self worth

I always need to be reminded of this — some weekends more than others.
As a matter of fact, I should just stick this Post It to my forehead where I could be sure to see it all day long…except I avoid mirrors, especially on the weekend…and it would be backwards, so I’d have to struggle to read it, even with my glasses. Bad idea, bad idea…

Carry On,
xox

Great thought to start the week.

Carry on,
xox

The other day my sweet, beautiful friend was mourning the death of her perfect FICO score.

She had been like a lot of us. She had done everything right. She watched her debt, bought her own house, payed her bills on time, even paying most of the balances in full every month – then disaster struck.

No, not the Great Recession, although I read an article in 2010 that said something like 80% of our FICO scores took a hit. (Gasp)
Nope.
She decided she’d had enough of her soul sucking job. She pried the fingers of the corporate world from around her neck and made a break for it. It was never her intention for her finances to be less than stellar, but sometimes shit gets real, and now, several years later, after the dust has settled, her FICO score sucks.

I have another friend whose ex-husband drove their relationship and her pristine FICO score off a cliff and into bankruptcy. She’s worked really hard to build it back up and overcome the shame of it.

There is a lot of shame attached, like a scarlet number is etched on your forehead.

This pissed me off! These are both incredible women. These are not bad check writing, run-up-the-credit-cards-on-late-night-internet-binge-shopping, kind of girls. And I know about twenty more.

Guess what ladies. YOU ARE NOT YOUR FICO SCORE.

Sometimes when you embark on a new life things get trashed, thrown into the chipper. Divorce, layoffs, mortgage under water, illness.
One of the things that can get caught in the collateral damage besides your pride, may be your FICO score.

People, it’s okay. Your score may have taken a beating, but hey, you’re still a good person.

I remember being so proud after I met my husband and we transferred my house into both of our names. The banker came out flushed and grinning ear to ear, looking like he’d just had illicit sex, (because to those banker types, FICO scores are a BIG turn on) anyway…he announced that our scores were in the high 700’s – one number apart. He refused to tell us which person had the higher score, which was smart and proved that the blood was returning to his brain.
I’m sure he could sense that we were competitive.
Listen, I just assumed it was my husband since he is methodical, thrifty, and exhibits self control – and he assumed it was me – for no good reason other than he loves me.
That’s why this marriage works.

So…you can imagine my colossal dismay when after doing everything right, for so many years, after my store closed – my FICO score plummeted.

Debt ratio, plain and simple.

Some poor slob at Chase, mentioned the number once when I was feeling particularly vulnerable (otherwise known as 2010-11), and I screamed and went into the ugly cry. My response was so over the top they checked to see if it was a mistake. Then, after they could see that it was not, they stood far away from me, nervously twisting the piece of paper. Where minutes before their eyes were filled with judgement, now they were looking at me with eyes full of pity.

“So my life took a U-Turn! Don’t look at me like that – bitch!”
I AM NOT MY FICO SCORE!

And neither are you.

These fucking numbers keep us enslaved in a world of potential disapproval, like a judgmental parent.

“Oh, don’t leave that job it might lower your FICO score.”

“Geez, your funding that business on your credit cards? Isn’t that going to ruin your FICO score?”

“Shit, your house Is upside down, what did that do to your FICO score?”

Hey, I’m not advocating ruining your credit with nasty, irresponsible deeds. I’m just sayin’ to those of us that were uber-responsible:

Investing your definition of yourself in something so unforgiving is emotional suicide,

AND…
I think it’s a racket.

I for one was a slave to mine. I stayed too long in a job I should have left, I hesitated accruing debt in my business when the recession hit, (the people I know that did are still standing) and then, in the end, after being such a good girl, the very thing I feared the most – happened.
I got slammed, owing everyone in the world money.

I went to the bank. I pled my case. I pay all the minimums.
Too bad – tough luck – bye, bye…

FICO is like a toxic relationship. We give it our money, our attention, our loyalty and it doesn’t return the favor.

It issues us a number that defines us, like a teacher on report card day.

It’s been almost seven years, which is when you are issued your Get Out Of Jail Free card.

But I’m already free and so are many others like me.
Truth be told, I don’t look at it anymore, I haven’t for years.
I decided that with the limited amount of fucks to give that I still have left, (thank you Mark Manson, you can check out his essay on The Observer’s Voice Facebook page) I shouldn’t waste giving a fuck about this kind of stuff anymore.

Nope, we are not our FICO scores.

What a relief.

xox

*It’s always so interesting (as in weird) to go back into the archives and pull up an old post. You can really see the evolution of my writing. No F-bombs, no conversational tone, just…(yawn) advise.

Anyhow, this is from a year and a half ago, and it seems relevant to right this minute, since I’m hearing that a lot of you are being bitch-slapped around by your kids, your customers, your spouse, or the guy at the post office.
ENOUGH!
Take this advise 😉

By setting boundaries, being appreciative, and showing by example, you teach the people in your life how to treat you.

Will you accept not being treated with love and respect?
or will you stand tall and say “hey, that’s not okay”!
It can even be telling a friend you will not tolerate their chronic
lateness.

Do you show others that same love and respect that you seek?<
Boundaries are difficult for some people to enforce, for they fear they will lose something if they do.
If a love or a job or a friend evaporates because you 
ask to be treated a certain way, then it was not grounded in
any way that could have been sustained over time.
In other words, they was not REALLY a friend, or a lover 
and the cost was too high.

When you treat others with respect and fairness,
kindness, empathy, and love, it is returned to you ten fold.
It boils down to your self worth, and whether you will let 
any person or situation chip away at that.
It also shows you if you are recognizing the worth of 
those around you, and if you value it equally, 
or more than your own.

If you are nurturing, you will be nurtured.
Generosity brings you generous acts,
Thoughtfulness will be rewarded,

Always show your appreciation when someone treats you
wonderfully, for they may be teaching YOU ways you 
should be treated that you hadn’t even imagined.

And then return the favor!

love you you little boundary-setters! Now get back behind the glass!
xox

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

“I had this conversation with my daughter about a boyfriend after her relationship ended and I said, ‘What do you miss about it?’ And she said, ‘I miss how I felt while I was in that relationship.’ And I said, ‘Well, you can give yourself that.’ She didn’t miss him. She missed who she was. These are all things we can give ourselves. They do not depend on a man… “
~Arianna Huffington

I wish Arianna had been my mom, imparting that kind of insightful wisdom to me as I sat sobbing into a vat of Ben and Jerry’s while watching another relationship crash and burn, all those years that I was single.

I did finally figure that out, but I was around thirty and it was hard won; I had the skid marks on my heart to prove it by then.

Every man that I had shared a relationship with left his emotional imprint on my life.

Some more than others.

“Oh Ouch, THAT one’s gonna leave a mark.”

Besides the break up yuck, they very generously left me with some lovely parting gifts.
One guy had a great sense of humor and loved music, another was smart and a foodie, while another was so sensitive and loved so purely that I wanted to wrap his heart in scotch tape and bubble pack so it could stay that way forever.

Many DID make me feel like the best version of myself when I was with them; funny and smart, possessing impeccable taste and wisdom; a vixen who could recite poetry, cook and wear sexy lingerie all at the same time.
You know, THAT version.

It finally became apparent to me that it wasn’t the guy, it was the attention and energy he focused on ME.

When someone shines their light on you, when they gaze at you with eyes filled with newly minted love, you can have the biggest nose zit or spinach in your teeth, and they make you feel like you’re freaking Angelina Jolie.

I felt worthy; and I had to figure out a way to feel worthy without someone else’s validation.

Once the glare of their spotlight dimmed, I soon figured out that some of the guys weren’t all that great.

With some distance between us, I realized I didn’t miss THEM , I just missed the travel, nice restaurants, fun filled weekends, jazz tapes and smart banter that each one of them had added to my life’s repertoire.

Okay, I can do this, I thought, I won’t wait for a man to do it, I’ll make my own damn jazz mix tapes and take myself out on dates.

I unapologetically saw every chick flick I wanted to see.
By. My. Self.

I love live music and theatre, so I would buy a ticket, or two, and go with a friend.
Eventually, I purchased season tickets to the Hollywood Bowl and The Pantages and a membership to LACMA, where I would wander unselfconsciously, and watch with relief, all the other couples awkwardly navigating their first dates. The museum’s Friday night “open house” with wine, cheese, music and free art made for fantastic people watching.

I started to treat my weekend nights like date nights, only I was dating……myself.

If someone mentioned a great new restaurant, I’d grab a girlfriend and go for happy hour, or Sunday brunch.

I missed the weekend trips so I started traveling alone.
I drove from LA to Steamboat Springs Colorado to see my friends, and visited the same friends in Europe for three weeks By – My – Self.
I’d do weekend jaunts to Santa Barbara, Big Sur and San Francisco.

My days and nights were full and fabulous.

Dating myself helped me get to know me better.

Previously I would morph to please a man, not wanting to seem too high maintenance or valuing his preferences over mine.
Not any more.

I knew what I wanted to do and I went for it.

I’m pretty sure that’s when the worthiness came in.
It won’t stick if you’re not 100% authentically yourself.
You can’t be posing on some guys arm, acting as if you like Ethiopian food, violent foreign films and polo shirts.

Worthiness will evade you until you live your OWN life.

You can even carry this into a committed relationship.
My husband goes off riding motorcycles with Mad Max style gangs of middle aged men in some remote desert around the world pretty regularly; leaving me to my own devices.
This is when I take the opportunity to reacquaint myself with myself and do only the things that please ME.

At this stage of the game me, myself and I have such a long and rich history there’s no need for a ton of chit chat, we communicate telepathically.

We go buy our favorite Non-GMO cornbread crust pizza that my husband thinks tastes like drywall, and plenty of rag mags like People and US. 
We go play with our make up and false eyelashes, and cook eggs in a teddy.
We usually earmark some time for a massage, a long, turn of the century British film, and a bubble bath.

We may even go shopping and buy ourselves a little something at one of the expensive local boutiques – because, well, because we’re worth it 😉

What do you do to give yourself an interesting and full life? How do you get away from needing the outside validation to feel worthy?
I’d love to hear your stories!

Sending only love,
Xox

I was thinking about this the other day. Don’t ask me why. Maybe because it’s been windy here in LA, and I love to fly kites. And…I like the analogy.

Here goes: If I was a kite, flying high in the wind, searching for the jet stream, I would have a tail to stabilize my flight and I would be grounded by a long string.
You with me?

As this kite, I look forward to the windiest days. The Santa Ana’s are music to my ears. Even though they seem a bit chaotic to some, even destructive, they are the thunder to my lightening, the Sonny to my Cher, the peanut butter to my jelly.
We are a team. I’m nothing without a good, stiff breeze. Have you ever tried to fly a kite without the wind? You run and run for miles, until you have no breath left in your body, and when you finally stop…the kite crashes to the ground.
It’s impossible.

So, I’ve got the wind to set me sailing high above the clouds.
What would my tail be made of? What would I use to keep me from wobbling, spinning and diving uncontrollably? This is tricky, a stabilizer has to be light, it can’t impede the lift.
I could make a tail of old torn up love letters and pages from my past, tied together by memories. I would gain a little height, maybe just up over the trees, but then those memories would start to weigh me down. My past would act like an anchor. Better to just let them go.

Would I use everything I’ve learned through the years? Hmmm…that has to do with intellect and my mind. I can tie together notes to myself about how to fly and articles on aerodynamics, with doubt and uncertainty as the glue. Whatcha think?
I can’t gain any altitude because I’m thinking way too much about the how’s and why’s of staying aloft.

Hey! What about belief. If I can string together with faith, all the beliefs about myself that let me know I was MADE to fly. I’m a kite, for crying out loud. Flying is my sweet spot. The belief that the sky is where I belong. That I’m better than most. That if I go with the flow, and let the wind take me, I can fly higher than the birds. Maybe hitch a ride on an airplane. (As kids we were convinced our kites were so high, a jet plane would have to swerve around them) Gotta love that.
Belief is the perfect stabilizer. That will be my tail.

Now…who holds the string? Ohhhhh boy.
My ego? Nope too ADD. He’ll see something shiny and let go. I’m not safe with him at the helm.
I can’t let my fears hold the string. They’ll never let me get higher than five feet off the ground. Too windy, too dangerous, too high, too hard to hold, too fearful, too bad. Next!
What about a member of my council? You remember I wrote about our councils.
http://theobserversvoice.com/2014/03/27/your-behind-the-scenes-team/comment-page-1/
How about the guy with the TEAM JANET sweatshirt? He’s perfect to hold the string. He knows all the best parks, where to find the fastest winds, even where to get that extra long spool of string. So jet stream here I come! He won’t limit me or bring me down before I’m ready. Yep, I’ve got this all figured out. 
Weeeee weeeee!

XoxJanet 
How about you?
Do you relate to the kite analogy? Do you have a better one for yourself? A high performance race car?
Please share in the comments below!

There’s a place under the stairs,
where every kid stashes their woes and cares.
In the hours late at night, when the house is quiet, you can hear them fight.
They want your attention, they want your ear,
so they can remind you of your fears.

Now, as everyone knows, you can set them free,
those fears and woes. Oh, woe is me!
You can pick them up as you leave the house,
with your backpack, your purse, your lunch and your spouse.

Our suggestion is to leave them there, 
where they can’t fill you with despair.
Time’s not a factor, oh, they can wait,
but if you let them out, they will change your fate.

The woes you had stashed as a boy, you see,
will happily wait for the man-to-be.
And the cares of a girl, of her looks and such,
are patiently waiting for that woman’s touch.
Oh, those rascals! Those cares and woes,
They feel the same, they just wear better clothes!

So, just throw caution to the wind, 
don’t be concerned, don’t let them win.
If you don’t care, if you don’t cry, 
they cease to matter, they wither and die.
They cannot cause you pain and strife, if you live an adult’s life.

So late at night, when you hear them yell, 
You may tell them to go straight to hell!
Just know it’s them and let them be,
and go to bed, with your cup of tea.
They can’t really hurt you now…. Unless you go near the stairs.

I can’t remember where or when I first heard this pearl of wisdom. It really resonated with me, and I continue to carry it around, in that invisible hiding place where we keep those things that get us out of our emotional “jams”.

If you’re like me, and from your emails, I know you are! I can get mired in a swirling eddy of despair, playing my “Greatest Hits” tape of worry, on an endless loop, with the best of ’em.

My mistake was always that I thought I needed to be stoic, to present a facade to the world that said, “Hey, I’ve got this handled”!
Besides, who wants to hear my bitch list? People have their own problems, I don’t want to bring anybody down.
And…I know how this stuff works. If I spend TOO much time in the energy of the problem, I’m nowhere near the solution.

Worry really is a sport best practiced alone. It does it’s finest work in the dark wee hours of the morning, or driving alone in the car. And…It cannot survive the scrutiny of someone’s else’s questioning. Remember that!

The BEST way NOT TO WORRY ALONE is to confess your worry to someone that is equipped to help, meaning, if it is regarding your health, a doctor. Don’t go on the internet!! You KNOW what I mean, enough said!
If it’s about leaving your job, then seek counsel in a friend who’s been through that.
If it’s money, speak to someone who’s financial situation you admire.
Ask questions, seek answers.

Here’s the deal, you can worry aloud to a girlfriend, I did last weekend, and it really helped. But that was a self confidence demon, and girlfriends are the best for that!
For the other stuff, you can’t find REAL relief from the worry, unless you speak it to someone that has the knowledge that can put your mind at rest.

We all spend hundreds of wasted hours worrying alone about things that can be easily worked out. So I’ve given myself a “worry window” and you can too.
I’m allowed to worry silently, stoically and alone, with only my own limited resources at my disposal, for 36 hrs. 
Then I go and ask for help.

Often, I just ask the Universe to tell me what’s next, and it takes pity on my poor sweaty, sleepless soul, and sends someone. They will mercifully call, or show up with the answers I need.

I’m working on cutting out that middle 36 hour part.
Old habits are hard to break!

XoxJanet

If life is a dance, I have two left feet.
Which of course makes it hard to buy shoes! Ha!
But if you’ve seen me dance, or do Zoomba, or even Tai Chi, you know what I mean.

Everyone else is moving in sync to the right, I’m moving, always with great conviction…to the left.
It’s just my nature.
Always has been. 
As much as I desperately want to avoid embarrassment, it is next to impossible for me to just blend in, to stay inside the lines, to behave and “dance” like everyone else. But, I really have tried, and it has been exhausting.

Just like I play my own soundtrack in my head, as it runs through my life (don’t you?)
I have my own unique, sometimes awkward and clumsy choreography; which I often dance alone. 
It may not be pretty, but it has gotten me here.

Every once in a great while, I’m supremely graceful; like the Prima Ballerina in Swan Lake.
I’m dancing around, up on pointed toes, with my neck long, and my arms fluttering slightly.
The only problem is, the rest of the world is doing a tap routine, and I look like an ass!

So, here’s the thing: I had a humongous epiphany after catching The Dead Poet’s Society on HBO a couple of weeks back. Damn! I had forgotten what a great movie that is, OR, I didn’t have the depth of character in 1989 to fully grasp it’s meaning. Probably the latter.

In case you don’t know, or can’t remember, it takes place in an elite all boys prep school, in the 1950’s. There’s a new, unorthodox English professor, Mr. Keating, who, among other things, has them stand on top of their desks to see the world in a different way. He also challenges them to call him “O Captain, My Captain.”

John Keating: “O Captain, my Captain. Who knows where that comes from? Anybody? Not a clue? It’s from a poem by Walt Whitman about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now in this class you can either call me Mr. Keating, or if you’re slightly more daring, O Captain my Captain.”

He is pushing these boy-men to embrace great literature and poetry, to become free thinkers, to question authority and buck convention. In other words, my Holy Grail!

Bear with me here, because it was this next scene that really got me.
He has his class assemble in the school courtyard, where, as an exercise in self-expression, he has them walk in a circle. A couple swing their arms, several stomp their feet, but soon they are all marching perfectly in time. Although they find it funny, Mr. Keating is proving a point.

We may start off marching to our own beat, but we soon succumb to the herd mentality. We all fall in step, conform, becoming part of that herd.
It’s encoded in our DNA.
Mr. Keating wants them to break that code, to consider being another way.
Perhaps, to even entertain the idea that it might be okay to go left, instead of right, to dance to their own untamed choreography.
Hmmmmmm. Maybe my feet aren’t broken after all.

John Keating: Now we all have a great need for acceptance, but you must trust that your beliefs are unique, your own, even though others may think them odd or unpopular, even though the herd may go,
John Keating: “That’s baaaaad.” [imitating a goat] Frost said, “Two roads diverged in the wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

Amen, Captain, My Captain.
XoxJanet