work

Friends, 
Angels? Do you believe they walk among us? I sure do!
Read this and see what you think.
xox

As we rushed out through the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my show bonus. The monetary incentive he used to physically wring me dry.  

The realization stopped me in my tracks.
F*#&!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day—in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood for any fuckery!

We had grossed over one million dollars—in a week. The two of us. And I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss who hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be, the third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but his pocket change, I had won one hard-fought battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set bonus amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he bellowed back at me impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked in my direction with a help me face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door.

“I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me until in one fluid motion, he swung to the right, deftly executing a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Still in motion, he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached out with both hands in time to catch most of them. Several of them did make a break for it, the slippery little buggers rolling on their sides underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it,” He insisted. “Now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing that he’d left me no time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in my purse and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

A pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, with a cigarette with two inches of ash precariously dangling from her lipstick-stained lips, was straddling two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom-slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling around on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her unbroken focus.

“Janet, let’s go!” He chided from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors before turning right to join the cab line.

I could hear the damn plastic chip clattering together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour it took to get from Vegas to Los Angeles, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly beg him for money he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected. In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die, covered in honey and tied on an anthill than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with him and his wife. What I knew for sure was that someone was going to die if I got in that car with him. And I was way too overdressed to spend a night in jail.

As we exited the terminal, the crowd spitting us out onto the curb, I spotted his wife’s car to the left. Without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right, jumping into a single cab that just happened to be waiting there for me.

The moment the door shut and we pulled away—I freaking lost it.

I began to ugly cry, complete with gasping for breath and rivers of snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat you with respect and they blatantly disregard that request?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! But I couldn’t. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was thirty-seven and single. Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That sad truth made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late-night traffic on LaCienega, I spotted the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, staring at me in the rearview mirror. His deep brown skin, white turban, and singsongy accent gave away his country of origin. India.

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?” He cooed.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so sad,” I boo-hooed. “I don’t know what to do.”

I watched his eyes search my face in the mirror as I inadvertently wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he murmured in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail. Loudly. “With, with, poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

I grabbed a couple out of my bag and tossed them onto the front seat for dramatic effect.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
“Really? I  mean, I guess…”

At that moment, the cab came to a slow, rolling stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, he had to wait as I scavenged around in my bag for cab fare. In the meantime, the lovely man retrieved my suitcase from where I had launched it, the driver’s side backseat, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare, including a generous tip for being such a good listener.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me,” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to wrangle my false eyelashes back into place.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could even argue with him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that were not normal. And they gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived!

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, a literal labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts, and one-way streets. My friends refuse to pick me up lest they never find their way out. Even with my best directions, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises inside that complex. How is it that he had managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one-way streets and deposit me right at my door?
I’ll answer that. He was an angel. My angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor, slowly walking inside the lobby, I noticed he had propped the elevator doors open with my bag. Getting inside I was stunned to discover he’d also pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really, truly believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox

Friends,

I was talking about joy with an acquaintance the other day—or the “J” word as I like to whisper—since talking about finding joy in life is about as triggery of a trigger as chatting about politics, God, or pumpkin spice anything.

Tempers flare. So do nostrils. It can get ugly.

Unfortunately, our conversation went downhill kinda like this one because some people have a hard time reaching for more joy in life. They will argue against it with the tenacity of a dog with a rope. Like there’s a lifetime joy quota and their’s has not only been reached, it’s been exceeded.

Their best days are behind them, they say. Right. Yada, yada, blah, blah, blah.

Anyhow, I was reminded of this video from 2014 otherwise known as a helluva long time ago. It makes me laugh at the absurdity of this argument every damn time I watch it (which is bordering on an obscene number of times)!

Seek joy you guys! Trust me, there’s always more lurking around the corner!

Here’s a good minute and a half minute to start you off!

Carry on.
xox

Hello Tribe,
I don’t know if you saw this the other day but when I read it I knew I had to share. It’s by Maria Shriver, one of those women who strike me as having it alllllll together. i’s dotted. t’s crossed. All of her ducks nicely in a row.

And while I’m pretty sure that is true most of the time, I was surprised to read what similar paths our thoughts were taking these days. Me and Maria.
Maria and me.
Two peas in a pod.
Bff’s forever.

Anyway…check it out and see if you’re feelin’ it too.

I bet you are.
Carry on,
xox

Maria’s Sunday Paper: The Power of Re-evaluating Your Beliefs ~ by MARIA SHRIVER | Oct 29, 2017 |

I’ve Been Thinking, The Sunday Paper.

The news of the week, as it always does, got me thinking. It got me thinking about politics.
Thinking about addiction.
Thinking about success.
Thinking about how to live one’s life.

Every new year, I usually do some kind of inventory of my own life.
But I can’t wait until then. I just can’t. (Plus, my birthday is around the corner, so now is as good a time as any.)
And the truth is, it’s not just the news that has got me re-evaluating. My body has also been speaking to me to pay attention.

My heart has been calling me out. My mind is telling me not to get caught up in the noise, but to instead step back and think about the effect that the noise has on my life, and on all of our lives. Plus, it’s all been giving me a complex migraine, complete with vertigo and vestibular damage (don’t ask).

As you can you see, it’s not just one thing that brought me to this moment again.
It’s been a series of whispers and then a few 2x4s.
If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s to pay attention to the whispers and the 2x4s because they usually precede a knockout. (Speaking of knockouts, the voices of the Architects of Change featured in today’s Sunday Paper just blow me away. I love being in community with them and so many others that we have featured. They help me rise above the noise and inspire me to have hope and move forward.)

What also gives me hope is knowing that at any point in my life, I can change things that aren’t working.
So here are a few things that the week’s headlines made me think about. I share them with you in hopes that they may give you something to think about in your own life as you move forward.

Success
I’ve made big misjudgments here. I used to think that if I were the anchor of a network news show that I would feel successful. Same with publishing a best-selling book. I was wrong. Success, I’ve learned, is an inside job. I didn’t grow up with that message, but I now know it to be true. The people who I now think are the most successful are the ones who have beautiful, loving families. The ones who love and are loved. They are the ones who toil quietly and patiently on the frontlines of life, serving those who they love without seeking attention or notoriety in return. They are the ones who recognize that a modest life is just as meaningful as one lived in the spotlight. (Boy, was I reminded of that this week when Albert Einstein’s notes on living a modest life sold for $1.6M. Check it out in the section below my essay.)

Politics
I used to think the Democratic Party had all of the answers. I was wrong. Both parties contribute to divisiveness, as we see each and every day in the news. Both parties have brought us to this mean-spirited, divided place. I left the Democratic Party a few years ago to register as an Independent. There lies my hope.

Work
I used to be so judgmental about people who weren’t working like maniacs. I was wrong. Working like a maniac makes you sick and it’s an addiction. Put work in its proper place. Find balance. Your happiness depends on all parts of your life working together.

Rest (Mental and Physical)
In my home growing up, rest was a big no-no. My parents never rested, so neither did my brothers or I. Today, I know better. Rest is critical to your mental and physical well-being, so make time for it. No one else is going to give it to you.

Health
I used to think that I could eat whatever I wanted, for however long I wanted. I was wrong. Bad choices catch up to you. Before you know it, you could be that one that cancer decides to knockout. You could be the person that Alzheimer’s decides to take hold of. Make your health (especially your brain health) a priority. And, while you are at it, get to the bottom of your relationship with food. Cookies are not a substitute for real love. They don’t love you back.
Trust me. Candy, cake and Swedish fish don’t either.

Fear
I used to view myself as fearless because I skied black diamond runs and jumped off cliffs. I spoke up and spoke out. But then I came face to face with how much fear I actually had deep down. Today, I work hard at pushing through the things that scare me emotionally, like sharing this list with you. Sometimes, I feel like I’m alone when I’m vulnerable or admitting that I’m scared. But, I now know that I’m not. (Speaking of fear, as I watched Sen. Jeff Flake give his speech this week on the Senate floor, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was feeling fear or afraid as he stood there so boldly making his public statement.)

Solitude
Speaking of fear, very few things scare me more than being in solitude. In order to not be alone, I often pack my life and my house full of people (I mean, lots of people). Because the truth is, I’m happiest when my house is filled with the people. But, I know that I’ve also done this because I’ve been afraid to be alone, look like I was alone, or feel like I was along. I’ve noticed, though, that the universe has a way of doing for you what you can’t or won’t do for yourself. Today, I spend quite a bit of time alone. (My son and niece who have been living with me for the last year are now both moving out.) I’m not saying I love being alone, but I’ve realized that I’ve learned most of the truths that I’m sharing today because I’ve spent time alone. I’ve spent time in silence. At the end, my takeaway is that we should try and spend more time in solitude so that we’re comfortable with it when we have to be.

Loyalty
I grew up in a family where loyalty was king. I heard about it all the time.
Loyalty to family.
Loyalty to friends.
Loyalty to a particular faith, political party, or person.
But, what I never heard about was loyalty to one’s self. It didn’t dawn on me that one could crush the other. Today, loyalty to myself is more important than my loyalty to anyone or anything else. I’ve learned it’s not selfish to put yourself at the center of your own life. I’ve learned that you must honor that person looking back at you in the mirror because the cost of not doing so is high.

Celebrating Life
Life is short. I grew up knowing this to be true, but now it seems like I’m reminded of it all the time. Healthy friends call and tell me they have stage 4 cancer. Someone else whispers to me that they have early-onset Alzheimer’s. Another person tells me about a crippling depression that makes life unlivable. And then, of course, there is the news. We don’t celebrate life enough. We don’t tell our loved ones what they mean to us enough. I’m not writing this because of my age (and because my birthday is on the horizon). I’m writing this because of my first-hand experiences.

Honor your life. Celebrate your life. Enjoy your life. Do it now.

Re-evaluating—whether it’s on your birthday, New Year’s, or any other day—can be painful. But, it can also be incredibly liberating.

Every time I take inventory, I discover things I’m wrong about. But, I also discover that I’ve been right about more than I realize. I’ve been right about certain friends. Right about the importance of family. Right about my faith in a God larger than me or any one building. And, I’ve been right that there was something in me—as there is in you—that’s always worth fighting for.

That’s something none of us should ever have to re-evaluate.

P.S. I’ll be sharing more thoughts like the above in my upcoming book that’s inspired by these essays. “I’ve Been Thinking: Reflections, Prayers and Meditations” comes out February 27, 2018, and is available for pre-order now. I can’t wait for you to see it!

Bal·ance: noun

1. An even distribution of weight enabling someone or something to remain upright and steady.
“I tripped and lost my balance” (This is a very relatable example for me.)

2. A condition in which different elements are equal or in the correct proportions.
“Overseas investments can add balance to an investment portfolio” (Um…This example? Not so much. We have no money invested offshore AND —my right boobie is bigger than my left. Just sayin’.)

3. An apparatus for weighing, especially one with a central pivot, beam, and a pair of scales.
(Any allusion to weight or scales and I get squirrely and stop reading.)

So, 4. and 5. and blah, blah, blah… There are three more definitions for balance but I think we all get the picture.

The only reason I put this up was because of my meditation today. You see, while my mind went searching in its own kind of scavenger hunt sort of cleverly disorganized way for my newest mantra, which is SURRENDER, it came back to me with the word BALANCE.

That was not what I sent it out to find!

So, I fought it. You know, like you do during meditation.

I fought like a crazed spider monkey looking for a hidden peanut in a rainforest in Madagascar.
I wanted my word!
I wanted SURRENDER!
Not that it was working all that well for me, which seems fairly obvious as I type this. But damn it! I find myself lately in dire need of some surrendering, so I figure that if I repeat it enough times in that far away place that meditation can drop you into, all of my synapses will re-wire themselves and I will open my eyes and suddenly be…tranquil…Accepting…Surrendery.

Except look who showed up instead. Fucking BALANCE.

Okay, show of hands, who here has achieved balance in their life? Uh huh. Uh, huh. Just as I suspected. Billy…put your hand down. Don’t make me come over there…

We all have moments of balance. Maybe even a day here or a month there and then that pesky thing called life gets in that way and fucks everything up.

Regardless of how convinced I am that my shit is together, there’s always a stray hair, right? Or a loose thread that’s threatening to unravel my delicate sweater of a life. Or a sudden wind set to blow down my house of cards.

If you’re anything like me (and I know you are), I always think I need to chill out more. Things are too hectic. Running, running, running. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Oh, my! Then, after I have relaxed for, I don’t know, three days, I get the itch to un-wedge my ass from the beach chair, grab a scooter and rob a bank because I’m SO FUCKING BORED!

Who’s with me?

BALANCE, HA! That means things are humming along nicely, right?  T’s crossed and I’s dotted. Duckies all in a row.

Very rarely (never) are my duckies in a row. My duckies are scattered to the wind, skittering across the pavement. My duckies are distacted by shiney objects and since they all wear tin-foil hats—it’s a mess. I’m under the impression that you need perfectly lined up duckies to achieve balance.

Am I wrong?

When I’m home I feel wanderlust. I want to be traveling the world and when I’m traveling I want to get home. When I’m eating kale I want it to be pizza. If I’m writing I want to be playing. I ask you, is that balance?

My girls and I went to Nashville to work. To hunker down and finish stuff. All of that unfinished stuff that tortures us at 3 am. To write our asses off. To brainstorm, and make calls, and answer emails and…“Can we go out? Can we go back to that hipster bar tonight so I can flirt with that bartender Kenneth again?”  I started whining at 5 pm.

I was done. Cooked. The unfinished stuff would have to wait for another day.

BALANCE!

I have none.

None!

So, I guess the voice in my head knows me better than I know myself.
SURRENDER will have to wait…or will it?

Carry on,
xox

“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours for…what?”

I was listening to a podcast today and this “old saying” stopped me in my tracks.

Well, the big, juicy melted piece of gum I stepped in while I was listening and traversing the parking lot at Target actually DID stop me in my tracks. A stop so dead—I walked right out of my shoe.

I kid you not.

Seeing that we are deep into December, I had to park so far away that the actual Target store was just a speck on the horizon. I’m sure someone left their gum, like a bread crumb, to mark the trail back to their car so…I can’t really be mad, can I?
But enough about my glamourous life.

Back to the saying. You know, the myth that implies that there are more than enough hours in a day.

You work eight hours.
Stop laughing.
I know we’re smack dab in the middle of the holidays and what with shopping and wrapping and all—the Elves up at the North Pole have a shorter work day. And better benefits. And terrific catering. Nevermind.

So… you work.

Anyhow, you sleep eight hours. But seriously, who does? I’m lucky to get seven. This morning I woke up at 3 am because I thought I saw an orange glow down the hall and knew for sure the tree was on fire.
It wasn’t.

Too late, adreneline rushes don’t keep regular office hours.

Then I couldn’t remember all of the reindeer names or get that damn song out of my head.
I lay there wondering where on earth my pine nut cookie recipe went and the next thing I knew it was 4am and all I could think about was how good coffee would taste with a pine nut cookie—so I got up and made some. Coffee. Not the cookies. I’m still at a loss.

So…You sleep.

But you guys, that still leaves at least several, maybe four, hours left to do whatever you want.

My friend says those hours are reserved for worrying.
Yikes.
My hubby says traffic on the 101 freeway chews up his spare time.
Jeepers, people.

What about eating?
Sex anybody?
Holiday merriment?

I decided to paint with a broad brush.
“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for… FUN!”

That sounds downright illegal, doesn’t it? Fun? Really? And for eight hours? Oh, sweet Jesus, help me!

But fun can be anything, right?

A glass of pink champagne for no reason?

Maybe it’s staying up after everybody else goes to bed to binge watch Netflix.

What about going out to lunch and catching up with an old friend?

Today, my friend Kim and I played hookie and went to see a movie—in the middle of the day!

How would you complete that sentence? Gimme some hints, I’d love to know.

Carry on,
xox

Oh, oh, oh! Do you ever need to read this! You know who you are. It’s an oldie but goodie…still, take heed…and quit carrying on.
xox

GRUDGE

grudge
ɡrəj/
noun
1. a persistent feeling of ill will or resentment resulting from a past insult or injury.

synonyms: grievance, resentment, bitterness, rancor, pique, umbrage, dissatisfaction, disgruntlement, bad feelings, hard feelings, ill feelings, ill will, animosity, antipathy, antagonism, enmity, animus;
chip on one’s shoulder

verb
1.
To be resentfully unwilling to give, grant, or allow (something).

synonyms: begrudge, resent, feel aggrieved about, be resentful of, mind, object to, take exception to, take umbrage at

I used to work for someone who was the King of the Grudge Holders. He was brilliant at it.
If you had a grudge that needed to be held, you could count on him to do it for you.

His family used him over the years as their sanctioned grudge holder.
That left the rest of them free to live an unfettered, happy life.

He held a grudge toward his brother for being a dick to him as a teenager, you know like older brothers are.
Dude. It’s a right of passage — let it go.

Nope. Over twenty years later and they barely spoke.

It got to the point where he didn’t even know why he hated someone — he just did.
His dad had once told him the story of some slight that befell him after the war. Not the Vietnam war, that would have been bad enough, no, we’re talking WWII — the 1940’s for god sakes.

I watched my boss act as cold as ice to a seemingly very nice older gentleman who came into our store, and after he left I questioned him about his behavior. “What the hell was that?” I said in a tone reserved for people who kick dogs.

“I don’t want that guy in here” he responded defensively, “Besides, he’s got a lot of nerve. He and my dad got into a bar fight once over a girl.”

“Uh, really? When? The Neolithic period? Your parents have been married for over fifty years, I think the statute of limitations on post-war fights over girls who are now almost eighty has been exceeded.”

He wasn’t having it. He folded his arms tight, pursed his lips, and stomped away.

I used to joke with him, “Give me the list of who you’re not mad at, suing, or holding a grudge against — it’s the short one.”

Bygones could never be bygones.

And that’s the thing with some people. They have a dog in every fight. They’ll latch onto a story they hear about something gone awry and they’ll run with it, holding the grudge long after the situation has been rectified.

“That guy owes Jerry money.” he sneered one day as he walked by me to put something in the safe.
I looked up to see some nondescript someone I didn’t know, writing a check to another dealer in the building. “How do you know that?” I decided to bite, it was a welcome distraction from all the paperwork.

“Jerry told me in Miami” he replied, standing at the counter staring the guy down. His face was turning red. I could feel his blood pressure rising.
“That was over six months ago, maybe he’s paid him, besides I can see the line of people who owe Jerry money from here. You guys all owe each other money. Shit, Jerry owes YOU money!”

He just grunted and mumbled something under his breath as he sat back down behind his desk.

Dog in someone else’s fight.
Nose in somebody else business.
Mood ruined.
Grunge held…for Jerry.

He really should have charged for his services. His obituary will read: He never met a grudge he couldn’t hold.

The problem with holding a grudge …is that your hands are then too full to hold onto anything else.
-Seth Godin

It has been my observation (I did almost twenty years of research), that what chronic grudge holders are incapable of holding because their hands are full of …grudge… are joy and gratitude.

Grudges turn toxic and eventually soul numbing.

It was physically impossible for him to feel appreciation and gratitude. That chip was missing.
We used to be able, with the help of copious amounts of alcohol, to coax an uncomfortable “thank you” out of him after trade shows.

He had a good life. A successful business, healthy family and money in the bank, and I watched him year after year take it all for granted. Like it was owed to him.

And for many, many years I witnessed a complete lack of joy. Actually, all the higher emotions were missing. I never really saw love, empathy or compassion shown toward anyone.

But over time, I learned to cut him a break. I understood. After all — his hands were full.

I’m happy to report that like cheese, age has softened him and we are still friendly, but when I thought of the word grudge, his face immediately came to mind.

Who do you think of when you see that word?

Carry on,
xox

You know I’m all about the YES these days. But sometimes there’s a NO on your way to YES!

Check this out. I love it.

Carry on,
xox

ON SAYIN NO.
By~SETH GODIN

~Seth Godin

When you hold a book up next to your face on video; a book on surrender, and you tell all of your readers how you’re committing, to the best of your ability, to live your life that way — to let the “Hand of Life” call all the shots—said life immediately turns into a three-ring traveling shitshow and you end up canceling your Italian motorcycle vacation at the last-minute.

Yep. So that’s how I spent my Saturday. Canceling plane reservations, hotel rooms and motorcycle rentals.

It was the next logical step. All hell was breaking loose on several of my husband’s construction jobs and we couldn’t in good conscience, just leave town.

Arrivederci! See ya in two weeks!
Yeah, not gonna happen.

I saw it coming, (if i’m honest with myself; which I almost never am), about three weeks ago.
Everything that could go wrong—did.

But you know how you’ve made deposits—both financially and emotionally? Ones that you just can’t bring yourself to give up?

So we stayed the course until there was flaming hair, crying and name-calling (those were his clients, not me), and ended up canceling at the worst possible time. The last-minute.

So. What would I do differently, if I had it to do over again?

That’s just it. Nothing.

I called bullshit every step of the way. You know, like a good wife does.

My French husband, bucking the stereotype, refused to surrender.
Alas, there are two of us in this couple, and he sincerely thought he could make things right before our departure date. He is a magician after all, always pulling rabbits out of hats.
But as that date drew near, “The Hand of Life”, depending on where you were standing, either made the decision easier for us—or gave us the finger.

It’s still too soon to tell.

I can honestly say that at this very moment I’m not disappointed in the least. (Check with me in a week when I should be lounging on the Amalfi coast, tanned, drunk, and being attended to by a handsome waiter named Marco.)

Surrender. Who in the hell said this was a good way to live? Oh yeah, that would be me.

So you guys, here’s what I learned from this:

All the sleepless nights;

All the 3 a.m. walks around the block to clear his head;

All the angst filled conversations;

All the lists of pro’s and con’s;

All the endless vacillating.

All of that misery came from fighting the inevitable.

And after the surrender came a tiny nugget of a gift. Instead of disappoint; I feel peace. (I’m not sure my partner’s there yet. He still has a lot of magic to perform).

Carry on,
xox

Dear Woo Woo Crew,

My brother has found himself in the midst of a personal shitastropy. You know, just like we all do from time to time.

And even though it’s winding down — it’s winding up (isn’t it weird how that happens? It gets really bad before it goes away. Like that stubborn boil on your ass). So the fan is blowing shit all over the fucking place. You know, like it does.

Anyhow, he’s had your help. I call you his Woo Woo Crew because of the alchemy you have performed through your love, loyalty and laughter. You have helped my brother weather his dark night of the soul with your special brand of magic.

Now, before you get all weepy on me (Billy).
Can we just talk for a minute about the medicinal properties of laughter? Guffawing your way through tears is highly underrated. It has a Merlin-esq magical quality to it. Laughter is the best medicine is no joke. Doctors should prescribe a visit to a comedy club (or humor blog) for depression. Seriously.

And as I see it, that’s been an indispensable part of his cure. You, his WWC make him laugh.
A lot.
Everyday.
The joke is often at his own expense—but that’s okay—he’s freakin’ funny.
You aren’t walking on eggshells. You aren’t worried about what YOUR future holds. You show up to his business with smiles and hugs and donuts. (I took artistic liberties in assuming there are donuts. It just seems like you would have something deep-fried and I like icing, so….)

Hey, don’t get me wrong, you work as hard as you play. You are so smart, so good at what you do, that I want to buy you all ponies. Well, Billy already has a pony, so maybe cars for the rest of you.

You are loyal, you are loving, you cut him slack when it’s needed and pick it up for him when he’s down.


I could not send bigger love to Y’all. I mean it.

My hope is that all you guys out there have your very own Woo Woo Crews. If you don’t — find one fast.
They will save you.

Better yet, maybe you are a card-carrying member of one.

My friend Kim is also walking the temporary tightrope of terrible. Again, like we all have; and I see or speak to her almost every day.

Seems my life makes her laugh.
My triumphs, my tragedies are…funny to her. I suppose it’s in the delivery, but still, we laugh A LOT!
The thing is, when I see her walk up the driveway with a sad face and then later, I watch her walk back to her car and she’s still laughing about that thing I said. That makes me feel good.

Listen I’m no Mother Theresa.
The other day I yelled at her mid-cry, right to her sad, soggy face: “Stop crying! Stop being sad!”…and instead of punching me in the face — we both burst out laughing. Like doubled over, can’t speak laughing.

Dammit, it was time. Time for her sadness to turn the corner, lose its grip and get the hell out of her life!
Just writing this make me giggle because I can still see the shock that washed over her before she started laughing. I’m sure my face looked the same.

It was priceless. Like a two-year-old. Tears one minute, laughter the next.

Why can’t we do that? When did we lose that talent? Why does the laughter dissipate so quickly but the tears stay for…weeks?

Woo Woo Crews Unite! Be funny! Be kind! Be goofy! Bring donuts! Buy ponies!
Turns some frowns upside down (yes I did say that).

Write love letters to people who are making a difference, so they can become aware that they are.

Enough rambling.

So incredibly grateful for you guys,
Carry on,
xox

Here’s some medicine for you — Happy Friday!

GRUDGE

grudge
ɡrəj/
noun
1. a persistent feeling of ill will or resentment resulting from a past insult or injury.

synonyms: grievance, resentment, bitterness, rancor, pique, umbrage, dissatisfaction, disgruntlement, bad feelings, hard feelings, ill feelings, ill will, animosity, antipathy, antagonism, enmity, animus;
chip on one’s shoulder

verb
1.
To be resentfully unwilling to give, grant, or allow (something).

synonyms: begrudge, resent, feel aggrieved about, be resentful of, mind, object to, take exception to, take umbrage at

I used to work for someone who was the King of the Grudge Holders. He was brilliant at it.
If you had a grudge you needed held, you could count on him to do it for you.

His family used him over the years as their sanctioned grudge holder.
That left the rest of them free to live an unfettered, happy life.

He held a grudge toward his brother for being a dick to him as a teenager, you know, like older brothers are. It’s a right of passage — let it go.
Nope. Over twenty years later and they barely spoke.

It got to the point where he didn’t even know why he hated someone — he just did because his dad had told him the story of some slight back after the war. Not the Vietnam war, that would have been bad enough, No, we’re talking WWII — the 1940’s for god sakes.

I watched my boss act as cold as ice to a seemingly very nice older gentleman who came into our store, and after he left I questioned him about his behavior. “What the hell was that?” I said in a tone reserved for people who kick dogs.
“I don’t want that guy in here” he responded defensively, “Besides, he’s got a lot of nerve. He and my dad got into a bar fight once over a girl.”

“Uh, really? When? The Neolithic period? Your parents have been married for over fifty years, I think the statute of limitations on post war fights over girls who are now almost eighty has been reached.”

He wasn’t having it. He folded his arms tight, pursed his lips, and stomped away.

I used to joke with him, “Give me the list of who you’re not mad at, suing, or holding a grudge against — it’s shorter.”

Bygones can never be bygones.

And that’s the thing with some people. They have a dog in every fight. They’ll latch onto a story they hear about something gone awry and they’ll run with it, holding the grudge long after the situation has rectified itself.

“That guy owes Jerry money.” he sneered as he walked by me to put something in the safe.
I looked up to see some nondescript someone I didn’t know writing a check to another dealer in the building. “How do you know that?” I decided to bite, it was a welcome distraction from all the paperwork.
“He told me in Miami” he was standing at the counter starring the guy down. I could feel his blood pressure rising.
“That was over six months ago, maybe he’s paid him, besides I can see the line of people who owe Jerry money from here. You guys all owe each other money. Shit, Jerry owes YOU money!”

He just grunted and mumbled something under his breath, (I was still breathing so fortunately his wish hadn’t been granted) and sat back down behind his desk.
Dog in someone else’s fight.
Nose in somebody else business.
Mood ruined.
Grunge held.
For Jerry.

He really should have charged for his services. His obituary will read: He never met a grudge he couldn’t hold.

The problem with holding a grudge …is that your hands are then too full to hold onto anything else.
-Seth Godin

In my observation of chronic grudge holders (I did almost twenty years of research) what they are incapable of holding because their hands are full of …grudge… are joy and gratitude.

It turns toxic and eventually soul numbing.

It was physically impossible for him to feel appreciation and gratitude. That chip was missing.
We used to be able, with the help of copious amounts of alcohol, to coax an uncomfortable “thank you” out of him after trade shows.
He had a good life. A successful business, healthy family and money in the bank, and I watched him year after year take it all for granted. Like it was owed to him.

And for many, many years I witnessed a complete lack of joy. Actually all the higher emotions were missing. I never really saw love, empathy or compassion shown toward anyone.

But over time I learned to cut him a break. I understood. After all — his hands were full.

We are still friendly but when I thought of the word grudge he immediately came to mind. Who do you think of when you see that word?

Carry on,
xox