guidance

“If you build the guts to do something, anything, then you better save enough to face the consequences.”
― Criss Jami

Things that never happened because I didn’t have the guts.
The list is long. Like longer than Taylor Swift’s legs long.

How do I know for sure what could have happened?
I don’t. But my regret does.
I’m sure you know what I mean.

My regret is an artist who paints with broad strokes. Large, majestic scenery, filled with full-color landscapes of stories that never happened.

It also is a master in the art of persuasion.

Those stories look spectacular.
They seem amazing.
They are fucking fairy tales.

In these scenarios, my gutless self is replaced by another person. Someone who is risk averse; the acrobatic chance taker/failure dodger. For instance:

I’m a Broadway actress with a shelf crowded with Tony awards.

I’m a rock star, or the wife of a rock star (take your pick), who continues to tour and performs to sold-out crowds.

I’m a mother. Twin boys and a girl.

I’m an entrepreneur who shattered the glass ceiling and owns six companies that are all publicly traded.

I’m a seasoned lecturer and public speaker.

I’m someone who looks refreshed and rested, at least ten years younger (but whose wallet is twenty-five thousand dollars lighter.)

I’m the winner of Dancing With The Stars, The Voice, the Apprentice, and Jeopardy (the celebrity edition).

I’m a mentor on America’s Top Model after having my face grace more magazine covers than any other living human being.

I am resting on my laurels.

~OR HOW ABOUT~

I’m an aging hippie who lives off the land up in Oregon.

I’m an aging New Ager who lives off tips in Hawaii.

I’m the aging owner of a brothel somewhere tolerant of that sort of thing.

I’m busking on the corners of Santa Cruz.

I’m the ex-wife of seven men.

I’m someone who never married, looks thirty-five and owns dozens of Siamese cats.

I’m living in a Villa in Italy after cashing out, buying a one-way ticket, and hooking up with a guy named Paulo.

I have photo albums filled with pictures of me bungee jumping, sky diving and formula one racing, climbing Mt. Everest, Deep sea diving and waving my certificate that states I am the top of my class in NASA astronaut training school.

I’ve changed my name to Solange.

After surveying this list. The list that was supposed to summon that pit in my stomach. You know, the one that makes you feel bad about yourself and feeds regret?

Instead I had an epiphany.

What if those things didn’t happen not so much because of a guts deficit — but due to a keen sense of the obvious as far as knowing what I was capable of — an inkling of my life’s trajectory — a ginormous helping of common sense?

Ha! Take that regret!

P.S. I HAVE done many things in my life that required a shit-ton of guts, and so have YOU—but THAT my friends, is a list for another day.

Got any regrets?

Carry On,
xox

Hi Y’all,
This is a beautiful short film which I encourage you to take a moment to watch.

If you’re at work, gather your pals around at lunch.
If you want to have a better day, watch it before you leave the house.
If you had a crap day, lose yourself in it before you go to bed.

We all forget to practice gratitude. I’m the worst!

Even though I’d classify myself as an optimist, I can pick a nit from here to eternity!
You want to know what’s wrong wth something? Ask me. I’ll tell ya.

THAT ladies and gentleman is NOT gratitude. Far from it. That is what I’m calling: Mind flatulence—A lot of hot air with no substance!

Whenever I remember how lucky I am to have been born on this planet at this time in history, it makes me weep.

Let this short film do that for you. Let it help you remember. Let it fill you with gratitude.

I love you all,
Carry on,
xox

(This photo —I can’t even!)

For about six months back in the 1970’s I left my armpits unshaved.

For me, it was a bold and calculated act.

I wanted to fit in with the California hippy subculture whom I held up as the greatest examples of what was current in the world around me. They were the touchstone for all things necessary to fit in as a young, budding feminist in the post-patriarchal zeitgeist at the time.

Plus I saw pictures of Joan Baez and Grace Slick with long black hairy armpits. And besides that, the twin’s older sister Martha, who listened to Frank Zappa, and was so naturally organic and liberated, made it look pretty. Almost sexy.

Then I decided to let the hair on my legs grow out.
Mostly because no one noticed my radical armpit statement on account of the fact that the hair was blonde…and relatively sparse… and also because I wore a short-sleeved white cotton blouse as part of my uniform in Catholic High School so my pits were perpetually covered.

So, just as a watched pot never boils, my leg-hair took forever to grow long. But when it did, it shone in the sun like a pair of corn silk knee socks beneath my minuscule pleated plaid skirt.
I loved it.
Everyone loved it.
Even Martha, whose opinion meant the world to me, thought it was “rad.”

There was about a year or so in 1974-75 that the hair on my legs was longer than the hair on my head.
My dad actually pointed that out at Thanksgiving dinner with all of our relatives present—and not in a “proud father” kind of way.

Everyone I knew had long, straight hair, parted in the middle that fell to the middle of their backs. I wanted to be different so I cut mine to barely 1/4 inch all around. Think Jean Sebring or Twiggy.

This rendered Martha speechless the first time she saw me. She actually dropped her cigarette and missed a few lyrics to Ziggy Stardust. I had not received a higher compliment before—or since.

When Martha daned to drive the gaggle of her twin sister’s young friends to the movies or the mall or somewhere else fabulous, I caught her, several times from the back seat, staring at my hair in the rearview mirror.

If we had all perished that night in a fiery crash I would have died happy, completely satisfied—with a smile on my face.

I’m not exactly sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it has to do with finding my way in the world. Maybe you’ve had similar experiences. Figuring out who you are is hard. And hairy. There are a lot of options out there to embrace.

Perhaps you’re like me and others of a “certain age” who are in the process of a mid-life re-invention.

Standing here at fifty-nine, there is not a single thing about me that is the same as when I was sixteen.
My hair blonde hair is course and gray, my stomach, once taught and tight is now soft and squishy, and black hair grows in places I’d rather not discuss.

But I can feel those teenage emotions like it was yesterday. How new and invigorating each act felt. Like I was both the sculpture and the sculptor with my hands the clay. Creating myself as I went along.

I want to feel that again, don’t you?

Without apology, I am a culmination of all of those decisions. Good, bad and ugly. And so are you!

You can’t tell me you didn’t absolutely LOVE your mullet when you first got it.

Or that ghastly tattoo on your ankle that you had removed on your thirtieth birthday.

What about the multiple self-inflicted ear piercings?

Or the bust developer you ordered from the back of The Enquirer.

Mohawk? Nice.
Purple eyebrows? Even better.
Lambchop sideburns for the guys? Meow.
Pierced tongue? Ouch, but okay.

What we did to define ourselves along the way helped make us who we are today you guys. Some are mic-drops. Most are not. I can only hope I do as well this time around.

When I look back I really have no regrets. Except…

I will have to live with my disco era over-plucked eyebrows until the day I die.

What are the best fads you followed from the past? And what would you rather not remember?

Carry on,
xox

Hey there fellow seekers,
Listen, we’re all seeking enlightenment in our own way. Right? Whether through meditation, tantric sex, or the most transcendent piece of salted dark chocolate. But what about mystical experiences? Do they count?

My answer to that is a big, fat, YES!
And they’re easier to come by. 😉

Witnessing the birth of a baby.
Holding a loved one’s hand as they die.
Completing a triathlon.
Listening to opera music.

For me, it happened while I was listening to the perfect piece of music while riding a perfect road, on a cloudless day that was the perfect temperature, on the back of our motorcycle—on the way to a sumptuous lunch—in Lucca, Italy. I have to admit, I cried a little.

According to Jason, “A Mystical experience is an encounter with transcendence.”
It includes but is not limited to:

Feelings of cosmic unity. Interconnectedness.

A mind free of all boundaries.

A feeling of ecstasy.

Feelings of being in the presence of something sacred.

An experience beyond language.

Multiple paradoxes. Understanding the unexplainable.

Feelings of being forever changed by a finite experience.

It holds the understanding of a deeper meaning.

So pay attention this weekend, because a mystical experience can happen to you when you least expect it.
Carry on,
xox

Hey loves,
This is a blog post by Pam Grout—optimist extraordinaire, and LOA advocate. Her books are listed at the bottom and I highly recommend you read them ALL.

When it seems as if the world is crashing down around you and all  you hear is danger! Danger!

RELAX.

Chickens have been screaming about a falling sky for eons and last I checked—all is well. Take it away Pam!

Carry on,
xox

Problems seem insurmountable? Hold your horses and read this.

by psgrout

“Drag your thoughts away from your troubles…by the ears, by the heels,
or any other way you can manage it.” ― Mark Twain

The universe is attending to your needs whether you’re aware of it or not. It works on your behalf at all times. You don’t have to earn it or jump through any hoops. It’s yours through grace, not because you prayed hard enough or followed the right commandments.

So no matter what it may look like, everything in your life is working beautifully. I recently heard a story that puts everything into perspective.

Back in the 1900’s, the American public was warned that grave danger lay ahead. An energy shortage was imminent, we were told because not enough horses were being bred. Horses, after all, were used to plow our fields, deliver our mail, provide transportation. Here’s the plea that went out: “In a few years there will not be enough horses in this country to take care of the commercial needs of the country. Americans, do something!”

So for anybody that buys the “danger, danger” party line, just keep in mind that there is something a whole lot bigger and smarter and more loving that’s running the show, no matter how it may appear to our five senses. We are constantly evolving and being cared for. Our only mission is to let down our resistance, give up our fears and love every glorious moment.

As for that horse shortage? In 2016, the Bureau of Land Management reported having 45,000 unclaimed wild horses.

Pam Grout is the author of 18 books including E-Squared: 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality and the recently released, Thank and Grow Rich: a 30-day Experiment in Shameless Gratitude and Unabashed Joy.

“People in France have a phrase: “Spirit of the Stairway.” In French: esprit d’Escalier.
It means that moment when you find the answer but it’s too late.

So you’re at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So, under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party . . . as you start down the stairway, then – magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should’ve said. The perfect crippling put down. That’s the Spirit of the Stairway.”
― Chuck Palahniuk

I love this quote. Who hasn’t lived this exact scenario? Thinking up the perfect, most erudite, witty response to office jackass—in the car —on the way home!

F%@k!

My husband and his family are French and a French insult is like no other in the world. It is sublime. Much like fashion and food, they have elevated it to an art form.

What other culture has an entire phrase dedicated to it?

A French insult is subtle. Smooth. It is cloaked in a back-handed compliment and always accompanied by a smile. Well, a smirk actually.

“That dress is very pretty…so much better than the one you wore last night.”
Smirk, double cheek kiss, and…scene.

Ouch. 

“Ahhhh, darling, you look…tired.” 

Gahhhhhh! That’s the worst!

Although I’m the first person to utter bitch under my breath, I don’t waste my time searching for the crippling zinger.
Listen, don’t get me wrong, if I want to eviscerate you verbally, I can. I’m a writer.

“I have lots of words.” ~ D. Trump

It’s just that a put-down or a jab seems… pedestrian—like the easy choice.

I’d rather be ironic and humorous, wouldn’t you?
Humor defuses a situation immediately. Magic comes to those who are funny, not insulting.

Besides, the French don’t know what to make of humor. Generally speaking, they are bored with life, and let’s face it— they wouldn’t recognize it if it bit them in the ass —they laugh at Jerry Lewis for godsakes!

If I get pissed, I get stupid. And frustrated. I stutter or start crying. End of story.

So, don’t get angry. Get funny. Or droll. Or provocative.

You have to stay smart to be funny, and when the whole room laughs…they remember the joke, not the insult. And that’s spirit!

“Thank you,” you say softly with all the manufactured sincerity you can muster, “This dress is so comfortable… I’m not wearing anything underneath.”  Wink, wink, double cheek kiss…and out.

You get the idea.

Take your time. Don’t you dare leave the party until you’ve said your piece.

You can double back, there’s no statute of limitations on a party insult reply.

It doesn’t have to be “spirit of the stairway.” It can be “spirit of the driveway” or “spirit of the hallway.”
Take it from me, “Spirit of the back patio” and “spirit of the powder room” works too.

Doesn’t matter. Let ‘em it have it.
With humor.

Carry on my crazy tribe,
xox

A bit of Wednesday Wisdom from me—via the School of Hard Knocks.
When Having Something Is Better Than Nothing

A number on a scoreboard.
Dust at the bottom of a bag of potato chips.
Flip flops on hot sand.
A single match.
A piece of shit car.

Tits.

A thimble full of milk for a bowl of cereal.
Crooked teeth.
Cankles.
A light sweater in a blizzard.
An ancient stretched out bikini in a hot tub full of strangers.

Common sense.

A hand towel after a shower.
Somebody’s toothbrush.
Map folding skills.
A bottle of Vodka in the freezer.

Talent.

But never, ever, under any circumstances do these apply:

Any man/woman/dog who you no longer care for—in your bed.
A crap-ass bridge job.
A rat infested rent controlled apartment.
An abusive partner.
A cubic zirconia.
Mean friends.
Moldy cheese.
A Toupee.

Are we clear?

Carry on,
xox

“You belong in every room you enter.”

I don’t know where to attribute this quote. I’ve heard it more in the past three weeks than I’ve heard my own name.
That must mean something? Right?

Shonda Rhimes, the magnificent writer of all things twisty on Thursday nights, attributes it to Oprah.

I vaguely remember hearing Oprah give Maya Angelou the credit.

I read somewhere that Jesus said it to Maya when they walked into the wedding at Cana because Maya was feeling a little underdressed.

In any case, I love the reminder. Don’t you?

Who hasn’t felt out-of-their-depth at one time or another?
I can recall an embarrassing amount of situations (like walking into the Ritz in Paris for the first time) where I was convinced that the wallpaper and drapes were better qualified to be there than I was. (Which actually makes sense if you think about it because they were there first—and somebody picked them— but you know what I mean.)

Underqualified.
Underdressed.
Underinvited.
Undersmart.
Underrich.
Underpretty.

I’ve felt all of that, haven’t you? But wouldn’t it have helped so much to remember these words from Shonda/Oprah/Maya/Jesus as you stood outside the door, contemplating going in?
YOU BELONG IN ANY ROOM YOU ENTER.
It sure would have helped me! Maybe it would have kept me from inhaling all of the little smokie sausages at the last cocktail party I attended where I felt out-of-place.
Or maybe not.

Have a great week and carry on,
xox

This is from a couple of years ago but it all still applies.

Have a great weekend and Carry on,
xox

“At times the world may seem an unfriendly and sinister place, but believe that there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough. And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events may, in fact, be the first steps of a journey.”
― Lemony Snicket

I have a guilty pleasure. Well, I have many, but this is one I feel okay mentioning in public.

I love HG (Home and Garden) TV. There I said it.

Watching these shows borders on an obsession. What I love are the fact that they depict a complete remodel in under and hour. You know, the ones with the unrealistic timelines and the implausible budgets to match.

“Hi, Um, I’m Tiffany and I’m a barista and my boyfriend Todd sells seashells by the seashore. We have a budget of 1.3 million…”

This makes my contractor husband’s head spin around like the Exorcist. Most likely because it continues to feed my instant gratification fixation, and now I too have come to believe that you can get a complete kitchen gut and renovation in under four weeks. And a gorgeous home in a good part of town for no money.

“That’s bullshit!” he yells indignantly at the TV to the good looking brother team who are right out of central casting. “Not if you want it done right!”

Calm down, big guy. It’s TV.

Regardless, I get lost in the marathons they string together on Sundays. I DVR them and sit like a drooling fool for hours.
The other night I watched seven. In a row. Without peeing. I’m not proud of it. I may need help.

Hey, here’s an observation: there’s definitely a good cop and a bad cop in every relationship.

Most often the men in these remodeling scenarios are pretty accommodating and easy going unless the budget blows up. Then their voices raise an octave, their eyes bulge and their heads explode. Still, even then they’re pretty quiet about it, suffering silently, with some stiff upper lip flop sweat, looking into the camera for a little viewer pity—or spare couch cushion change.

The women, I’m afraid to say, and I’m generalizing here, are bitches.
Barbazillas. Plain and simple. Bad cops on steroids. Changing things and then yelling about the timeline, popping in unannounced and then second guessing the process.

They hate how the marble looks.
“Why is the white paint so white?” they wonder loudly, hands on hips.
“Who the hell picked out THAT floor tile?” they huff.
“I said FRENCH DOORS!” they scream.
They are belligerent, pouty, whiny and just plain awful.

Then, as a frontal assault on my sense of truth and decency, they cry big, sloppy, Tammy Faye, fake television tears of joy at the reveal.

Bitches, please.

But I must say – It’s some God-damn GREAT TV.

Anywho…

One kitchen I watched being demo’d last night was indicative of what’s been happening to most of us lately.
I even wrote a post about how to handle it…yesterday.
So it’s kind of out of order, but that’s the way life works sometimes, I hope you’ll forgive me.

WARNING: Put the sandwich down. Don’t eat anything while you read this.

Okay, so, as the contractor, with his perfect, white teeth, helped the homeowners demo the shit out of dated, drab green, 1970’s kitchen, (they are always enlisted, supposedly to keep the costs down, but again, it’s good TV to watch an accountant swing a forty pound sledgehammer while his wife looks on, a teeny bit turned on), the upper cabinets collapsed and the ceiling caved in.

What ensued next was a shit storm – literally.

Feces rained down from inside the ceiling, obscuring their vision, getting in their hair and covering their clothes. Apparently sometime in the not too distant past, the house had a cockroach AND mouse infestation. Even the macho contractor screamed like a little girl. The wife ran into a wall trying to escape the shit as it rained down on all three of them. I think she may have broken a nail…like I said GREAT TV.

But honest to God, there it was, right in front of me, three people’s reaction to a shit storm, on TV, and I have to say – it looked pretty familiar, and it made me laugh my ass off.

The screaming and the running and the general disgust. They acted surprised even though mice had been alluded to in the inspection.

We all do the same thing.

We get plenty of warning that the ceiling of our lives is about to collapse and that the feces of poor decisions, bad relationships, and lousy judgment, may rain down; then we run around screaming, crying and acting surprised when it does – WTF?

Hey, I’ve done it.

Was I surprised that I got fired last year? Hell to the no!
I could smell it coming. I was just shocked he had the balls to do it on Christmas Eve. (Best thing that ever happened to me BTW, BECAUSE…another observation of mine is this: there is always a silver lining inside a shit storm.)

Was I surprised my store was flooded? Well, yes, yes I was. But only because the method was so…so biblical.
Listen, deep down I knew the end was near one way or another—so not really. I had called it in. I had prayed for it. Yet when it happened, I screamed and ran into walls; the shame of it getting into my hair and covering my clothes.

We’ve got to cut that shit out, that wide-eyed-acting-surprised-shit. It’s starting to feel as staged and fakity-fake as it looks on TV.

Let’s get real here. There is always warning prior to a shitstorm – always. It’s an argument or an email, a bad job review – a stain on the ceiling or an inspection report.

If we pay attention and read all the signs they’ll be no shock and awe. We’ll know what’s coming. We’ll have choices. We can go clean up the attic before the demo, put a tarp down, or wear a hat and step aside.

All that collapsed ceiling, screaming and running into walls – that’s all for TV.

This is real life.

Sending Big Love,
xox