“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.” – Chuck Palahniuk
At breakfast this morning, my BFF Steph and I were marveling at how kind and thoughtful the folks are here in the south, specifically Nashville and Huntsville since that is where my butt has sat for the past few days. I’m sure the rest of the south is equally kind. For instance, I know for a fact that the folks in my brother’s home state of Arkansas are top-notch, slap your mama, over-the-top nice.
Especially Billy. Billy is in a league all his own—but that is a story for another day. Suffice it to say, Billy has gotten me out of so many jams—technologically speaking, (and let’s be honest, are there any jams that are worse than a computer staring back at you with the black screen of death?) that I bought Billy a pony—on Amazon.
Anyway…Steph was relaying the story of her seat mate on the flight into Huntsville yesterday.
He was your standard issue, middle-aged guy, who’s been commuting from the state where he’d been transferred, back and forth to Alabama where his wife and daughter have stayed put until she finishes her senior year of high school.
In my tribe, we’ve been talking a lot lately about mindfulness—conscious living.
Why we want the things we want.
What are our expectations?
What do we hope to gain?
Will this decision add to my quality of life—or detract from it?
You know, all of those questions that make us formerly impulsive Bohemian types cringy and squirmy.
We have entered the phase of life where the opening line when you talk to God has changed from “Dear Lord, please give me what I want—to, Dear Wise One, please show me what I need.”
The man on Steph’s flight was coming back to be present at his daughter’s senior prom. The decision was easy for him as he explained, “You know those dates on headstones and the top of obituaries? The date of birth, then a dash and the date they died?” Steph nodded.
“In my family, we’ve decided to ”live the dash. To figure out what makes us happy between those two dates—and just go for it!”
I sat back in my chair for a minute taking that all in.
Don’t you fucking love that?
I never thought about mindful living quite that way before, but he’s right! There are a finite amount of years that fit inside the dash. How we fill that space is our choice. We can live unconsciously, (which to most of us means fearfully, cautiously), reacting to circumstances that seem beyond our control.
OR
We can take the reins and live the dash. Filling the space between those dates with love and happiness.
I choose the latter, don’t you?
Carry on,
xox
“I know a man who gave up smoking, drinking, sex, and rich food. He was healthy right up until the day he killed himself.”
~ Johnny Carson
I had a startling realization about myself recently, I am to the diet/health connection what the deniers are to climate change/global warming. I know that all of the studies are true—it’s just so fucking inconvenient!
Case in point.
I love to eat. Food makes me happy. Almost happier than good sex with bad boys.
Most of the time I try to eat healthily but I’m far from fanatical about it. Unless you count donuts. Donuts are my Kryptonite and they are banned from entering my house lest I devour an entire dozen, naked and dripping in raspberry jelly in the space of an hour. And here’s the thing, my body doesn’t react in a negative way at all, at least not in an overtly obvious way. I’m sure the blood sugar spike is off the charts, I just can’t see it so it doesn’t exist. The only thing I CAN see is the shame on my face in the bathroom mirror so that is deterrent enough for me.
Denial. That has been my default setting up until now.
Last week my husband and I did a cleanse. Not one of those highfalutin celebrity cleanses that promise you clear skin, shiny hair and an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. Nope, my husband absconded with some literature (basically, the how to’s—whys — and what for’s) of a client’s wildly expensive, doctor supervised cleanse.
Never ones to take things at face value and because we happen to be as cheap as the day is long, we decided to follow the basic tenet of the program—but morphed it to our liking.
Instead of their spendy protein shakes twice a day (at breakfast and dinner), we drank what we had on hand, our old faithful, Shakology.
We also included coffee.
And pumpkin pie.
Just kidding, No pie.
The rest of the day you are required to juice and I know how lazy I can be, especially when I’m in full victim mode, like during a cleanse, so I went to the grocery store (ours has a juice station in the produce dept.) and bought some juices to go so I’d have no excuse.
The cleanse advocates a healthy lunch of fish or a lean meat and filling up on tons of fresh veggies and fruit. My husband was great about that especially since the dinner of a protein shake loomed large for him.
Me, not so much. Once I get in full deprivation mode I tend to run with it in a religious pilgrim kind of way. I swing to an unhealthy extreme. If I was into pain I’d self-flagellate.
I know, what can I say, I need help.
All week for lunch I switched between albacore tuna out of a can, a baked sweet potato, or raw apples and celery. Instead of juicing them I ate them raw so I had something crunchy to gnaw on in lieu of my own foot.
We were both diligent. Our stick-to-itiveness impressed even me and I have impossibly high standards.
He was dropping weight at a slow and steady rate. I don’t weigh myself (long, violent story. A lot of scales were killed along the way so I won’t tramatize you with the details). Suffice it to say my skinny jeans moved out of the torture device category and back into fashion where they belong.
Then this happened. Nothing. At least not what I expected.
I didn’t get tired. I was filled with energy.
I slept great. I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (I finally know what the means).
I wasn’t angry about anything. My moods stabilized, giving me a perpetual skip-in-my-step giddiness.
I barely pooped and when I did it smelled like violets (okay, maybe a slight exaggeration).
I figure it even changed our character a little. We didn’t cheat. Not even little. And we kept on going through the weekend which is unheard of for us. It’s just a thing we’ve silently agreed to. We use the weekends, which of course start Friday night and last through Sunday, as neutral territory. Nothing sticks. No fight, no diet, and no freaking cleanse. Duh.
Except for some reason, this one lasted until a baby shower we were both required to attend on Saturday late afternoon.
I was reluctant to eat. I felt tentative around the crudites. Skittish. I eyed the cheese with suspicion.
He piled his plate with fresh bread and a perfectly ripe camembert but passed on the red wine.
Did you hear me? He passed on the red wine!
Who were we?
We were the freshly cleansed. That’s who.
After the smell of the dark, freshly baked bread took up residence inside my nose, hanging drapes and laying carpet, I caved too.
Cut to a couple of hours later with me in the car, prone, my pants unbuttoned, moaning.
I felt like shit. Worse that shit.
I felt like the foul smelling shit on the bottom of shit’s shoe.
When we got home I went straight to bed without my shake. So did he. It was 7:30.
Never in my long and illustrious life as a foodie have I noticed the connection between food and how it affected the way I felt more than I did that day. It made me a believer. A convert. And now a zealot.
I’m currently on a writing vacation with my tribe, happily eating my way through Nashville but I have to confess– I can’t wait to get back to my cleanse and the way it made me feel.
Has this ever happened to you? I need to know.
Carry on,
xox
“No apology has meaning if we haven’t listened to the hurt party’s anger and pain.”
~ Harriet Lerner
Have you ever been on the receiving end of a half-assed, half-hearted apology?
I have and it feels terrible. You almost wish the apologizer hadn’t opened their mouth at all.
We all know that someone who gets defensive the minute you disagree with what they’re saying.
Suddenly a discussion turns into an argument. They escalate it. They get BIG and they get LOUD.
Especially in public. They want to be right and they want you to drop the subject.
They try to humiliate you into dropping it.
When you get in the car (invariably you came together—you probably even live together), there’s an awkward silence and then maybe this…
“I’m sorry if you feel bad about …”
THAT is NOT an apology.
I’m no saint. I’ve also completely blown an apology. It’s usually so garbled, so difficult to get the words out since I can’t seem to remove my big foot from my mouth.
Take a look at this video. It’s a quick (a whopping minute and a half) snippet of a conversation between the all around awesome Brene Brown and relationship expert Harriet Lerner about how we’re wired for defensiveness.
https://www.facebook.com/SuperSoulSunday/videos/1234564259924425/
Bullet points in case you can’t find less than two minutes in your schedule. (You’re welcome—and shame on you!)
- You’re too busy listening for what you don’t agree with. ( So, then are you really listening?)
- You’re listening for exaggerations. (At our house it’s the two words NEVER and ALWAYS—we decided long ago that those two words are not allowed because nothing in life NEVER happens and ALWAYS happens.)
- You’re listening for the inaccuracies. (Keeping score, debunking percentages used, you know, general jackassery.)
I felt we could all use this little reminder going into the weekend when a couple of glasses of wine mixed with politics at dinner can be a recipe for disaster.
You guys, let’s all pay it forward, let’s learn how to say an authentic “I’m sorry.” The world will be a better place.
Care to share the best apology you’ve ever received?
Carry on
xox
Yuck it up big guy.
This post is from early last year and the good news is: nothing has changed. And the bad news? Nothing has changed. Cest la vie!
Big Love,
xox
***
My husband is a gem. He is a prince of a man. A tender-hearted soul who adores dogs, good food, boobs, and anything with an internal combustion engine.
Okay, now that I’ve made that clear let’s get real.
He can also be an asshole.
But, hey, show me the short list of who can’t.
Plus, I said ‘can be’ —not ‘IS an asshole’.
That’s a VERY big distinction and one that will probably save my marriage.
He has his moments, but then again, don’t we all.
He is also a MAJOR procrastinator.
Big time. A professional. It is such a finely honed skill of his, refined and practiced all these many years, that he is a MASTER Procrastinator.
He could teach it at the college level.
At Harvard.
Sir Raphael of the Bertolus, Professor of Procrastination.
Now you may be worried that he’ll read this and get angry. He will, and he will — he’ll get to it in about a month. That leaves me plenty of time to practice my apology, find my push-up bra, and cook him a nice dinner.
So, am I writing just to bag on my adorable hubster? Yes… and NO.
You see, this is all relevant because his behavior has surprised me lately. He’s taken on a new “ator”.
He has become The Validator.
Validation is just this side of a compliment so I think he’ll get to keep his *“I’m a Frenchman, The French don’t give compliments” card.
Just the same, he’s been showering everyone around him with the gift of validation and it sounds something like this:
HUB: “I told Matt that I was very happy with the fact that he’s treating himself to a nice, new motorcycle, you know he works really hard AND he takes care of his brother…”
ME: “Wow. That was nice of you.”
The following week,
HUB: “When I had lunch with Peter the other day I mentioned how impressed I am with him. He always seems to make the best, most measured and uncompromising business decisions. He’s a pleasure to observe.”
ME: “Wait, What? You said all of that to his face? Did he choke on his steak sandwich?”
Then, today…
ME: “Thank GAWD we didn’t run into anybody at lunch. It’s a miracle. I look how a fart smells. I have this freaking head cold so my entire face is a chapped disaster, my hair looks like fuel for a grease fire, and I smell like yellow toenails.”
HUB: “I really like that you can go out in public and not care if you’re all dolled up. You’re like Janet—Unplugged. That’s really great because when you DO get fixed up, it’s such a startling contrast that everybody realizes how good you clean up.” (OUCH. And Yeah! Okay, it’s not perfect but I got the gist.)
*SEE, HE GETS TO KEEP HIS FRENCH CARD.
ME: “You are…that is just so…Was that a compliment? I think it was. No, wait, it was that validation thing you’ve been doing lately.
It needs some polish but I like it!”
Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to — The Validator!
Which makes so much sense to me because he is such a silent observer of the human condition, only I guess now he’s decided to offer us all some validation on the wanky-wonky way we’re just trying to get by—just living our lives.
I think more people could use validating. Everyone needs to be acknowledged from time to time, right?
Don’t you agree my beautiful, smart and loyal tribe?
Carry on,
xox
“Can I get a little help here? Anybody?”
Oh, Hello Rut.
At least I think that’s you. I haven’t seen you in a while and even though you tend to show up in my life on a semi-regular basis—you rascal—you always fool me.
Never one to pass up a good disguise, in the past, you’ve arrived wrapped up in a blanket of safety and security—sunglasses—and a hat.
Always a damn hat.
“Tell me, who doesn’t love safety and security”, you coo. “No one”, I answer. “Unless… it starts to feel like a high-security prison.”
You scoff loudly and keep on digging a deeper hole.
Webster defines you as, A habit or pattern of behavior that has become dull and unproductive but is hard to change.
I don’t know why I listen to you but I do as you feed me all of your bullshit stories and disproven theories, and I’ve come to notice that when you’re around there may be safe & sound—but there’s no growth or change. Just more of the same ol’, same ol’.
I have to admit, that may feel good for a while but even a table full of chocolate gets boring if that’s all you get to eat for months. Sometimes a girl just wants a steak.
Lately, you’ve taken on the guise of rules and rigidity. Keeping to a strict schedule. No wiggle room, no deviation, no slack, no life—no kidding.
Then, like all Ruts do, you point at all of the surrounding chaos as you sing me a sweet lullaby and lull me into complacency. That all works fine as long as I stay inside of this hole you’ve dug for me.
But you see, here’s the thing: Writers/artists/people need to be IN the world not just OF it.
Sometimes a person needs to put their feet in the sand, feel the warmth of the sun on their face, and set out walking in a pine forest with absolutely no destination in mind. But with you around that isn’t easy. I can feel the tug of your two goons Shame and Guilt around my ankles pulling me back into the chair where they place my fingers firmly onto the keyboard all the while chanting “Write, write, write something good.”
So, I get it. This time you look like creativity wrapped in obligation, except everyone knows those two don’t mix.
They’re like oil and water,
Kanye and Taylor Swift,
Democrats and Republicans.
Be gone Rut! I’ve seen thru your latest ruse. You can go and look for another soul to crush but I’m ratting you out right here and now so…good luck with that.
PS. See ya. I’m going on a walk to nowhere and I can’t tell you how long I’ll be gone.
PPS. I hate your stupid hat.
Carry on,
xox
I don’t just appreciate this quality from my foliage, it is a quality I like in my friends too.
I like a friend who, even if you haven’t seen them in a while you don’t have that awkward “catching up” phase.
I like friends who require very little eggshell walking.
I like friends you’ve had long enough, and that you know well enough that you can order their drink to be waiting for them before they arrive at the table.
And like the tree I have in my front yard, I like to just begin where we left off.
No idle chit chat.
No shallow small talk.
Not with my friends, we like to jump right into the deep end.
Exactly like I do with you guys.
Carry on,
xox
#Ilovemytribe
“Be a matador” he yelled as I whimpered pitifully in the middle of a six-lane highway, traffic whizzing by us on both sides.
Not waiting for a break in the traffic he had grabbed my hand and run us between cars out to a place I try REALLY hard to never find myself. The middle of a busy street.
I hate that shit.
I will NOT play chicken, I’ll wait, or walk to the corner crosswalk thank you very much.
But to my French husband jaywalking on a busy boulevard is in his blood, a skill learned as a youth on the impossibly dangerous streets of Paris.
It is not a chicken sport. It is a bullfight. And he/we were Matadors.
Gulp.
Me: (leaning in, yelling above the noise of the cars) Wha…what? Did you say a matador?
Husband: Yes! Stand still! Don’t let the cars smell your fear.
Me: (Squeezing his hand like a vice grip, hoping to illicit pain) Are you crazy? What are you talking about?
Husband: (Yelling back at me through a smirk) Listen to me! All the greatest Matadors are French!
Me: You’re kidding me right? They are NOT French, they’re Spanish!
Did you see what he did there? He took my mind off of my predicament, knowing I would argue with him. Well played husband, well played.
Husband: I’m telling you, they’re French! They’re called Coreadors.
I was laughing nervously. Mostly at the absurdity of the conversation. I’m sure I appeared squirmy, uncomfortable and maybe a little hysterical. That comes from knowing that you’re probably going to end up as a splat on the windshield of a Prius.
Me: Shut. Up! They are NOT!
Husband: (Leaning in, yelling above traffic) Or Toreadors. Those are the guys on horseback.
Me: (Feeling queasy. close enough to death to relate to the bull) Uhhh! Stop! Bullfighting is barbaric! The French don’t have bullfighting! They’re WAY too civilized for that!
Husband: (Amused by my argument) That’s what YOU think!
By the way, can you believe we were still standing in the middle of a busy street? Me either, but we were!
Me: (Wishing I’d ordered the french toast as my last meal) Egads. Bullfighting. Brutal. Whoever thought that was a good idea?
Husband: The Romans.
Me: Figures.
With that, the last car hurtled past us and he yanked my hand and ran me to the safety of the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. We were both laughing, not at bullfighting because it’s a horrible practice*—but at the absurdity of our conversation.
Husband: God, you can be such a baby!
Me: God, you’re weird! And damn, the Romans were assholes!
Some story on the radio in the car changed the subject, but I had to share this.
Words from a French wise guy I know—When you’re in the middle of chaos—stand still—be a matador.
Carry on,
xox
*Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I am in no way condoning bullfighting and no bulls were killed in the telling of this story.
“Trust is like an eraser, it gets smaller and smaller after every mistake.”
Don’t task me with bringing the fruit salad to brunch. I cannot be trusted to pick ripe fruit so I screw it up every time.
Once, emboldened by the misguided faith that I’d picked well, I waited until the last possible minute to cut up the fruit and ensemble the salad. The peaches were as hard as baseballs, the strawberries were moldy and lo and behold I had chosen not one, not two, but three worm infested melons. A cantaloupe, a honeydew, and a casaba to be exact.
Cue the screaming.
You ‘d think at this stage of my life I’d have knocked on enough melons to know the difference, but alas, that is NOT the case. (For decades the same could be said for my ability to pick men.)
Now I know my shortcomings and after that horrendous episode I will volunteer for dessert duty (excluding fruit torts), or the cheese plate. Always the cheese plate. If you can have your pick of what to bring to a soiree, pick cheese. It’s next to impossible to screw up a cheese plate. (Unless you bring Velveeta. Although…at a wedding back in the day they served sliced Velveeta with a sharp cheddar and some brie and many of us scoffed. How incredibly low brow! Then, some of us covertly loaded up our napkins and scarfed it up secretly in a dark corner.)
I cannot be trusted to pick out glasses that compliment my features. I repeatedly go for style over substance, trendy and oversized. I am neither a millennial nor a hipster so I cannot carry off trendy trends but don’t tell that to my oversized purple cat eye frames.
I should stick to timeless. Classic style frames and cheese plates.
I cannot be trusted to know off the top of my head how to get anywhere.
And by anywhere I mean ANYWHERE.
I could not find my way out of a paper bag without GPS.
Don’t follow me because I can be counted on to walk in the opposite direction of where we’re headed.
Not just sometimes. EVERYTIME!
It’s a joke. But not a funny one. Unless you’re my husband who finds it endearing and thinks it’s hilarious.
You must always marry a man who laughs at your shortcomings.
I am a continuous source of entertainment for the man.
So in closing, pick the cheese plate, stay away from the fruit, don’t attempt purple cat eye frames (you’ve been warned), and pick a man who thinks wormy melons and watching you walk with determination in the wrong direction is a riot.
Carry on,
xox
“Boredom is the basement in the house of change.”
This post throws us all the way back to the end of 2015 but it feels more timely now than ever. Do we as women wait for things to implode in our lives before we make a change? Do we march our butts down to the basement where the dryer drowns out the whisper of discontent and fold socks, or do we pay attention to this soft whisper from the basement and make it our clarion call to change?
I would urge you to listen for the call.
xox
I just spent the day writing an article about getting divorced at twenty-six for a series on divorce at all ages.
I called it I Was A Twenty-Six Year Old Divorced Unicorn because that was how…um…unusual I felt at the time.
You see, my ex-husband wasn’t a troll. He wasn’t a bad guy in any way. We just weren’t a good match. But you need more than that as grounds for divorce. Right? I mean, how was I to know we weren’t a match that could pass the test of time when I married him at the tender age of twenty?
By twenty-six I was desperately unhappy. Like can’t eat, can’t sleep unhappy.
Today I searched for the one word to describe how I felt at the time. At twenty-six I was not able to articulate exactly what I wanted and what I felt was missing. All I knew was that in my heart of hearts—I wanted more.
More than this relationship.
More than this husband.
More than this “until death do us part” commitment that was feeling more like a prison sentence than a wedding vow.
That’s when it suddenly hit me. Greedy. I felt greedy. On paper, I had so much. Everything. What all my girlfriends were clamoring for.
Greed instead of gratitude one friend scolded.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
“You want more? More than what?” my dad had asked barely hiding his disgust upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “He’s a great guy and a good provider. What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!”
He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.
I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing and that I wasn’t able or willing to settle.
So that made me feel greedy. And greedy felt wrong.
Other people settle. Why can’t I?
Believe me, when I say, it would have been so much easier to just stay married!
“I’m a freakin’ unicorn! An anomaly; and NO ONE understands or knows what to make of me!”
Once I was single, I found out guys didn’t want to date a twenty-six-year-old divorcee. Used goods. High maintenance.
Typical First Date Conversation:
“So, you ever been married?”
“Yeah.”
“Really? He die?”
“Uh, no, we’re divorced.”
“He cheat on you?”
“Nope.”
“He left you?”
“Nope. I left him.”
(Beat) “Waiter, check please!”
Obviously, I needed to set my bar higher.
What I eventually discovered, after a whole lot of sleepless nights, and years of pain was that there were benefits to divorce; to asking more from life; to refusing to settle; to being greedy.
I also forgot that a Unicorn is a mystical, rare and beautiful creature.
So I’m curious…
This being what it is, more of a stream of consciousness, I want to turn the tables and ask you guys:
Q- What does it mean to you to settle? When have you done it and when could you not?
Q- Do you agree with the word greedy? What word would you choose when things look good but you want more?
Q- Are you a Unicorn? Why?
I love you all madly, carry on,
xox
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