stress

When I remember—I do this.

Mindfully.

I imagine that the water sort of “clean slates” me. It removes all of the sticky yuck that had adhered itself to me during the day and brings me back to neutral.

Neutral feels good.
Neutral feels doable.
I can handle neutral.

Sticky yuck—not so much.

Who doesn’t feel better after a nice hot shower?

Another option is a hot bath. I like to add Epsom salt. It relieves muscle aches and pains and convinces me that it’s the next best thing to soaking in warm ocean water, which it isn’t, but I’m gullible when I’m wet.

To rid my body of toxins, I’ll add some apple cider vinegar. It is advisable to immerse your entire body, even your head, which, if you’re built like me, includes your face. So take off your false eyelashes.

Try not to breathe while your head is underwater. That leads to death, which, if you think about IS the ultimate in peace and quiet, but I think it takes that a little too far—so I’m not recommending it.

Just think about it. Water has the power to carve stone. Hello, The Grand Canyon?

It can surely wash away all of my jagged edges.

Happy weekend,
xox

“You can’t ride two horses with one ass.”

While I was growing up I used to hear that phrase all the time from my dad.

What? What does that even mean?

This was his reaction to my teenage stress. After he’d watch me fumble and stumble, struggle and juggle; fitting in play rehearsal, singing practice, homework, and my part-time job, he’d admonish me, “Janet, you can’t ride two horses with one ass.”

My reaction was to roll my eyes, snap my gum, turn my head toward the heavens, and exhale the long, deep exhalation of the exasperated teenager. “Okaaaay, daAAAAaad, I get it, make a decision. Do one thing at a time. Gawd.”

I always knew the one thing he thought I should choose to focus on was my job at the supermarket. It could end up being my security, after all, my future, just like it had become his. But truth be told, that was NEVER gonna happen.

He had little patience for my “extracurricular” pursuits. He, as the father figure, the patriarch, the breadwinner, just couldn’t understand what he considered frivolous time wasting.

And I, cast as the dutiful daughter, continued to struggle with not enough asses.

Those extra things were far from superfluous to me, hardly! They were actually my life’s blood –– my passions.

He was unable to wrap his brain around multi-passionate people, and that never changed.
I can’t say that I blame him. Us multi-passionate sorts are hard to figure out.

He’s not alone, there are many out in this world that can’t stand those of us who won’t seem to commit to just one pursuit. “Jack of all trades, master of none” was another of his old school, paternal pontifications.

After a while (years), I understood. I didn’t like it and I was incapable of abiding by it –– but I understood his confusion.

He was from the school of one horse, one ass.

Pick one thing, focus on it, and do it— for the rest of your life.
Then, and only after you’ve collected your retirement, are you allowed to entertain frivolous pursuits. Hopefully, you still have your health, vitality, and a little sass to keep things interesting.

Many in our family died soon after they retired, without enjoying any of life’s extras.

Here’s what I’ve come to realize as I’ve gotten older and hopefully a little wiser.
The things that hold passion for us in life are hardly extras. To me, they are the makings of a life well lived.

Jobs can be had, money made, the focus narrowed, and direction figured out, but it’s the multiple horses that we have the audacity to ride with our one crazy, creative, freedom-seeking-ass, that make us who we are!

Singularly Focused Exemplary Employee is not what I’ve ever wanted written on my headstone.

Badass of sass, multi-passionate creative, who can’t stay in the saddle; sloppy rider of an entire herd of horses, who you may hear whooping and hollering and having one hell of a ride –– and the time of her life.  Now that’s more like it!

Ride all those horses with your one wild ass.

Own it.

Sorry dad.

Carry on,
Xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking slowly through the canyon on my way to the hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how streets with cars lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Singles mothers can never catch a break.

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that it’s luck had run out. Splat!

There it is. I can see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering was over.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. But it was true. No one was swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing. I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve a little!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was. This roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It was a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

I told myself I wasn’t going to “work”. I could lay off the writing for a week. Just seven short days, right? Take notice of my exotic surroundings without my head buried in a computer?

Note to self: No head burying. Be present. Take it ALL in.

Wrongo. Add this to the looming list of other lies I’ve told myself. And promises I’ve broken. To me.

But I can’t help it! (said in the voice of a whining five-year-old).

Here’s the thing you guys and I’m betting, with all my chips on the table, that YOU are a lot like me.

I came to this glorious place to unwind—to free my spirit. But it’s making me sad. My spirit is unbounded—but sad. I’m going to bed sad. Okay, maybe a little buzzed too, but most definitely sad.
And I’m waking up…sad.

In fucking paradise!
How is that possible?
What in the hell is my problem? This should at the very least be a misdemeanor, right?

I don’t like it when my emotions are mismatched inappropriately to a situation. Like that time I laughed hysterically all the way home after being fired or acted chirpy, grateful and giddy when our dog died suddenly.

It makes me profoundly curious—and deeply suspicious. What’s the back-story here? Wtf is going on?
Wait. Am I alone here? Does that happen to you?

For three days I’ve “observed” the feelings. I’ve “observed” the shit out of them.
Huh. I said over and over. Huh. Sad in paradise. That’s just not right. Someone should take away my humanity card.

Then my head started to hurt.
Huh. Look at that. Headaches in paradise. Clearly I’m a hopeless case.
You guys, I’m an ungrateful, whining, hopeless case of a sad-sack.

Finally, after many hours of contemplation and tons of Advil, I figured it out. Duh. (not the sharpest tool in the shed either).

I was sad and my head ached from all of the unexpressed ideas I was having!
My brain was overflowing with inspiration, but I had made a pact with myself to simply enjoy my vacation unencumbered by my compulsion to write.

The thing is, I usually write the ideas down in the moment they occur. Which was waaaay more often than even I realized.
I grab any random scrap of paper, candy wrapper, gum wrapper, fast food wrapper (you get the idea). Or, I dictate these flashes of brilliance, these nuggets of wonderfulness into my phone.
“The color orange is my new religion” or “I am just the toaster.”

I know. I KNOW! Don’t revolt now. At least wait until the end.

You see, that’s how posts like this one get started, and if I don’t get the ideas out of my head they pile up. My brain becomes constipated and I get a whopper of a headache. And I get sad. And bitchy.
It’s a blessing and a curse. What can I say?

I Can’t Always Just Write. I Want to Live My Life Too!

“Aren’t you supposed to be basking in the Mexican sun?” my dear friend Steph asked me after receiving my third snarky email in a row. And a video. I sent her a hilarious YouTube video. From Mexico. The poor thing had become my only outlet for all things creative—and funny.

This morning over coffee. Coffee in paradise. I informed my sweet and patient husband that I would be finding a cabana by the pool, someplace in the shade so I don’t melt, and I would be writing.

All damn day.

Someplace where I can look up and admire my surroundings, take a moment to express my immense gratitude to the Universe, and then write my face off.

Just the thought of that made me giddy.

Here I am, ratting myself out to all of you—again, and I don’t even care. Not a flinch. I actually have a gigantic smile on my face.

Personal epiphany: Writing is not work to me. It is an integral part of my life.
A part I cannot ignore or push aside (who knew?). It fuels my soul. It makes me deliriously, ridiculously happy.
Happier than paradise.
Well played but…Sorry paradise.

What makes you sad if you don’t allow yourself to just fucking “do it?”

Carry on,
xox

I was rushing. Running to meet friends for lunch. I’m you. I’m attempting to fit 700 hours of mindless, holiday bullshit (and some fun), into 24.

I was rushing. Running late ( y’all know how I feel about punctuality). I missed one parking spot. The prime one. The meter right in front of the restaurant. Inside my car, there could be heard a string of obscenities mixed with Christmas carols. That’s wrong isn’t it? Sacrilegious somehow. Nevertheless…I circled around in my brand new car, cursing and FaLaLa-ing my way around the block.

Ah Ha!
Success!
A spot down the street with minutes to spare. I stopped, getting into position to parallel park.
As I watched the cars zipping by me, waiting for the opportunity to back into the spot, I could feel my patience leaving me like a leaky balloon.

“Come on, come ooooooooon!”

There was a pedestrian running along the sidewalk eyeballing the street for a break in the traffic and his opportunity to jay-walk.

Meanwhile, for some unknown reason, the traffic in the lane next to me suddenly screeched to a halt. Rushing. We were all rushing somewhere.

That’s when the motorcycle sideswiped my car. My brand new car. The car filled with foul-mouthed impatience. And Michael Buble.

I felt the jostle at the back of the car at the same time I heard the deafening sound of my side-view-mirror exploding right next to my face. Violently. Loudly. A million pieces flying in every direction.

The motorcycle, in order to miss becoming a splat on the back of the car next to me, veered in between us. Except there wasn’t enough room. As her bike got squirrelly—because she was rushing—the left side of my car took the brunt.

The pedestrian hit the deck as a piece of mirror whizzed past his head.

Stunned and in shock, I slowly turned down the radio. In a situation like this Celine Dion singing “This is The Special Time” is definitely NOT the soundtrack you want playing in the background. After checking to make sure the man with the quick reflexes was uninjured,(which we accomplished with a combination of mime and wild, wide-eyed facial expressions), I zipped around the corner to find the motorcyclist.

I had seen her hobble the injured bike onto an adjacent side street where she was now walking in circles, helmet off, obviously shaken up.

I ride motorcycles. I know that fear, that rush of adrenaline that accompanies a close-call.

We hugged. We checked the damage. Mine was moderate. Purely cosmetic.
Hers was minor except for the loss of her handbrakes. That sucked. That left her with unrideable transportation. A bike dead in the water.

We called our husbands. That call sucks ass.
“Hi Babe, Yeah, I had an accident thingy with the car..”
“Are you ok? Is everyone okay?” You can feel the concern.

We exchanged all of the appropriate info. I was late, REALLY late for lunch. She was going to miss work altogether.

Rushing.
We‘re all rushing, rushing, rushing around like headless chickens right now. You can feel it in the energy.
It’s chaotic and buzzy, frantic and fuzzy. We’re distracted. Nobody is looking where they’re going.
I got it. AFTER I received my Universal slap across the face. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but you can bet now we’re BOTH paying attention.

Let’s all Slooooooooow Dooooooown.

The lives we save may be our own.

Carry on,
But not too fast, I want you all around for at least another year!
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? O 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!
Last week a friend posted this adorable little video, with an animated mouse teaching meditation, narrated by Dan Brown and that got me to thinking about his book 10% Happier and how he discovered meditation and it changed his life, and the fact that I wanted to recommend his book a while back, but I spazzed out and forgot and how helpful this could be in the week that follows with family, and you know, how timing is everything —oh well, this is a glimpse into how my mind works and the fact that I’ve had too much caffeine…oh yeah, have a great Sunday!

Carry on,
xox

http://www.amazon.com/10%25-Happier-Self-Help-Actually-Works–/dp/0062265431/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1447361807&sr=8-1&keywords=dan+harris+book

This is one of my favorite places to meditate.

The back of the chair hits me just right, the leather is nice and worn in, it is wide enough for me to sit cross-legged and the arms are the perfect height for me to rest my hands on my knees. AND…I can make that room pitch dark if I want.

That chair’s intended purpose was to be the masculine, super groovy throne from which my husband can watch his uber-violent, spy/assassin/bad-guy-who-is-really-a-good-guy movies in our TV room.

The same chair—living a COMPLETELY different life of duality. *Note the crumbs on the floor from the crackers and cheese he enjoyed last night 😉

“I can’t meditate, I don’t have any quiet place in my house.”  That makes me crazy and I call bullshit!

Use your shower or bathtub‚ I do! (if yours is loud and crowded you have bigger issues than I can even imagine!), and in LA often the only place we can grab a silent second is in our cars.

I have incredible insights delivered to me while I sit in traffic. (My fantasy is that the majority of LA drivers on the freeway are secretly meditating, but sadly reality continues to prove otherwise).

How about sitting on the grass in your backyard or in a chair on your patio?

How about your bed? I tend to linger in that in-between sleep and awake state as long as humanly possible. Until the dog licks my face with her morning dog food breath or the mind chatter turns up the volume and gets all dark and snarky—That’s when  I know it’s time to get up!

What I’m trying to say here is: Don’t be precious about your meditation practice. It’s better to fit in a few minutes of quiet contemplation here and there than nothing at all.

I know for me when I say I don’t have time for meditation—is exactly when I need it the most.

Love you guys to bits,
Carry on with your Saturday,
xox

In case you struggle with this the way I do.

It’s almost NEVER about you. 99.9% of the time. I promise.

Everyone is busy thinking about their own story.

BIG sigh…What a fucking relief!

Carry on with your bad selves this weekend,
xox

“I’m warning you – I’m foul today. Stay clear!”

That’s what I did for years. I’d make that announcement as I walked into work; OR if it was the five minutes I had a boyfriend, I’d give the poor guy a chance to make a clean getaway.

I thought I was doing the kind thing—warning the unfortunates. That I was taking care of myself and others.

The trouble was, although I cleared the room of the usual, aggravating suspects, my path became littered with all the foul people who matched my mood.

Driving became a kind of every man for himself obstacle course of assbites. The air was peppered with f-bombs, the middle fingers flashing—and that was just inside my own car.

Going to pick up lunch became a contact sport.
Elbow jabbing, line cutting and tons of stink-eye. Never mind that when I got back to the office, the entire order was wrong. Of course MY salad was the one missing—oh but wait—thank God there are 5,000 packets of ketchup in the bottom of the bag even though no one ordered fries!

You get the gist.
After a while—make that many years—I came to the realization that announcing  I’m a grade A, number one bitch today  wasn’t helping anyone, least of all myself. As a matter of fact it was setting a horrible tone for my day, and attracting to me every other bad day haver in the greater Los Angeles area.

You’ve got to be smarter about this, I thought one night after getting both a ticket and a flat tire on the way home at the end of one particularly bitchy day. There’s GOT to be a better way!

And there is. It takes a few minutes and a bit of commitment, but I can assure you – it’s worth it.

If, for whatever reason I wake up on the wrong side of sanity, instead of just resigning myself to a day of disasters, I acknowledge the mood and then take a few minutes to shift it.

I’m not at the whim of some unforeseen force, I tell myself. I’m in control here! Ahhhh, that feels better already.

I start by putting whatever set me off into perspective. Nothing is so bad it can’t be fixed AND no amount of shitty is worth sacrificing an entire day. Seriously.

Don’t get too specific. First, take away the blame.
Instead, figure out how you’d rather FEEL. 

If “he” pissed you off again, by breathing or wearing that face, take a minute to remember why you loved him enough to have him underfoot. Get back to that loving (or at least liking, place).

If you’re feeling under-appreciated, think of the last time you told someone how much you appreciated their extra effort. It was probably during the Clinton administration—too long.
You see, that stuff goes hand in hand.

You want love—be loving.

You want appreciation—show it to those around you.

You want a helping hand—be generous to others.

You want to hear “Thank you”—say it more.

You want more money – spend some. (Counterintuitive I know, but it works)

You want the cramps to go away (or the headache, or the sore shoulder) – take some fucking Motrin, and quit complaining.

I can’t tell you how many times I went into work first, all twisted with cramps, and after the oxygen had left the room and everyone was sufficiently aware of my agony – THEN I took the appropriate medication.
(That’s what happens when you live alone too long; there’s nobody there to scream “enough!” and shove pain meds down your throat).

Don’t do that. It’s not nice. Your co workers aren’t paid enough to share your  misery.

So loves, during this stressful next couple of weeks, don’t give into your foul moods. Consider this a warning. If you do, the angry, stressed out crazies will magnetize to you and make things worse.

I can promise you this from years of tireless research.

Eat a chocolate chip cookie (or 5), take a walk and look at the decorations and the holiday windows, tell someone you love them (and mean it), say “please” and “thank you” and watch it come back to you.

What you send out into the world – comes back to you. It’s the law.

Sending Big, big love your way,
Xox