stress

In my world, a castarofuckish day starts out like any other.
The only difference is that for me at least, it reveals itself to be a day disguised as a very fat elephant which I agree at one point or another to push up a very steep set of stairs without any assistance whatsoever from the universe.

Just to be clear it is neither a full-blown catastrophe nor, is it a fuckfest. It is simply a day that I’d just as soon forget because of its general assholishness.

Case in point—Monday.
My first day back from a very relaxing vacation where EVERYTHING went right. I woke up raring to—not move one molecule of my body out of bed. I know you’ll be able to relate to this because that feeling of post-vacation inertia is Universal. Kinda like jet lag only without the jet travel (2 hrs doesn’t count).

And I’m sure we can all agree that the first day back is just as busy or busier than the day before you go. The big difference here is that the day before you leave for vacation you can stomach the stress because it’s balanced by the excitement of leaving any and all responsibility along with your identity in the rearview mirror. Or maybe that’s just me.

So, waking up completely unmotivated to tackle anything on my list—I did it all. I overcompensated. I shoved elephant ass.

I went to Costco.

I went to Costco because, well, is there ever a good reason to go to Costco? I thought maybe I had one—so off I went. Halfway there I had second thoughts. I should have turned around. Instead, I drove faster. The elephant is eyeballing the stairs.
Instead of screaming “Don’t do it!” I move aside and say “After you.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the start of a catastrofuck.

It is just my husband and myself. Just us two. I have no business buying in bulk. But as fast as you can say “Six packages of dental floss for the price of four!” I fill a cart with shit we don’t need that will take us the rest of our lives to use.

Two hours later, when I returned home, tired, famished and having to pee like a racehorse—I took stock and was tempted to start drinking. No problem there, I’d bought enough mixer to host a small, Mexican wedding (if there were such a thing).

What the hell had I done? Nevermind…

While attempting to cut ONE of the five-pound containers of peppercorns free of their childproof, scissor-proof, plastic wrap, I decided, as an act of love, to fill our pepper mill. My husband had mentioned a while back that it looked low.
An hour later, once the jar of peppercorns was free, I cheerfully set about unscrewing the peppercorn holder from the rest of the mill. It didn’t take many corns to fill it (about twenty-five) which was the moment I had the realization that we would have to include the extra jars of peppercorns in our will.

I think I will leave them to my sister.

I screwed the thing back together, very pleased with myself that I’d managed to accomplish a completely useless and mundane task in no time at all. It was so fulfilling I felt a little smug. That is until I went to put it back in its place next to the stove and while in mid-air it decided to come apart raining tiny black peppercorns all over the kitchen.

Not only that.

As I stood there admiring the surprising trajectory of the traveling peppercorns, the bottom of the mill knocked over a full bottle of balsamic vinegar which then proceeded (in slow motion) to glug, glug, glug, its entire contents down the side of and underneath the stove.

Balsamic vinegar is black. And sticky. Who knew?

I still hadn’t eaten and I had gazillion things left on my list as I got on my hands and knees with one of the six rolls of paper towels I’d just purchased.

“When you need something done—give it to a busy person,”
said a fuckface who probably had hired help.

I’ve decided that the only thing worse than a catastrofuck is a post-vacation catastrofuck that falls on a Monday.

Who is with me?

Carry on,
xox

On my recent trip to Canada, I was asked repeatedly if I felt any difference between the States and Canada.
You know, energetically. In other words a not so thinly veiled attempt to get me gabbing about the texting habits of our Cheeto-N-Chief.

Now I don’t know about you, but the butt cheeks in MY inner circle have been clenched so tightly since November that I for one could press a quarter into two dimes and nickel. Needless to say (so I will anyway), the discomfort caused by this collective gluteus charley horse has set everyone on edge.

And that was never more evident than when I spent a few days in Vancouver – or “America Lite” as I like to call it.

When I landed, there was a rare powdered sugar snow event happening which made the serene calm even calmer and the whole city eerily quiet. As if a benevolent snow angel was whispering a sweet little lullaby. That had the same effect on me as sucking on a chocolate covered Xanax.

Deep… exhale.

This Canadian silent night effect just exaggerated the fact that we, as a nation, are jittery, jumpy and wound tighter than a Real House Wife of Beverly Hills’ face (because we all live inside of reality show now, right?).

Right?

I mean, the past three weeks, in particular, have been a sucker punch an hour.
My guard is up.
My loins are girded.

Last week found me traveling in and out of the country during this cluster fuck immigration BAN—which I’m told isn’t a BAN—but let’s call it a BAN…because it is.

It may be on the legal ropes for the time-being.
But what time is it now?
That could change in the next ten minutes.

Listen, as you know, I’m a middle-aged white woman who lives in a blue state, one of the “coastal elites” and I was going to freakin’ Canada. Yet, I felt a bit anxious. I couldn’t help but clutch my “papers” to my chest like an early 1900’s, babushka wearing, Irish potato farmer – or a Syrian refugee. It made me distinctly aware that the only difference between them and me is the fact that through no effort on my part, I won the “uterine lottery” by having the good fortune of being born in Los Angles California, USA.

That being said Canada is looking pretty darn good to me right now.

I think Canada looks at us US citizens these days like I’ve always looked at Italians. With a mixture of admiration and pity. “What great people! They have so much going for them” I’d say. “The food, the wine, the shoes! Such a shame their “elected” officials are bat-shit crazy and their government is corrupt as fuck.”

Because I believe that a country’s moral aptitude trickles from the top down, many citizens in this new America are quite mouthy.
They have a newfound brazenness.
Sharp tongues.
Permission to carry a harsh political incorrectness disguised as “telling it like it is” as a weapon.

Perfect example:
I’ve NEVER heard the word “Fuck” YELLED in all of its many forms as much as it was on our American carrier as we sat on the tarmac for an hour waiting to take-off. Men, women, even babies. (It was so outrageous that a baby across the aisle yelled fuck, you know because they’re parrots, and even though her mother was mortified—we all laughed because a baby saying fuck in their cartoon voice is hilarious—and the tension inside that plane was absurd.)

As for exhibit B: On the Canadian carrier, it felt like I was inside of a time machine. Everyone was kind and courteous, like a flashback to 2014 before all of this mishegas started. So much so that we taxied away from the gate—then back again—to let a sick passenger get off (and her sisters and aunts and a couple of other random passengers) without any cursing. Next, the flight attendant announced that since our flight was going to be about an hour late on arrival, and since several passengers had tight connections to make, that while the cabin door was open and we were parked at the gate…anybody else who felt compelled to leave was welcome to do so!

Wait.
What?

I ducked.

I waited for the “fucks” to fly.

Nothing.
Silence.

As a matter of fact, good-natured silence.

That pretty much sums up the difference these days between sanity and the Twilight Zone in which we find ourselves these days.

What are you noticing?

Carry on,
xox

Hi guys,

There was a time back in 2013 where I would sit up in bed, in the dark, first thing in the morning, and write down whatever came to mind. Often, it was poetry. I’m not kidding. Like, rhymey with a message kinda stuff.

I’d marinate in this early morning creative soup and jot down my notes for about fifteen minutes and then get on with the rest of my completely ordinary life.

I say that because even though they were just this side of craptastic as fine poetry goes, it felt special and rather extraordinary and I regret not doing it anymore. These days you can find me practicing my tandem snoring and drooling routine until the last possible minute because, well, I want to medal when it becomes an Olympic sport AND I write all day. The poetry has a myriad of entry points in twenty-four hours—so why write in the dark?

But lately I’ve been thinking…maybe I should pick up this habit again. Couldn’t hurt, right?

This one made me snort laugh. I hope it has the same effect on you because:
Everything can be reduced to a food analogy.
And nothing too serious is going on here. Just livin’ life.

We all need to remember that!

Carry on,
xox

Whilst sitting and lamenting that your life is in shreds,
Tis no faux pas, there’s been no flaw,
Even though you’re filled with dread.

Get up, and make coleslaw instead.

The Universe may leave you for dead,
Life thrown it up in the air, water to tread,
You keep ruminating, running it through your head,

Don’t do that, make coleslaw instead.

You can take lemons and make lemonade,
Or you can find problems that sour your day,
The choices are easy when acceptance is present.

Get up and make coleslaw instead!

A classic, Janet, Holiday rant.
I’m guessing you can relate.
Live long and prosper.
xox

We are now entering the second week of December. That triggers a hot mess of mixed emotions inside of me.
Every. Single. Year.

Listen, don’t get me wrong, I love all things Christmas, but can we please move it to May?

When I see THAT date—December 1st—I can’t help it—my butt puckers.

As the month progresses I secretly want to strangle December. I want to take it around back and teach it a lesson.

Show of hands, who’s with me? Who here in readerville secretly hates December?

Who thought that thirty consecutive days of extreme holiday stress was a good idea? Target? Santa? The devil?

By the end of week one, I’m consumed by that sinking feeling that lets me know—I’m already behind schedule.

I’m already late with my shipping.
Once I navigate the Post Office parking lot, or as I like to call it, December Demolition Derby (I once backed up and ONTO an Audi, a brand new one—my trailer hitch opening up the front hood of that car like a can opener), I have to stand in line and wait for the TWO postal clerks behind the counter to wade their way through all the other holiday shippers.

There is yelling. There are lies, bribes and cutting in line. There are tears. And that’s just me.

Once I work up the stamina (facilitated by devouring all of the fudge I made the previous night) to take on the Christmas tree shopping—usually reserving December 10th for my tree excursion—all of the good ones are gone.

By the second week of December! That is just criminal.

Last year they had a Charlie Brown section for people like me. Dried up weak and feeble trees that were already dead—pitifully begging for a home. Those are what’s left for us mid-December stragglers. The ones who wait so they don’t have to fight the crowds and crying kids the first two weeks.

Get this: I drove past a lot the other day where they were flocking trees. Remember flocking? Crispy, fake snow? I thought I’d passed through a time warp except for the crowd. There was a crowd of bearded hipsters with man-buns all milling around the tent inhaling crispy snow and sipping artisan hot chocolate.

Are hipsters bringing flocking back? Is that a thing again?

Are you freaking kidding me? If those hipsters had lived through the sixties like I had, they would NEVER in a million years have the slightest inclination to re-create it. I still have rotating color-wheel flashbacks.

Once I got my Christmas investment (they are well over ten bucks a foot) home, it took me three tries to get the white twinkle lights to do the one thing they were designed to do—light up. We sent men to the moon and wtf?… If you so much as look at a strand cross-eyed HALF of it will go dark.

But only half.

Which leaves me filled with hope, because December marks a season of hope, right? Hope that I can find the rat bastard loose bulb, tap it gently, twist it, or God willing, replace it with the extra one taped to the cord, and have the freaking tree lit by New Years.

THAT has never happened. In all of my years lighting a tree I’ve yet to twist a loose bulb and have the thing light back up.

That is an urban myth. Worse yet, it’s a fairy tale told to unsuspecting Christmas revelers in order to fill them with false hope.
That’s not playing fair. Jesus would frown on that.

In search of lights that worked I was forced to do what you’re never supposed to do the entire month of December if you have a brain in your head and one ounce of common sense left in your body——I went to Target yesterday and they were already out of white lights AND wrapping paper. It’s the first week of December people. Seriously?

In the parking lot, I nearly got sideswiped by an SUV wearing blinking antlers. Am I insured for that?

Baking. Let’s talk holiday baking. I love to bake.
I love it so much I only do it once a year in December, otherwise, I would be HUGE.
Like, walk me down Central Park West in the Thanksgiving Day Parade huge.
Because my love for baking is only exceeded by my love of eating what I bake.

What? You don’t do that? I call bullshit. Sure you do! Because it’s only logical. Artists love art. Singers love music. Bakers love all things warm and gooey. They love it so much they make it themselves—for themselves. Between eating the raw cookie dough and “quality testing” the finished products my friends are lucky to get a bite in edgewise.

December is also a month of wonder.
I wonder every year which of my favorite childhood ornaments will fall prey to the floor-gods. They are insatiable and unrelenting in their search for a sacrifice. I’m aware of this, so in order to keep the emotional carnage to a minimum I put the ones I don’t care as much about near the floor, as an offering. A token of respect. Then I padlock my favorite treasures safely inside the middle branches. But the floor gods always prevail. Last night the ice-skater I received when I was eleven mysteriously appeared on the hardwood floor under the tree. She wasn’t broken broken. Just her left ankle and skate are missing.

But her career is over. There go her hopes of a medal.

I had a good cry. SHE took it with grace and dignity so I re-hung her in the front of the tree as an example of Christmas courage.

Listen, how about those Christmas cards?
All year long I’m lulled into complacency, thinking I have several great shots for the front of a card. Then it comes time to send them in to get printed. Either I’m late for the “print by” date because for some reason I’m unable to fathom why on earth that date is August 31st, and I’m too busy eating watermelon BECAUSE IT’S SUMMER—or I can’t find the pictures.

They’re missing. Gone. Non-existent. A figment of my overactive imagination.

I could make do with the one from last year. The one where he’s squinting, my smile is jinky and the dog has wild eyes and a grin like Cujo. Oh, fuck it. Just never mind. It’ll just have to wait until next year. Again.

I do love receiving all the cards from friends and family. I really do. I adore being able to see how much the kids have grown every year but can I ask you a favor? Please don’t send me the three-page newsletters. That’s okay. I’m all caught up. That’s what Facebook is for. Besides, they’re primarily filled with bad news. The death of a pet, Uncle Frank’s broken hip, the baby that can’t say please. Are you kidding? Has no one any good news to share?

The last one I read was like a Charles Dickens novel. It was filled with so much tragedy I had to read it with a box of Kleenex (and Sees candy) and a glass of scotch. Honestly! I know nothing says Christmas like death and job loss, but can we all agree to just cut-it-out?

December. What is it with you?
You drive me nuts! You are like the bat-shit crazy relative everyone hates that keeps showing up drunk every year!

As much as I vow that this year will be different,
I eat too much.
I spend too much.
I drink too much.
I argue way too much.
I don’t get enough rest.
I over commit.
I cry.
And I lose my patience.

Which brings me to the realization—December, you are a little bit like childbirth. You are miserable and painful in the moment but after some time has passed (like 365 days) I forget and repeat all the madness because when I look back on the holidays you brought me miracles and filled me with wonder and THAT my friend,makes you impossible to hate.

Happy Holidays Y’all!
xox

Hi Guys,

I believe in stress. I just do. I try not to, but when I’m wearing my shoulders as earrings, well, it’s pretty hard to deny.

I also believe in the healing power of music. It can really send me. I’m ashamed to admit that the minute I hear Enya at the spa—I start drooling the ugly drool.

Finally, I believe in science. Neuroscience in particular although I don’t like to play favorites.

I read about this song the other day and I just had to share it.

As aside: Yesterday, I played it while I got dressed. Besides being warned off of operating heavy machinery while you listen, I advise that you stay away from black liquid eyeliner as well.  Anyhow, I noticed my dog, Ruby, standing frozen on the step, next to the speaker, eyes closed—mezmerized. I watched her for a long time. She stood in a trance until I reached for my phone to video her reaction, then, refreshed and renewed she jumped up on the bed and play-killed her stuffed bunny. Just sayin’, it seems to work for animals too.

Here’s the sciencey part: Neuroscientists say they’ve discovered the most relaxing song. “Weightless.”
Their top pick reduces anxiety by 65% in study participants!

I’ve downloaded “Weightless” from iTunes, but you can find a free 10-hr version in the article here:
http://www.inc.com/melanie-curtin/neuroscience-says-listening-to-this-one-song-reduces-anxiety-by-up-to-65-percent.html

Anyhow, since the world seems to be wound a little tight these days I thought this might help. Let me know what you think.
Enjoy a relaxing, stress-free weekend!

Carry on,
xox

“We have perfected the attitude of worry. If we don’t have something to worry about, that worries us.”

—Michele Longo O’Donnell

Stress is a thug and a thief. It’s a thug because it has such little regard for our well-being, and a thief because it absconds with BIG chunks our time. It adds up. Stress, that jerk, has looted months, if not years, of accumulated hours from my life. So, I have no problem giving stress the finger, whenever I can. I take great glee in pissing it off.
Here are the Top Ten things that piss stress off. Practice them wisely—and often.

1) Rest. Stress HATES when we’re well rested. We make better decisions, we’re on our game and less likely to muck things up. Naps, long weekends and vacations are its Kryptonite.

2) A Sense of Humor/Laughing. Have you ever tried to laugh while completely stressed out? A real, deep belly laugh? It’s almost impossible. It’s akin to keeping your eyes open when you sneeze. The two CANNOT coexist.

3) Asking for help. Stress can’t stand it when we realize our limitations, delegate and ask for help. It needs a frazzled, overextended, perfectionist, control freak as a host. Calling in the Cavalry BEFORE you’ve reached your wit’s end sends stress the silent Jedi signal: This is not the droid you’re looking for.

4) Believing you have enough. If you believe you have enough time, money, resources, help and happiness, you will be invisible to stress. It will pass your house and go torment your neighbors.

5) Exercise. Yes, it is possible to outrun stress. You can outrun it on the treadmill, or with the dogs at the park. Once that heart rate goes up and those endorphins kick in, stress will NOT be able to keep up. Stress carb loads, always goes for seconds, eats peanut butter out of the jar with a serving spoon, and parks illegally in the handicapped space, so it never has to walk far. Stress hates a fit body and a clear head.

6) Organization. When you’re well organized, meaning, you know where everything is, and can easily find it, stress has a shit fit. How can it fuck with you and mess with your head, if you can immediately come up with your passport, keys, glasses, insurance papers, rent check, stamps, cat nail clipper and both of the same black sandals?

7) Behaving like a grown up. Stress despises adult behavior. Stress is counting on us to NEVER grow up. It adores a good temper tantrum and will do everything in its power to keep us from getting our ducks in a row. As a matter of fact, it is heavily invested in the prospect of us not saving for retirement, avoiding responsibility, making uninformed decisions and never planning for the future.

8) Self-care. THIS pisses off stress almost more than anything. Getting a massage, doing yoga and meditating. Those are three of its mortal enemies. It throws its hands up, shakes its head and walks away in defeat. It can’t take hold of a peaceful mind.

9) Not caring what other people think. Once you drop that bad habit, stress will have to go find another victim. Don’t feel bad for a second. There are millions.

10) Awareness. Stress has a full-on hissy-fit when you call it out. It can’t stand when you know its name or what it looks like. It would rather stay anonymous, in one of its many disguises. As a headache, an ulcer, colitis, hives, over eating, over spending, depression, and anxiety.

I told you, it’s a thug.
It knows, that once you know why it’s there, it’s days are numbered.

Can you think of more ways to piss off stress? Tell me what you do, I’d LOVE to hear some comments!

Carry on,
Xox

Generally speaking, I’d be described as an optimist. A Pollyanna even. I think that’s been determined.

So naturally, people come to me to have their spirits lifted. To lighten their emotional load, so to speak.

What ends up happening if I’m not careful about my energy is: I cheer them up—and they cheer me down.

Not too long ago I consoled a friend whose business had fallen on hard times. I can do this, I thought through her torrent of tears.

No big deal. My business tanked almost seven years ago. I’m over it! I said to myself. And I meant it.

But her stories of debt collectors, empty bank accounts, no customers, and an evil, puss-pocket, scum-bag, hell beast, shit gibbon of a partner (he must have been related to my landlord), sent me down the rabbit hole.

Obviously.

Before I took my journey to hell, I did manage to mumble a few things I thought might help. She felt so much better when she left. “I feel so much better”, she said. That’s all I remember. My transformation into Zohar, the gatekeeper of hell had already begun, so my understanding of the English language was getting sketchy.

Driving home I got a splitting headache and a couple of hours later I was in full-on migraine mode. (Muttering incoherently in a dark room about f*cknobs, the horrors of retail and shit, with breath that could peel your face off—and an attitude to match.)

WTF?

It doesn’t happen to me a lot, but more often than I’m comfortable with and I see you my coach/motivational expert/fellow optimist friends. I see your exhaustion, your edge, and your drastic need for a break. This shit can wear you down!

We have no problem listening to our friends vent about their shit. But maybe we’re not doing anybody a favor by re-telling the story. I know, I know! We do it because we love them (and they’ve sat through our endless shit sessions.)  But I’ve gotta say, it is hard work keeping their shit from sticking to my shoes. Especially if I’ve been through anything even remotely similair—which is pretty much everything they’ve been through.

The optimist in me has started to scream Awwwwww! My arm! My arm!

Besides that, I’ve started to remember the advice of someone very wise who was trying to help me crawl out of a deep eddy of despair over twenty years ago. Talking about something over and over again is NOT helpful, and he refused to do it, much to my dismay.

He would hear my sad story ONCE. Only one time would he listen before holding his hand up and shushing me. That’s right, he shushed me! (Truth be told, that was the only way to shut me up once I was on a roll.)

“You think you’re going to find answers to your problems by talking about them”, he said, “but the answers aren’t found in the problem and it’s just making it worse. It’s keeping you from progressing and I won’t stay there with you.”

I think that’s when I lunged over the table with a fork and threatened to tenderize his face. I wanted him to hurt as much as I was hurting, and that’s the truth.

He would have none of it.

Because he knew how sticky that shit is when you give it life with words. “When you give it language, you give it power”, he said. And he wasn’t willing to be cheered down. Not under any circumstances. Not even love.

Plus, if he’d gone to the depths with me—I wouldn’t be here today. Swear to God. I needed him to stay with his head above water so he could throw me a line when I was drowning. You know what they say about rescuing someone who’s drowning: Be careful or they’ll pull you down with them.

So, I guess my advice to all of you optimistic uplifters out there would be (if you’re asking), speak briefly to each other about the shit. Don’t dwell on it and if you’re not up to it energetically—don’t sacrifice how you feel–even to temporarily lift a client/friend.

And check your shoes. ‘Cause that shit can stick.

How do you feel about this? Do you hate it? Does it feel shallow and selfish and other names that start with an “s”? Or are you strangely relieved? Like, thank God I have permission! Tell me about it!

Carry on,
xox

In a month we’re off to Chicago. And the thought of that makes my butt clench. Tight.

It’s not the flying so much because think about it. Getting from California to Chicago just over one hundred years ago took weeks if not months of treacherous stage-coach travel through scorching deserts and over snowy mountain passes, never mind bouts of cholera and the possibility of Indian attacks.

Luckily, there is a different kind of coach travel these days and I concede that on some flights, especially if a baby is crying, it can feel almost as long and harrowing.

I appreciate the miracle of flight. I really do. I actually love sitting perched in a seat, in an aluminum tube that’s hurtling through the air, watching movies while I snack on things I never eat below 35,000 feet, like bag after bag of potato chips and soda, and then arriving at some far-away destination in the same clothes I put on that very morning.

Here’s the thing that sends me into a tizzy. The before part of flying.  The check-in part. The part that makes you regret your trip before you’ve even left the ground. You know what I’m talking about. All of the degrading malarkey (God, I love that word), that every airport in the world has put us through since 911. You can almost hear the sound of your personal freedoms being sucked right out of you over the garbled gate announcements during the two hours of lining up, waiting, wheeling, shuffling, packing and unpacking, waiting, X-raying, virtually stripping; taking off your shoes, belt, jacket, watch, sunglasses, and in one particularly mortifying case—my underwire bra, only to wait in line some more.

It would be comical if it weren’t so sad.

My husband and I fly frequently enough that sometimes the gods deem us worthy and bestow upon us the words  TSA precheck at the top of our tickets which I’m happy to report allows us to sidestep some of the madness—but I see you there, hopping up and down on one naked foot, trying to get the other damn boot off  while your purse shoots through to the other side unattended, the line backs up, and your other boot falls off the conveyor belt and into another man’s bag.

I feel your pain. I am you. I will be you in a month.

Listen, we have all agreed, as a collective, to hand over our rights to privacy. Into the dumpster that went along with any expectation of expedient air travel as a trade-off to make us feel safe.

I have no choice other than to give up my personal freedoms when I fly, but I will never stop talking about how it used to be.

Here’s the thing, flying used to be glamorous. And fun. You got dressed up. The flight crew engaged in polite small talk, as kids they even used to show us the cockpit. Now it’s locked up tighter than the room where Donald Trump keeps his wigs.

Airports had a buzz of excitement back in the day, not like now, where the low hum of stress meets you at the curb—that is literally where my butt clenching starts. There are airports in foreign countries, (I just saw it recently in Mexico), that have full-on military walking around with assault rifles at the ready. That does not bode well for me. It forces me to drink before I board my flight which not only exacerbates the anxiety it makes me stupid and clumsy.

I have given up my freedoms, I have. But I suppose some part of me thought this would be temporary. You know, maybe for a year or two. Now there is an entire generation that only knows air travel to be this way. This ridiculous, freedom-sucking, unorganized, cluster-fuck of a way.

But I for one will never forget that it was not always like this. That we used to check our bags and walk on planes like civilized human beings. Because if we forget that, IF we accept the way things are now as normal, then, in my opinion, fear and terror have won.

Carry on,
xox

A gentle reminder for the times we find ourselves in these days. Ha!

You’re welcome!

Carry on,
xox