Rules

I’m not particularly proud of what I’m about to say, but I seek solace in the fact that I know at least of few of you have done the same.

So here goes: I park my big-ass station wagon in the parking spaces that are clearly reserved for “compact” cars.
And I don’t give a flying fig.
I really don’t.
I’ve wasted enough of my precious life circling the Trader Joe’s parking lot that I’m willing to brave the sideways stares and heckling in order to salvage what little time I have left. And truth be told, nobody’s ever said a word. I even have a little speech prepared, one that informs the self-appointed parking-pain-in-the-ass that as shocking as it may seem, the radius of my car’s chassis is equivalent to that of a Jolt. I have no idea if that’s true and I’ve never had to give the damn speech because nobody cares!

So why do they label them that way if we all disregard their “suggestion”?

It’s for our public safety. Let me explain.

The “compact” spaces are not any shorter than your average space; where they differ is in the width.
How do I know that?
Because every time I park my station wagon in a “compact” space’; an angel gets its wings—not really—but close.
Every time I park my vehicle in a space barely three feet wide (they insist it’s nine, but who are they kidding?) I leave a little of my vagina on the stick shift. Seriously.

As hard as I try, I cannot get enough space between my car and the one next to me to be able to open my door wider than my mouth, and I don’t know if you’ve tried lately but I cannot, even if I suck in my stomach, fit my entire body in my mouth. A large apple, maybe—a gigantic piece of pie, sure—a fist? Don’t ask.

But I cannot squeeze my entire personage through a space that small.

I also don’t want the Prius driver next to me to go all passive-aggressive and dent my driver’s side door.
So I park thisclose to their passenger side in the hopes that they have no friends, and I give myself the space on the other side—the Tesla driver’s side—so they can’t ding me.

But that leaves me in a pickle.

I have to climb around in my front seat, arms and legs akimbo, in order to get my entire self OVER the middle console, my purse, the phone holder/car charger gizmo, and the dreaded stick shift in order to climb out my passenger side door.
(As an aside, this can be extremely narrow as well. I usually fast that morning, stretch, and wear my yoga pants.)
My friend Steph transforms herself into a mist. Swear to god, I’ve seen her do it.
So, this bold move across the console is where I generally lose my va-jay-jay. Not because I want to! Because it’s hazard I’m not able to avoid! Have I mentioned I’m 61 and I’m not as bendy as I used to be?

Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch—it grows back.

And besides that, it’s worth the sacrifice! I rarely have to circle more than once which leaves me more time for all the things in life that really matter. Like jaywalking and running with scissors.

Carry on,
Xox

“Love is a lot like a backache, it doesn’t show up on X-rays, but you know it’s there.”
~ George Burns

Someone asked, so I was going to give you advice on love —but I can’t.

That’s like me giving diet advice. Or advice on how to grow the biggest zucchini or play classical piano. All of which I’ve tried and sort of succeeded at. Except for the piano which I tried for like a minute, but I think the teacher moved without telling me. (Adults should take up a musical instrument only on a dare. And only if the payoff is over one hundred dollars. Only then.)

But I digress…

Telling people how to succeed at love is dicey. And by dicey I mean impossible. You can’t tell people how to feel.

Sure, there are rules and guidelines, but anyone who’s been in a long-term relationship knows that all of that—is bullshit. If someone tells you they have it all figured out—they’re lying.

You fly by the seat of your pants.

Until you reach altitude.

Then you serve drinks and a movie until the turbulence begins, at which point you can straighten your seat back and tray table into their upright position, put on your parachute and bail (like my piano teacher did), or you can stick it out and wait for smoother skies.

It really does boil down to those two choices. Bail, cut and run, break-up, whatever you want to call it—or wait and see what tomorrow brings. Which in its base form looks like an ostrich with its head in the ground, and in its purest form looks like you’re a saint.

And by-the-way, having been someone who has bailed, been an ostrich…and a saint, I can’t advocate for any of them. They all made perfect sense at the time, which leads me back to the first sentence.

I can’t tell you what does or doesn’t work. Some of the best relationships I’ve had, including the marriage I’ve been in for the past fifteen years, look terrible on paper and make no sense at all. We’re both Aries for chrissakes, and we belong to different political parties—we should have killed each other by now!

Even being married doesn’t make someone an expert on love. How could I be an expert at something I’ve failed miserably at MANY times and that I can’t explain how or why it works. If I were a brain surgeon who said that to you—would you let me operate?

Love’s alchemical. That’s my explanation and I’m sticking to it.

And don’t let anyone tell you it’s all roses.

It’s a lesson in compromise. It’s dirty socks on the floor, heated differences of opinion, vertical toilet seats, and bad politics. And that’s just a Friday night. But, listen, he could say the same or worse of me.

We put up with a lot of shit. We do. That constitutes turbulence in my book.
I guess I decided it was the kind I could weather, but honestly, I don’t remember making the decision.

And I guess that’s what it comes down to, a day by day, slow drip, decision to keep loving.

Some days are easy, others can be hard. And by hard I mean excruciating.
When my husband has the flu or a sunburn it is everything I can do NOT to put a pillow over his face while he’s complaining.

If I had to make one rule—here it is:

Your person should make you laugh—at the very least—once a week.

They should try to bring you coffee—at the very least—on the weekends.

They should give you that “Omg, you’re fucking adorable” feeling…once a month?

It would be really nice if they showed you some affection on a regular basis. Not sex. Affection. There’s a difference.

Shit howdy, will you look at that, four “rules” —and I’ve already told you, I’m full of shit.

Just love the best you know how and then try to do better tomorrow.

Carry on,
xox

“Women like confident bald men.”
~ Larry David & My Husband

“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

As a child I was cautioned by my mom and the teachers at school: Don’t talk to strangers.
But my innate curiosity over ruled that dictum on a regular basis. I was an extroverted, chatty kid who liked people and asked a lot of questions.

And of course, just to confuse me, there were exceptions to the rule.

“When the nice lady compliments your dress, what do you say?”

Wait. Really? Okaaaay, Thank you strange lady whom I’ve never seen before and will most likely never meet again. *BIG SMILE

“Tell the nice man how many apples we want,” my mom would encourage, giving me the green light to start a conversation with the man in the produce department, who by the time we left the market was my new best friend. “See you later alligator!” was something someone had taught me and I LOVED it—and people LOVED it—so of course I used it as often as I could.
It became a hello and a goodbye, kinda like my own personal Ciao or Aloha.

All this to say: I detest that stranger=danger rule.
I know, I know! I don’t have kids, and it’s a different time, but…

When I look over my life, I have had some of the deepest, most interesting conversations with absolute strangers.

Traveling is well, an impossibly dry and hopeless mess if you don’t ask people—complete strangers who often speak a different language—directions, or food recommendations, or where they got that incredible hat!
I can’t even imagine it! Mute adventures? Why bother?

I’ve ended up hugging complete strangers after we’ve bonded over a “conversation” made up almost entirely of charades due to a language barrier. Italians have mastered this skill and have forced me on occasion to up my game.

What I’ve learned is that humanity is mostly good, kind-hearted and eager—almost to a fault—to help out a stranger in any way they possibly can. Truly. I see you shaking your head, but I kid you not.

On one trip to Salzburg I bought TWO enormous, extremely overstuffed down pillows, you know, like you do—and instead of having the good sense to ship them home, I carted them all over Europe for the next two weeks.

One day as I was struggling to catch a train out of Italy with my luggage, assorted bags—and my pillows, I spotted the face of a gentleman I had struck up a conversation with at an espresso bar an hour earlier. He was dressed as dapper as I’ve seen anybody dress in. my. life. —And I had commented on his bespoke suit as we both shared a laugh about all my bags and the jackassery of my enormous pillows.

Later when we locked eyes across the train platform, he saw the look of sheer…exasperation on my face, got up out of his first class seat in the train across the tracks, and helped me get settled on my train back to Austria. As he lifted my three ton suitcase and stowed my fucking pillows in the metal racks overhead— I watched HIS train pull away.

I had talked to a stranger and he had gone out of his way and missed his train to become my train station savior. (Thinking back, he wasn’t from this timeline of that I’m sure. He was a chivalrous gentleman from a different era.)

Some strangers have even made it into the inner sanctum =friendship status. Wherever I go I talk to the people around me–and we become friends.

Most of my dearest friends started off as strangers—as did my husband—it doesn’t get any stranger than a blind date!

If you never talk to strangers—how do you meet people?

Think about that, and don’t email me about all the serial killers and bad guys out there looking to do me harm—it won’t change my mind.

Carry on,
xox