wreak, THANK GOD.

I knew if I ever got married again, I would be faithful AND I could never get a job with the CIA.

I’ve met, numerous times in my life at this point, the people to whom this is a piece of cake.
It is effortless, smooth as silk.
Holy shit they scare me.

You are not them and neither am I. They don’t read or write blogs like this.
Blogs like this cause them to spontaneously combust.
So does introspection of any kind.

When you come across these people from now on…cross the street.
Save yourself the trouble.

And hey, don’t make a career out of feeling bad about the times you didn’t.

“Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.” 
― Maya Angelou

Xox