awakening

Maria Shriver and I Share A Brain ~ But Only On Thursdays ~ And Other Delusions of Grandeur

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!

The House of Cray

I think we can all agree that the world has gone freaking crazy.

Like flip city crazy.

Whether I’m in the line at the market, pumping gas or flipping someone off, gently reminding them it’s not okay to text and drive—I swear–there’s a special brand of madness out there.

This weekend it felt different, more virulent than the generic cray, cray we’ve been living with for close to a year. You know what I mean—the up is down, black is white, and truth are lies reality that we are all attempting to navigate without losing our minds.

“Snap out of it!”

And we can’t even blame the full moon you guys, it’s too early!

Friends told me that they argued almost to the point of a duel at dawn over issues they barely care about.

Insecurity loomed large.

Our mail carrier (who drives at a glacial pace) got broadsided at the end of our block.

And I ate pie. All weekend. Like, the entire pie.

That wasn’t the only display of cray at our house this weekend. The wildlife, which you know if you read this blog has overrun our house, well, it upped the ante.

“We have a crazy squirrel”, Raphael informed me as we sat down to play cards on the patio Saturday afternoon.

“That sounds like an understatement. Have you met the squirrels around here?”

“I’m not kidding”, he continued, unamused by me. “It either has rabies or it ate some rat poison.”

“Wow. Those are terrible odds”, I replied, trying my best to stiffel a giggle. “Hey, how can you tell when a squirrel is…you know…crazy?” I was trying to make a point. I knew the squirrel hadn’t eaten poison. After the summer we all had, the entire neighborhood has rat fatigue. All our poison stations are empty. Besides, as intended, the openings are too small for the squirrels to get to the poison.

I know these things. Raphael does not.

“All I can say is it’s not acting normal.”

No one is acting normal anymore. No one.
Not our elected officials, not our relatives, not even our beloved national pastime! When the final score of a five-plus hour World Series Game is more like a football score—12-13. Normal is so far in the rearview mirror it has disappeared on the horizon.

Besides, what is normal squirrel behavior anyway? My observation has been that they run around our backyard like lunatics, hiding peanuts and fucking like…squirrels. Not a bad gig.

When I pressed him for details he just said it was acting “weird”, taunting the dog and then barely making a clean get-away.

I brushed it off. I had to survive. My experience with the fauna in our neighborhood this year has given me a form of PTSD.

Raccoons, and skunks and rats—oh my!

I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the fact that the squirrels had now jumped the track.

Now, let me set the scene for this last part.
There’s a dog running around and two adults enjoying a couple of hours of cards. There’s music playing both inside and outside and patio doors open to catch a rare, cool, late October breeze.

In a nutshell…a peanut shell—there’s noise, activity, and broad daylight…and a crazy-ass squirrel lurking inside under a cabinet like Kato from the Pink Panther, waiting for us to come back in the house.

When we did—all hell broke loose. The house went full metal cray.

“That damn squirrel is in here!” Raphael yelled as he held Ruby back by the collar.

There was screaming. Even from the squirrel.

It ran into the fireplace and hid (not very well I might add) among the twigs and leaves I collect throughout the year for kindling.

The dreaded boom came out. The death broom. But Raphael was able to quickly sweep the daft little fellow back onto the patio where he stopped, fixed his hair, and did the Macarena.

Great! Now the wildlife is nuts. What’s next? Attack of the killer gardenia?

I give up.

Carry on,
xox

https://youtu.be/QQ5xH6gUwks

I’ve Got Me Some Wicked Shadar

Throw Shade:
To talk trash about a friend or acquaintance, to publicly denounce or disrespect someone.
When throwing shade it’s immediately obvious to on-lookers that the thrower, and not the throwee, is the bitchy, uncool one.
“How does Barbara keep any friends? Last night at the party all she did was throw shade at people.”

~Urban Dictionary

Fucking Barbara.

We All know a “Barbara”, right? And maybe…on occasion… we have to admit to being a “Barbara”—but that’s beside the point.

This is about shade—and my Shadar, as I like to call it.

Just like the French cheese in my fridge, the dead rat in my attic, and a dog fart, I can smell shade coming from a mile away!

I can’t explain it. It’s one of the superpowers I’ve developed in my close to sixty years on the planet. I keep it in the same holster as my Gaydar, right next to my BS Detector.

So, in the parking lot on my way to do something I absolutely SUCK at, I could already feel my shadar going off. No worries, my guy Larry will be there, I told myself. Larry is as old as an eight-track tape deck and that comes in handy because that is the exact decade where my understanding regarding anything tech resides.

Larry is patient and kind and not judgy at all. Larry understands me.

But apparently, Larry had the audacity to retire.

Anyway, There I was—at Kinkos—to make copies of my screenplay. Now, that sounds easy enough, right? How hard could it be?

But for me, using the giant, state-of-the-art copiers they have in the “Self Serve” section is so far above my field of expertise that I may as well be launching a rocket ship to Mars. Seriously.

I get so flustered that I’m almost tempted to have the fellas at the printing desk print them for me—except for the fact that I want to make my mortgage payment this month and I can’t afford to do both.

So, Self Service it will have to be.

I got myself all set up. Great! I reassured me, That only took forty minutes.

After I swiped my credit card I pressed the big green START button on the printer. It shuddered and moaned and asked for more.

Having already entered more information than ANYONE, ANYWHERE, has EVER needed from me, I acquiesced because somehow, this seemed pertinent.

FILL PAPER—STUPID, it demanded. (I may have added the stupid part.)

Oh, shit! Right. Paper! I looked around clueless.

That’s when I saw them. Or rather I felt their shade. Three young Latinas clad in blue Kinkos smocks, all gathered up in a huddle, clucking, and snickering and looking my way.

There it was. Shade. Thrown.

I looked one of them straight in the eye. The pretty one with the bright magenta lipstick (which I’m sure was in direct violation of the Kinkos dress code. Just sayin’). She stopped her laugh in mid Ha and feigned concern.

“Whatareyoutryingtodooverthere?” she asked in a language I’d never heard before.

“I need to print some copies…uh…of a screenplay.”

The three of them rolled their eyes so dramatically that I think I felt the earth shift on its axis. Adhering to an unspoken bitches covenant, the other two turned away.

Magenta Lips had spoken to me. I was her problem now.

But not without throwing a bit more of the worst kind of shade. Latina shade.

“It says here I need paper, ha, imagine that! Paper for copies!” I chuckled in this self-effacing way I have that annoys most people.

“Yeah”, she said taking a look at my script. “Youneedthreeholedpaper”, she spit out in her special dialect.
I had no idea what she’d said so I just stood there, frozen.

“You need the paper with three holes on the side”, she yelled, exasperated. “You have to buy it. Go! Get paper!”

I took off running like a contestant on The Amazing Race and then stopped mid-stride. “Where is it?” I asked, already out of breath.

“There!” she threw her head to the left where another thirty-five thousand square feet of Kinkos yawned in the distance.

“Could you be more specific?” I asked, suppressing the urge to run back over and bite her in the face.

Her two other “sales associates” were back. They had settled in over by the stationary section to watch the 1:30 showing of:
A Dufas Makes Copies.

Shade was everywhere. It had turned total solar eclipse dark all around my copier.

I tried to shrug it off, loading the appropriate paper while my lovely Kinkos associate worked the complicated keypad like she was bringing the warp-drive online aboard the Starship Enterprise.

“There. I set it up for you”, she huffed as she walked back toward the coven.

I tried my best. I really did.
But eventually, I made so many mistakes that my Visa card’s fraud department alerted me on my phone to the fact that a schizophrenic serial copier had gotten a hold of my card—and subsequently—they froze my account. (See screen-shot above)

Oh, now Visa shade? Whatever.

When I finally finished, I prayed to God Almighty that those bitches had nothing to do with the in-store FedEx department since I had to ship a copy. But as I traversed the store my Shadar picked up the cool chill even before I saw her.

Magenta lips snickered in the corner, throwing her shade, while Debbie, a lovely, middle-aged but clearly confused and jittery victim of Stockholm’s Syndrome, patiently guided my dumb ass through the shipping process.

I smiled sweetly at Magenta Bitch the entire time, mouthing the words thank you in her direction.

At the end, I blew her a kiss. Not Debbie, although she probably needed one, Magenta, the shade thrower and her coven of bitches.

It was like throwing water on a wicked witch. They all melted. Not really. I wish. The three of them just freaked out and scattered.

I’m not sure there’s a lesson here. I just have one parting thought. Magenta Lips may have had some fierce lipstick—but my false eyelashes kicked hers to the curb.

Shade returned….and…scene.

Carry on,
xox

More Bad Behavior

There was an older guy in pajama pants walking down Vineland today. Not this guy. This is Daniel Day-Lewis. And…you’re welcome.

Anyway, my guy wasn’t just strolling, he was struttin’ those pajama pants with attitude.

And Vinland isn’t some small, insignificant suburban avenue. It’s a massive four-lane highway divided by a median whose landscaping is either meticulously tended or weed-choked depending on how far into North Hollywood you go.

He was strutting’ his pajama ass in the transitional section of Vineland—which made sense somehow.

This guy was edgy.

His pajama pants weren’t dandy—dark paisley and silk. Nor were they dirty cotton with frayed cuffs and a fly that doesn’t close anymore (I look for stuff like that).

They were simple, lightweight, hunter green plaid…ish.
In other words, pajama perfection.

On the top he was wearing an old concert t-shirt, that was so faded (and not in a bad, I don’t give a shit way. More like an I love this band so much I’ve worn this t-shirt out kind of way, which I think we can all agree is better) I couldn’t be sure, but I think it was The Police which makes me swoon a little—I’m not gonna lie.

He was also sporting a tanned bald head. And not your old man, bullet head kind of bald.
We’re talkin’ Bruce Willis bald.
Vin Diesel bald.
Sean Connery bald.
Ed Harris bald.
You get the picture.

So, now I’m intrigued (and a little bit smitten).

Here’s this dude struttin’ his pajama-clad self down Vinland in the middle of the day right where I’m slowing down to look for a meter. So what did I do?

I opened my window and “woo-hoo’d” him. I swear to God.

Like construction workers have done since time immemorial, I cat called the guy!

The minute I woo-hoo’d him I wanted to take it back and not for the reasons you think. I didn’t feel bad for objectifying him or guilty for being a hypocrite by exhibiting my own special brand of sexual harassment.

Nope. I wanted to die because he was so fucking cool that a woo-hoo was beneath him!

And no wonder. When he looked over to see what idiot was making a fool of herself, I recognized his quirky smile.

It was John Malkovich.

At least I think it was.

And I bet he thinks I did that because he’s a celebrity (and I would NEVER because…lame) I did it because he was hot and sometimes I’m the poster child for bad behavior.

Oh well.

Carry on,
xox

*Please tell me you’ve done something similar!

Be Like Chuck

This is Chuck.

Sure, Chuck is cute. As a matter of fact, I think we can all agree that with her googly eyes and flipped up windows—Chuck is cute af.

In a lot full of average cars like Saturns and Kias—Chuck is a showstopper. She’s even been known to elicit whistles, shouts, and catcalls on her weekly Sunday morning drives. And since she’s close to sixty, Chuck finds this newfound appreciation intoxicating, so she works very hard to stay grounded.
Unintimidating.
A real car’s car.

But this Sunday Chuck had the misfortune to be seated at the party next to this overdressed, blue, Italian bitch.

Gah! Even though they were both combustion engine vehicles, Chuck felt like a blender next to the Bugatti.

Hey! Big deal! You’re a Bugatti. We get it! You’re sexy and shiny and…

Her engine raced. Her oil boiled. Sure, the Bugatti’s paint job was perfect, her design flawless, and her engine purred like a sexy panther, but seriously, under the hood were they really that different?

Yes, Yes they were.

With 1,471 horsepower separating them, the Bugatti could go from 0-250 mph and back to 0 in 42 sec.
Chuck could barely make it to 60 mph (coughing and sweating) in the same time!

Not everybody likes fast! Chuck reasoned. I’m slow and dependable…and with my lawnmower-sized engine, I’m both affordable and low maintenance, something the Bugatti could never claim to be!

Chuck pulled in her fenders and tucked in her tush feeling inadequate and small.

A few minutes later she could feel someone staring at her. That’s impossible, I’m invisible next to this bitch…but Chuck was wrong. She glanced up to find the Bugatti’s Melania Trump sideways stare focused on her like a laser beam.

Doah youeh have a ah cigarette? The Bugatti purred in her syrupy Italian accent.

A cigarette…uh, no. Firehazard? Chuck answered. Gawd. Why did I say that? Fiyarhazrdddd. What a sarcastic, jealous little car I am!

Si, si. Youah rigght. Don’t smokeah. Ew cahn’t geta the smelleh outa youra polstry… I like youra flippy windoz. Thehra molto bello, the Buggati said, finishing with a heavy sigh.

Well, everything about you is fantastic! You’re so lucky to be so beautiful and fast and worth so much money!  Chuck gushed to her new best friend.

Occhiata, Youeh areah the fortuna one. Youeh make evreeebody smiiile. Bambini. Nonna. Evreeebody. Me? Solo uomini. Only Men. Men witha airy chests and grande…how you say? Wallets

That must suck, Chuck replied with a minimum of sarcasm. She was under no illusion that the Bugatti was truly sad or lonely—it was more likely she was just bored.

Then it dawned on Chuck that maybe this Bugatti babe was on to something.

Everybody did love her. Babies, Grandmas! And Chuck was never bored. She loved her family, their little brown dog, her googly eyes, and her small little life.

I aim to be more like Chuck.

Carry on,
xox

*Addendum: I was just informed that like all good bitches, Bugattis are French! C’est La Vie!

Gratitude, Grafitti and Molotov Cocktails ~ Reprise


“That inspirational quote you posted cured my clinical depression and helped me focus on what’s really important.”
~Said no one ever

We had a day of gratitude yesterday, Raphael and me.

As we mentioned to each other how grateful we were for the simple things in life, parking spaces appeared (with time left on the meter), hassle-free food at a crowded concert showed up, there were even two empty seats in front of us for the first half of a sold-out show.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

Shut the fuck up! What do we have to be grateful for? Face reality! The world is a horrible, threatening place filled with uncertainty, hate, and people who are looking to do us harm.

Well, maybe you’re not saying that, but people do. A lot of people. And they get very angry when the word gratitude gets mentioned.

These days, saying you’re grateful has become a subversive act—the molotov cocktail of declarations. If you have the audacity to utter the words in mixed company, say at a bar-b-que or something, it can make you a lightning rod for a spew of vitriol the likes of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

To some folks, it’s as bad as admitting you voted for Hillary—or that you slap puppies.

Too bad.

Yesterday we felt gratitude. There. I said it.

We are blessed in so many ways and whatever argument you yell in my face you cannot talk me out of it—so please stop trying. And I realize it is just as impossible for me to change your mind.

Reading this will not help. Words will never change you. That I know for sure.

You have to be willing to look at things differently by literally taking your eyes out of your head and dipping them in something pleasant–and preferably fizzy—perhaps some pink champagne or one of those fruity Pellegrino drinks that are a “thing” right now. Let the bubbles help clarify your vision.

Do something, anything shocking to break the pattern.

Because only seeing the shit in life has become the opioid of the masses— and a really BAD HABIT.

And…right about now you want to take a fork to my face. But listen, I know that from experience!
It was my bad habit too. My default setting. I was so fucking vigilant and valiant in my suffering—I would have made ya proud.

Sound familiar?

OMFG, do I have bad habits!
I chew my cuticles until they bleed, I dispense unsolicited advice, I say the word fuck before breakfast more than Richard Pryor did in his entire career, and at certain points in my life I have fallen into the habit of pessimism—and I’m oversimplifying the depth of my angst by using that word. Call it depression, call it anxiety, call it a four-years-long bad mood—NEVER have any of my other bad habits tried to systematically dismantle my soul day in and day out—like that fucker did.

From the moment I woke up until the moment I closed my eyes and even those hours in between when human beings are supposed to be asleep, I could ONLY see what was going wrong and how unfair, unjust, and just plain awful my existence had become.

Can you say Shit. Show?

So, I get it.

You guys, I don’t pretend to know how any of this works, this perpetual darkness thing, what I DO know is that eventually, I hated feeling so damn bad–it was exhausting, like breathing water—and I wanted a way out.
Desperately.
I drank excessively, I ate too much, I meditated, I exercised fanatically, I chanted, I cut my own bangs and I Ommmm’d my ass into submission, seeking and searching. Like a five-pack-a-day smoker, I sought a patch, something to slap on my arm to numb my addiction to feeling bad.

But this was what kept showing up:
Practice gratitude, I read somewhere.

Fuck you!

List five things a day you’re grateful for.

I can’t fucking think of one!

Keep a gratitude journal Oprah advised.

Fuck off Oprah! Gratitude, shmatitude! What do you know about suffering? YOU were born into extreme poverty—in the deep South—in the 1950’s and were repeatedly abused.

I have REAL problems!

But it wore me down. So, I tried it. But just for a minute because it sounded asinine and completely counterintuitive, and here’s the thing: when you let even just a glimmer of gratitude in, like ‘I’m grateful my dog’s not a puppy anymore, she was such an asshole—more things to be grateful for will rush in to meet it.

Will they really?… No.
They were there all along, you’ll just start seeing them with your fizzy new eyes. The ugly graffiti (not the beautiful, artsy kind) of cynicism can deface the most beautiful building, but that doesn’t mean the gorgeous architecture doesn’t lie just beneath the surface—it’s just hidden—temporarily.

Have I made gratitude a new habit? Why, yes!…hell no.

I promise myself that I’ll try every day, but that’s like saying I’ll make it a habit to wear anything other than yoga pants—highly unlikely—but I’ll try.

So it’s worth writing about when I can maintain it for an entire day. Wanna join me?
There’s safety in numbers andIt’s free.

Carry on,
xox

I Am Afraid—OR…I Am An idiot, I Am Hungry, And I Am Horny

“I Have Fear.

There’s a common mistranslation that causes us trouble.

We say, “I am afraid,” as if the fear is us, forever. We don’t say, “I am a fever” or “I am a sore foot.” No, in those cases, we acknowledge that it’s a temporary condition, something we have, at least for now, but won’t have forever.

“Right now, I have fear about launching this project,” is quite different from, “I’m afraid.””
-Seth Godin

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. Seth nailed me on this!

And it got me to thinking. What other feelings am I forever-izing?

The first one that comes to mind is this. “Gawd, I’m an idiot.”

(Which, sadly, I would never say to another human being other than myself.)
But I must admit, I say it to myself All. The. Time. Especially when I put periods after single words for emphasis.
I must make a concerted effort to follow Seth’s advice and acknowledge that my chronic idiocy is in reality only a temporary condition. (Monday thru Friday 8-5. Weekends my idiocy turns to slothiness which is somehow infinitely more acceptable.)

“I have an idiot temporarily making all of my decisions”, will be my new mantra.

“I am hungry.”

This is another one of my greatest hits. The only time it feels temporary is while I am actively eating. Once I put my fork down, all bets are off. In a cruel twist of suckiness, once it enters my body, pasta or even a steak and baked potato has the ability to disguise itself as Chinese food leaving me starving again in half an hour. I’ve always filed this under the heading of Life’s Not Fair, but now, when I’m famished I’ll tweak my thinking and say: “I feel like eating my foot” —because I only have two, so…temporary.

“I am horny.”

In my twenties and thirties and maybe even half of my forties, I would have fought Seth on the temporary nature of this condition. It felt like a 24-7 forever kind of thing to me. But now that sixty is breathing down my neck, yeah, I get it. With my fifteen minutes of randiness every month, “I am horny” feels like over-committing. Maybe “Hurry honey! Right this minute I’m thinking about sex!” is more like it.

Hey, I showed you mine—what are yours? What do you own that is in reality only a temporary condition?

Carry on,
xox

Finding Trust (A Video From 2015)

Not a lot has changed in two years. Trust—still a struggle. Hair—still gray—with purple. The out takes of my life—still better than the serious content.
xox


Hello loves,

I sat down to write about my journey lately on the short bus to trust.

Then I realized I had fifteen minutes before I had to leave. So I made a two-minute video instead—you know—like you do when you’re pressed for time!

The takeaway in case you don’t feel like watching is this: Your intuition will NEVER lead you astray.

It will never take you down the dark alley, or tell you to wear the white pantsuit.
It has NO intention whatsoever of humiliating you or leaving you standing in a steaming pile of disgrace.

So trust it you guys! I’m really trying to do it too.
And that is my nugget of advice for today.

Trust yourself.

Carry on,
xox

AND….The outtakes. First one is my standard duh moment with the video running. Have I learned nothing?

And the second one is a correction. I forgot what day it is.

Crossing The Line ~ Sexual Harassment ~ Sadly A Reprise

image

So…here we go again. This seems timely after the revelations of the past few days. Yuck. And dammit. This has GOT to stop.
The end.

Every woman has a story. Or five. Here’s one of mine.

xox


“So, he said I have a really cute vagina…”

I just about dropped the carton of eggs I was pulling out of the fridge for our breakfast but made the save. The half-smoked cigarette I was balancing between my lips wasn’t as lucky, falling onto the kitchen linoleum, just barely missing my bare feet—as my mouth hung agape.

My roommate chattered on as I stomped out the hot ash that was skittering about with my heavily callused heel.

“One of the prettiest he’s ever seen,” she chirped.

“Wait. Who said that? Michael? Your boyfriend?” I asked as if I really wanted to know.

Moments earlier I had innocently asked how her visit to the Gynecologist had gone the previous day. She’d had a couple of wonky pap smear results and, well, now here she was, off talking about all the compliments her vagina was getting—and I was confused.

She did have the attention span of a spider monkey so this wasn’t new, but the subject matter was. We weren’t the kind of roommates who were in the habit of sharing super intimate, sex-related pillow talk.

“No, silly, Dr. SoandSo”, she laughed, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she snuffed out her cigarette in the Philodendron on the kitchen table.

One habit we did have was smoking while cooking. Only while cooking. It nauseates me even now. All of it. Even this conversation. Especially this conversation.

I whipped around, setting the egg carton down hard in front of her. Egg snot ran from several of the perforations onto the vintage 1950’s Formica diner table we sat around in the kitchen.

She jumped, startled, as I yelled into her face.  “What the fuck?! Are you telling me you’re Gynecologist said that to you?!”

She looked at me as if my head had spun around (which it had, but just once), her big, brown eyes filled with fear.

“Uh, yeah, he was just…um…it wasn’t…uh…”

“Please tell me he at least removed his hand from inside your body before he said that!” I asked, again not really wanting to know the answer. I’m not even sure why that mattered, it’s just that the thought of her doctor wrist-deep inside of her, cooing that bullshit while she’s on her back with her legs in the stirrups made me want to puke—and call the police.

“That is sexual harassment!” I screamed louder than I intended.
”He’s a professional! He should NEVER say that sort of thing to you! Everyone knows gynecologists are only allowed to talk about the weather when they’re down there—below the equator!”

She looked bewildered.

“Honey”, I pulled up a chair and sat straight in front of her, lowering my voice into a calmer, more soothing register as I realized she had no idea what he’d done.

It was a compliment. About her lady parts. From a man.

UGH.

“You have to report him. He’s a bad guy, and not a good doctor. That wasn’t a compliment. It was HIGHLY inappropriate.”

When she finally got it, she looked ashamed.

“If you don’t—I will!”

Sexual harassment in the workplace, from people in positions of power, and I think, in general, is SUCH a subjective topic and to this day—I’m not sure why.

It’s been my observation that most men just don’t get the intricacies.
The boundaries are blurred to the point that unless it comes down to an actual physical assault—it can slide under the radar like it did for my twenty-seven-year-old roommate.

It is often covert—cloaked in a compliment, delivered by someone in authority, wrapped inside of a joke or said straight up to your face with a wink—and if you so much as bat an eyelash—you’re overreacting.

Clearly, the situation was “misconstrued”.

I loathe that word. Misconstrued.
Lots of slimy people get away with highly questionable shit by hiding behind that word.

Here’s the thing, I don’t misconstrue anything. My gut construes everything you said correctly. Your innuendo? It was interpreted exactly how you meant it. There was no mistake made.

Except for you thinking I wouldn’t say anything.

I worked in a male-dominated business for almost twenty years.
And I grew up with a brother and worked my way through school on the night crew of a supermarket as one of only two girls.
I know men. I love men, and I know male humor.
I get it. I can even appreciate it. It can be bawdy and blue and I’m a real broad—one of the guys—so I’m often right there in it AND I can let a lot of shit slide.

But there’s a line. A boundary that should never be crossed, and you know when it has been by the pit in your stomach.

My male boss was always the epitome of appropriate behavior. He never made a misstep.
But one day in the midst of an all-male jewelry buy (or a shark feeding-frenzy, take your pick), the free-range testosterone in the room took control of one of my boss’ partners and best friends. As he went to leave, he hugged me goodbye for a little bit too long, and the hug was just a little bit too tight and there it was—his semi-erect “little friend” pressed up against my thigh.

It was no accident. There were a couple of dry-humps. I kid you not.

Reflexively and forcefully, I pushed him away with both hands looking him straight in the eye—horrified.

He winked, and yelled something back at the guys about his jeans being too tight, and made a quick getaway.

I could barely catch my breath. I was shaking and red in the face. Immediately, I grabbed my boss by the arm, yanking him out of earshot of the others.

As a woman in a man’s world, you walk a tightrope—you want to be a “good sport”, “one of the guys”, yet still be treated with respect.

“THAT man!”, I whisper/yelled, “You had better keep your FRIEND away from me—he is NEVER to lay a hand on me again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? If he does—I will quit and then I will sue him all the way to hell and back!”

He shook his head and shrugged, confused. “O…kay…”, he stammered still staring at my panting, red face.

“He pressed his dick against my leg!” I whispered forcefully, staring him down, trying to make him understand. He immediately looked down at his feet, embarrassed. “Okay”, he replied, wishing he were invisible as he slowly turned and walked back to his buddies.

I think, rather I KNOW, that he thought I was overreacting. That I had misconstrued his friend’s natural affection for lechery.

I tried not to gag every time I had to see that man again, which was often since he was a part of my boss’ inner circle. But nothing even remotely resembling sexual innuendo or impropriety happened again. I don’t know if my boss had a talk with the guys or if they had just decided on their own to behave themselves.

All of them except for that one man.
In the space of ten years, with a wife and two kids to support, he settled three workplace sexual harassment cases (that I know of ), out of court.

If I remember correctly, I think it was when my boss told me about the second one that his face registered some sort of understanding and an unspoken apology for having doubted me.

That would have to be enough.

Talk to me.

Carry on,
xox

The Heart Wants What It Wants—Then You Check Under the Hood

Hey guys,
I wrote this a while ago and threw it into a file. I wasn’t sure when the time would be right to hit “publish”. But in the space of the past few months, several woman have told me about a very similar situation coming up in their lives, and a couple of high profile female writers have left their male partners for women—so I knew it was time to share. Besides the fact that I know you guys love to hear about things that get me all squirmy.
Let me know what you’re thinking.
xox


“I had a love affair with a man”, he said nonchalantly, his back to me while he flipped pancakes.

I nearly did a spit-take with my mouth full of coffee. Not the funny kind that happens at the end of a joke. More the shocked, eye-bulging, quick exhale, I-need-more-air kind that happens when your live-in boyfriend casually drops a bomb like that at the breakfast table during a leisure Sunday morning two years into your relationship.

We had gone down THAT road.

The road less traveled. It is labeled that because you should NOT go that way. EVER.
We somehow, and I can’t remember exactly how, had gotten sidetracked and ended up on the subject of past lovers. There should be a big sign: TURN AROUND. GO FURTHER AT YOUR OWN PERIL! For those of us stupid enough to think that talking about that kind of stuff doesn’t matter. Oh, it matters!

Or does it?

This guy always colored outside the lines. He was big and bold in everything he did, most especially in the way he loved.
His love was enormous. It was unencumbered, dramatic and all-encompassing. It’s magic lie in its unedited innocence. He was still under thirty and had never had his heart crushed by a steam-roller or dragged behind a car. I was thirty-five-ish and besides being steamrollered and dragged, my heart had also been dropped from a fifty story building and tied to an anvil and thrown into the sea. Just to name of few.

I had the barely healed scabs and scars from my wounds. He did not. His heart was smooth and supple.
A love that pure enabled him to paint with a very broad brush. My pathetic brush was the width of a single human hair.

So, besides being madly in love with him, I was forever intrigued.

“Oh, really?”, I replied as soon as I could find my voice, attempting to sound cool and casual, like he’d just told me he loved plaid. I’m sure I sounded like I’d swallowed a piano.

“These are hot”, he said as he delivered a stack of blueberry pancakes to the table. “And I already buttered ‘um”.
He kissed the back of my neck as he went by, grabbed the syrup and a plate and sat down across from me.

My eyes were fixed on him but not focused. God, he was beautiful—and blurred. Me? I was reeling a little. Okay, a lot. I was reeling A LOT!

Did he have an aids test? I know we’d discussed it once but I couldn’t remember. My heart was pounding. Yes, Yes he had. Whew! We both had and they were negative. Bullet dodged.

So, now what? What about the obvious question: Was he gay?

I remember the napkins and what I was wearing. Isn’t that weird?

The napkins were white cotton with big, blue flowers and I was barefoot, wearing a blush colored linen top that I’d paid way too much for because the color “blush” was all the rage—and I was a redhead back then so “blush” was a good color for me—over a pair of ripped up jean shorts.

“Tell me more”, was what I think I said. Or something to that effect. I may have said “You have my attention”, but I doubt I had the cognitive agility at that moment to come up with any three syllable words. As he started to talk, my vision came back into focus and I sat mesmerized, staring at his lips as they moved over his teeth to form words.

“It’s wasn’t a big deal really,” he said, sensing my inner freak-out. “He was a guy who lived in my building. He had a huge jazz collection on vinyl and we used to listen to music and smoke pot.” He was shoveling forkfuls of pancake in between words, the blueberry tinted syrup glistening on his lips as he spoke. I handed him a napkin.

“How long ago was this?”, I asked, and the minute I did I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. Recently? When he was a teenager? What did I want him to say?

“Oh, I don’t know…” he was looking into the distance, trying to conjure the past. Shit. Did I want him to re-live this memory?
“About five years ago. Yeah, wow, five years”, he was shaking his head marveling at the passage of time. I remembered that feeling.

Years are like dog years when you’re under thirty.

“You said love affair. You were in love?” I asked. This was the curious part. The part that struck me. I suppose I understood a dalliance in college or a same-sex fling. I could wrap my brain around the sexual exploration aspect of it all. But love? That was…diiferent.

“I was. We were. In love that is”, he was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, staring at me, grinning. I could feel my face melt. There it went, down the front of my blush blouse, pooling in my lap. I suppose looking across at a melted face snapped him out of his complacency. Compassion kicked in because he leaned forward and took both my hands in his.

“Listen, it just happened. We were friends, and then we fell in love. We had sex…” He looked me straight in the eye. “It’s the oldest story in the book.” In that moment his brush painted a swath across my life as wide as the Grand Canyon.

“Was he…is he gay?”, I asked, holding my silly, single-haired brush. I guess I was thinking maybe the other guy had seduced him although I knew it had probably been the other way around. That wide-open heart of his was irresistible.

“I’m not sure if he identifies as homosexual. I don’t know. He moved away and we lost touch. I don’t—if that’s what you’re worried about.” he was laughing, turning my hands over, gently kissing my open palms while keeping his chocolate-colored eyes locked on mine. His ease and comfort around sexuality only served to exacerbate my narrow-minded clumsiness. Damn my face! It always gave me away. Poker player was not going to be a profession I could bank on.

That was the first time I’d heard the term “identifies” regarding sexuality. This was the nineties so the term wasn’t all over social media like it is now. As a matter-of-fact, this was before social media, if you can imagine that.

“You love who you love”, he said in a more serious tone, letting go of my hands. Then my boyfriend with the gigantic, all-encompassing heart got up and started to clear the table. “The heart wants what it wants”, he said, “Then, eventually, you check under the hood”.

The visual of that made us both laugh.

This “situation” turned out to have no repercussions on our relationship which died of natural causes about a year later.

What did reprecuss was the influence of this young man. He turned out to be my Yoda. He taught me to paint with a brush as broad as a four-lane highway. About almost everything in life. And in the process, it healed so many of my open wounds. He, on the other hand, did go on to have his heart broken by numerous other women—those bitches.

So, what I know for sure is that doesn’t matter how you “identify”. If you fall for someone of the same sex after being straight—are you gay? Bi?

Who cares! To quote Lin Manuel Miranda: Love is love, is love, is love, is love.

Carry on,
xox

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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