awareness

Hello tribe,
This is straight from the 2015 archives but with politics being what it is these days it feels more relevant than ever.
Love you guys,
xox

Have you ever hugged a porcupine? Yeah me neither.
Although lately I could swear that I walk away from some hugs covered in quills.

I’ve developed the good sense to steer clear of the obvious porcupine people—the toxic, difficult, hard to love ones.

I don’t even own the suit of armor it took to get close to them anymore.
I think I sold it years ago at a garage sale.

Anyhow, lately I’ve suffered some pretty prickly encounters with previously un-prickly people.

Which surprised me. Then it didn’t. Because I had an Ah-ha.
Let’s hear it for those Ah-ha moments!

The other day while I was pulling embedded quills from my forceps (ouch) I had time to think, and it occurred to me that certain people (The obvious porcupine people) wear their quills facing out, mostly as a defense, and after a while—people tend to leave them alone.

While others wear their quills on the inside—hurting only themselves in the process.

I saw a video recently of a snake that swallowed a porcupine whole. It was gross but kinda cool. Anyway, the poor mis-guided snake who never received the DO NOT EAT PORCUPINE memo died soon afterwards, the quills rupturing all of it’s internal organs.

Eventually, I suppose we all figure this out—because the pain gets too great …and we’re smarter than a snake.

We take our quills and turn them inside-out just before we discard them for good—as an act of self-loving transformation—in order to save our own lives. It leaves us raw and vulnerable, and some innocent (or not so innocent) people may be stuck by our pointedness in the process.

Note to self: Hug at your own risk. Oh, and use oven mitts.

I know for me, during times of intense introspection and change, as my quills work their way from the inside-out, I get pretty prickly, and if I’ve left a quill or five in your arms during a hug—I’m sorry (Raphael).

It’s all about empathy and compassion you guys. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go watch a video of a porcupine eating a pumpkin.

Carry on,
xox

I don’t know about you, but as I approach sixty I find myself growing weary of things that used to delight me.

Take going to the beach for example.

Growing up in Southern California had its perks, one of them was living in a state of perpetual summer. A common side effect of that was “beach obsession”. And I wasn’t alone. Every chance we got (I admit to making my own chances by calling in sick to work or school on those particularly gorgeous, eighty-five degree February days of which there were many) me, and my friends and family would load our cars and hightail it out to Malibu.

Since I grew up smack dab in the center of the infamous San Fernando Valley, it took an hour of twisty, turny canyon driving to get us there.

First, beach gear (ice chest, chairs, towels, umbrella and sand toys) had to be assembled and bologna sandwiches and Kool-Aid had to be made. Once there, the endless cacophony of transistor radios broadcasting endless Dodger games, and when I got older, boom boxes with Prince, Foreigner and Loverboy mix tapes blared along the wide swath of hot sand known as Zuma. If you were bold enough to walk in your bikini all the way down to the water’s edge and dip your toe into the freezing cold Pacific— the rip current would grab your ankles and suck you under while the monstrous waves would pummel you senseless.

But I didn’t care about any of that! I loved the beach! We all did. That being said, even though I still live in LA, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the last time I went.

Not only that. When the thought does occur to me to go and partake of the negative ionic benefits that spending time at the ocean provides, I have a list as long as my arm of everything that offends me about the idea.

The first one is: I have an aversion to driving an hour to get anywhere that doesn’t have decent food, comfortable chairs, and accessible WiFi.

Not only that; it’s always windy so reading anything other than a Kindle is exasperating…and the humidity makes my hair look like the Bride of Frankenstein’s…and I’ve developed an aversion to sand. It burns my feet and gets into places I’d rather not discuss. Places whose price of admission is dinner and flowers. I once took a bath only to discover afterward that there was sand in the bottom of the tub from a tropical vacation six months prior.

Don’t ask.

As long as I’m making this list—here are a few other former pleasures that test my tolerance and suck the joy right out of me:

Just any seat at concerts — Music sounds better in the cheap seats—said no one—ever! I used to just be so happy to be there, now, I want to actually be entertained. So I step up. I swallow the bitter pill that is ticket extortion—Isn’t that what money is for?

Loud music — I have things in my life I may want to hear a couple of days later. Like ambulance sirens while I drive or my husband telling me something very important…from another room.

High heels — I used to live in them. Now, I have a ten-minute rule. I will walk from the car to the restaurant in them, pivot, and sit. That’s it.

Sex — I don’t like to give sex a lot of forethought. I’m lazy that way. I enjoy spontaneity, and romance not goopy gels and creams and half-hour warnings. If it takes longer to get my party started than it does to read this essay…meh, I’d rather read a good book.

I don’t mean to sound like an old curmudgeon, I’m actually someone who is game for almost anything.

Just as long as I’m home in bed at a decent hour.

Carry on,
xox

Okay…

So you know when I start an essay with okay…there’s gonna be some ‘splainin’ to do. I encountered a “situation” on Saturday and I want your opinion. Try to stay open-minded until the end—and then you can blast me.

Anyway, it was late Saturday morning when I skip/walked into CVS.
I’d just gotten my nails done which somehow always manages to make me feel like a million bucks. I think it’s the hot towels and lotion. Or it could be that fact that they rub my feet for ten minutes longer than seems appropriate (because I pay extra).
I can be in the worst mood ever, spitting nails, but if you rub my feet, I melt into a puddle of baby kittens and all of my twisted, bitchy thoughts simply evaporate.

So, I’m in my happy place as I enter an extremely crowded and chaotic drug store—or in other words, a normal Saturday.

I noticed one young man who was as tall and lanky as a giraffe. He seemed to be running the show at the front of the store. It didn’t take a Mensa certificate to ascertain the fact that the poor guy had his hands full.

It’s amazing what a person can glean from one glance.
The word that came to mind was cluster-fuck but even that couldn’t put a damper on my splendid mood. I was there to scope out some false eyelashes. Kiss. Shy. They’re called. I recently bought a five-pack in Alabama of all places and now I’m obsessed.

So, back to the makeup section I went, which at this particular CVS is so extensive it occupies two entire walls and wraps around all the way to the pharmacy. There were so many brands and choices that I started to shake a little with Christmas morning anticipation.

Drugstore makeup euphoria had set in. What could possibly go wrong?

This. This could go wrong.

I got side-tracked, ogling a wall of fall lip colors when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young man with a backpack over at the L’Oreal portion of the wall. He stood in front of the foundation section for so long that it peaked my curiosity. That’s when I saw him take two giant fists full of bottles and walk around the corner into a deserted aisle filled with foot powder and hemorrhoid cream. Intrigued, I tried as inconspicuously as a middle-aged nosey-ass woman with purple hair can be—to see what in the hell he was doing.

Crouched down, casually looking around, he unzipped his backpack and shoved the bottles inside with the same speed and accuracy I usually see reserved for Black Friday sales. I was gobsmacked.

The young man did this several more times as I walked back and forth past him like a duck at Carnival shooting range.

With no obvious security in sight, I entertained the thought of going up front and reporting him but I could still see the crowd clustered around the giraffe from where I stood. It was a seething mass of complaints and returns and I would be forced to go to the back of the line—lest the crowd take me outside and beat me senseless.

By that time backpack-boy would most certainly have made his exit.

When I came back to reality, the young man, who I guessed to be old enough to vote but probably not old enough to buy beer was still going at it, scooping up handfuls of mascara and eyeliner.

This time, after he threw the loot into his pack I stopped him.

With nobody else in sight, I stood in front of him, blocking his way. There we stood. Face to face. He was slightly taller than me, close to six feet, with skin the color of mahogany and long, black hair, freshly plaited.

“I can see you”, I said, trying to keep my voice from wavering. “I know what you’re doing and you have to stop. Don’t do this.” Even the hemorrhoid cream blanched.

His chocolate colored eyes were soft and kind as they stared back at me. That was…unexpected. Maybe I could reach his heart, His humanity. His sense of shame. Maybe I would remind him of his mom or his auntie.

“Take all of that stuff out of your backpack right now!” I demanded in the sternest tone I culd muster. “Just dump it here.” No harm no foul. Come on, do the right thing”, I pleaded softly, not wanting to draw attention to our little “situation”.

He thought about it. I saw the thought flash across his eyes as quickly as lightning on the horizon. But in an instant— it was gone.

He brushed past me and down another aisle and that’s when I started to shake and think of all of the things that could have gone horribly wrong. He could have had a gun or knife and I would have just been another statistic on the news that night. It seems the desperation level is such that nobody needs a real motive to kill anyone these days.

Then I thought about what he was stealing.

Was it for his sister? His girlfriend? Is there a huge blackmarket for drugstore make up that I am sadly unaware of?

Or is he transgender? Too ashamed to go up to the counter and buy the stuff. (I remembered a guy back in high school who used to steal condoms at Seven/Eleven) and I did notice that he took forever to decide on the right shade of foundation to steal.

My euphoria was as dead as my dream of reliving my forties again and I had a pit in my stomach that could swallow a mastodon.
Gone was my taste for eyelashes so I made my way past the now growing mob of discontents, toward the exit.

I looked around to see if I could spot my shoplifter, but he was nowhere in sight. This was my last chance. I could find someone in charge and tell them what I’d witnessed—or I could leave.

I chose the latter.

Gahhhhh. I know. I should have gone all Cagney and Lacey on him. But I didn’t. I appealed to his better angels. Apparently, they were otherwise occupied.

Later that evening I spilled my guts to my husband who I was certain would tell me all the ways I could have better handled the situation. I was wrong. Even he had a hard time coming up with exactly what he would have done. I felt reassured until he reminded me of the fact that I’m probably on the surveillance tape and should never show my face in there again.

What would you have done? Blast away.

xox

Everybody, I’d like to introduce you to Janine Driver. She is a wicked smart badass, a TedXTalker, and because she’s a body language expert—she can read us all like a book.

Man, I love this stuff.

To me, it’s like decoding a clever, subconscious codex which in turn gives you insight into Oprah, your boss, the cute guy at Starbucks, the casting agent you’re standing in front of—and the President of the United States.

Nevermind opening a window into your own bad habits. You know, the ones that enter a meeting before you do and totally fuck up your first impression.

Shonda Rhimes (my spirit animal) is quoted as saying, “You belong in every room you enter”, and to remind herself of her own worth (so she doesn’t barf or run and hide in her car before a big meeting) she adopts the “Wonder Woman” stance. Standing tall, head held high, legs planted but apart, with her hands on her hips.

Studies (because “they” do studies on everything) have show that standing like this ups your serotonin levels, which in turn calms you the fuck down soyoursentencesdon’tsoundlikethis. And besides that, you feel like a boss.

Body language matters. It’s a thing. A really cool thing. Take a look. You may learn something. I did.

Carry on,
xox

Janine’s website: https://www.lyintamer.com

Check out this Know Your Own Value website:
https://www.nbcnews.com/know-your-value

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!

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

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

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!

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!