guidance

How many of you are with me on this one? Come on, a show of hands!

How many of you guys thinks that’s an understatement? I know I do.

How many of you have a five-year plan? How about a ten-year plan? (Really? Wow.)
Now, let me ask you this and remember, don’t kill the messenger—how do you handle changes in those plans? Do you go with the flow, or hunt down and kill whoever fucked with your brilliant plan?

I’m getting better with the flowing thing (it’s about time!), although I’m still not great, and I can totally relate to the murderous thoughts at the slightest whiff of a plot twist.

Here’s the thing, we think we have life all figured out. We leave minimal if any room for improvement. That’s right, I said improvement.

Not every plan we make is foolproof—in retrospect, most plans of mine have been foolhardy.

I have actually come to not so much welcome, (I’m not that good—yet), but to be curious about why my plan was foiled and where in the hell LIFE thinks it’s taking me.

Yesterday, as I was talking with a friend, I was encouraging him to be more curious as to why all his plans had gone to shit and where he was be directed. When we brainstormed his shitstorm (whaaaaat? Best sentence EVER!), we both came to realize how many opportunities lay hidden (like little dolphins, or Nemo) just below the surface.

Was he really in the midst of a calamity—or was an unseen opportunity unfolding?

Next time you’re unleashing a long string of obscenities ( have I told you how much I love you?), while you shake your fist at the heavens, remember this blog, unclench your fist and blow me a kiss. (Is it too soon to say I told you so?)

You’re welcome,

Carry on,

xox

The other day when I was feeling emotionally pushed and pulled every which way, subject to the whims of every jackass on the planet, it was then that I took a moment to find solace by having a chat with my dog.

Ruby, our boxer-shark puppy is now two years old which is the equivalent of fourteen in dog years and in that respect, she does not disappoint.

Every bit the bitchy, whining, sassy teenager, she is a walking contradiction: clingy yet distant, anxious but chill, a confusing mix of stupidly goofy and wise. She is utterly and completely dissatisfied in every moment—and she has no problem letting you know. She has a way of looking at you as if you just asked her for a ride to the airport. Perpetually disgusted.

If she’s at home, she’d rather be out. If she’s in the car she’d prefer to walk on some grass. If there are two dogs to play with, she’d hoped there would be three—and all boys. She searches frantically for food the minute she finishes eating. Being that I, her mother, am the model of moderation (and obviously, a master of bullshit), I have NO IDEA where she picked up this behavior. I’m thinking she’s modeling her dad.
Anyhow…

You can imagine my state of mind if I was seeking comfort and advice from this spoiled, over-indulged, canine equivalent of Kylie Jenner—big lips and all.

I sat down next to the sleeping princess and heaved a giant sigh, you know, the universal signal for I need to talk.

She barely stirred.

In order to get her attention I did what always works with my husband— I started petting her.
I rubbed her floppy velvet ears and moved down to her belly which caused her to roll on her back, legs languishing in the air (okay, what’s wrong with this picture? I was the one in dire need of a belly rub!).

She seemed open to dialogue so I started the conversation: “It must be so great to be you. Not a care in the world, no worries, just play and sleep, sleep and play. What does it feel like to always be in an attitude of trust? Trust in your wellbeing and that fact that all of your needs will be met? Huh? Tell me, what’s it like being you? YOU,  little dog, you are so lucky”.

With that, she opened her eyes just enough to make out who the fuck was interrupting her nap, tilted her head back, streeeeeeeetched her legs further into the air, yawned and farted.

And in that moment, the clarity I received was as overwhelming as the stench that filled the room.

I knew she was right. About EVERYTHING.

Yep. I told you she was wise.

Carry on,
xox

Everything comes out of nowhere. It starts as an inspired idea. Everything.

The pizza joint at the corner, your relationship (remember, the day before you met—you were complete strangers), where you live, the iPhone…

Jason makes a good point.

Some ideas are sold to us. Our perception is altered. Good ideas spread.
But so does herpes.

In the current political climate, we have to pay close attention to who and what has our ear, try to ignore the rhetoric, be discerning and then decide for ourselves—what makes a good leader.

Happy Sunday!
xox

Oh, I know (Jim), you don’t like reprises! Don’t get your panties in a bunch, maybe you missed this one and besides, a couple of readers requested it in lieu of the surprising exits of some beloved public figures this past week.

“It feels like a gut-punch,” one of my friends wrote me in a text on Monday. And it did.
Why do you suppose that is?

I guess it’s because neither Bowie nor Alan Rickman gave us any warning— no pale and sickly paparazzi photos or death vigil countdown after a prolonged hospitalization.

That sucks AND good for them!

My friend and fellow blogger Angie and I were writing back and forth about that yesterday. What a wonderful example they left us of having a conscious death. Creating all the way up until the end.

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

It may leave the rest of us reeling a bit but, come on, isn’t that the way we all want to go?

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly.
A new idea about the transition of death and how you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas, or at least pants), or sitting at a stoplight singing to your favorite song on the radio (at the end of an amazing road trip).

Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!

And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard so goddamn always?

September is a month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox

This would be funny if it weren’t so freaking sad.

Screw you 2016!

In just fourteen days you’ve taken two of our best and left us with…well, Donald Trump and that creepy Burger King with the plastic hair and psychotic smile.

Earlier this week I was shocked and a little pissed at the loss of David Bowie. I walked around the entire day in a fog, almost as if I could feel the creative void he left behind. I was just getting my groove back when this morning I woke up to the news that the delicious Alan Rickman had passed.

Wait. What?
Things have gotten out of hand, this has just got to stop!

Both were sixty-nine years old, which from over here at fifty-seven seems really young and waaaaaayyyy too close. (Uh, oh, now my own mortality chip has been activated), AND they both died from cancer.

Fuck you cancer!

So now we all know what happens—we wait for the third one to go. It’s some kind of weird numerological anomaly that always proves itself to be true: celebrities die in threes.

When Raphael came home from the gym this morning he was met with my sad-sack face which stopped him in his tracks. I’m sure for a second he assumed I was upset over the fact that my ticket had not won us the  1.5 billion dollars (which I was), or simply that I’d finished my coffee—but he asked me what was wrong anyway.

“Alan Rickman died,” I sort of half sobbed.

“The guy from Harry Potter? The guy with the voice?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed with genuine shock. You see, my husband is so bad at remembering names, movies, actors, and anything pop culture that this was like a fifth grader correctly answering a $1000 Jeopardy question about life on our planet before computers. (As he explains it, he doesn’t want to waste the brain space.) Ouch. That always makes me feel like I need Will Smith to put on his sunglasses and flash that light in my face to free me up some brain bandwidth. (See what I did there?)

“Yeah, yeah, he was in Harry Potter. But oh my gawd, what about Love Actually, and Truly, Madly, Deeply* and Die Hard; oh, and we just saw him in A Little Chaos, remember?”

“Not really”.

“Ohhhhhh, I loved him…and now he’ll never know. I always wanted to meet him so I could ask him to record the outgoing message on my phone.” (Sigh) That voice…I can’t even…”, I could feel a lump growing like a goiter in my throat.

“Oh man, you’ve had a rough week. All your favorites.”
Awwwww, that was nice, some real sympathy. Then he turned on me.

“You know they always go in threes—I hope the third one isn’t Jean-Luc Picard—that would suck.”
He had a slight grin on his face as he ran out of  left the room, “Uh oh, what if he’s six-nine?” he shouted from a safe distance.

Okay, now he was just fucking with me.

I had made a dark secret of mine public knowledge a couple of years back in a speech I made at Raphael’s 60th birthday “roast”— the fact that I had a mad crush on Jean-Luc Picard and had used him as a husband template. Not so much the actor Patrick Stewart, although don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t throw him back. No, more specifically I had the hots for the French, bald, serious, thoughtful, smart, capable, man-who-could-solve-any-problem that the Universe (literally) threw at him and dare I say sexy, Captain of the Starship Enterprise—Jean-Luc Picard.
And I came damn close with Raphael. Except for the Starship, I nailed it.

“Natalie Cole!” I screamed down the hall. “She was the first. Jean-Luc is safe!—Natalie Cooooooole!”

“That was New Years Eve. Doesn’t count. It was still 2015.”

Shit, Game on.

“What about the Motorhead guy?” I was grasping at straws, my brain was scrambling, Google! Google!
Fuck that, “Siri! How old is Patrick Stewart?”

“Motorhead guy was still 2015”.
How did he know this shit? He must have been Googling as fast as his fingers could type. I could hear in his voice that he was trying not to laugh. Jerk.

“Patrick Stewart is seventy-five!” I yelled, filled with genuine relief. “Oh, thank God, he’s safe,” I muttered to myself under my breath, not realizing, because of all of the brain space filled with useless trivia, that that only meant he was six years closer to the pearly gates.

“Why are you yelling? I’m right here,” he said, standing in the doorway wearing only a smirk. (Not really, he was wearing pants, but it makes for a better story.)

All of this to say: Why are all of the great ones dying? Sixty-nine is middle-aged, people play stupid guessing games about who’s died instead of crying, it’s starting to suck being a baby-boomer, death is not the end, and considering who joined the general population this week—Heaven is going to be a blast!

Its been one-hullava week—wanna weigh in?

Carry on,
xox

*”Truly, Madly, Deeply” which came out in 1991, is one of my all-time favorite films and so I went on Amazon to order a DVD so I could watch it this weekend and cry my eyes out—and there was only ONE copy—for $200! WTF?

It’s always about the sparkles, isn’t it?

Love you, Carry on,
xox

Another one of my friends has fallen.

I know this is SO 2015, but at lunch yesterday my friend Eva was extolling the virtues of that book “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up”—The Japanese Art of Blah, Blah, Blah, decluttering or something like that. I haven’t read it (obviously), because surprisingly I lead a pretty decluttered and tidy life if you discount all of the birds nests I have displayed around my house as art.

I’m a thrower-awayer. I’m from a long line of thrower-awayers. We often throw away perfectly good stuff. Like men and food (I’m speaking strictly for myself here). Other times we wait until they smell—the food and the men.

Anyhow, she had me snort laughing my martini ice tea when she said, “I’m going through my closet and you know what I’ve found? I buy clothes for a life I’ll never lead! Like a white pencil skirt with a matching cardi set—and a hat, you know, for after Ascot”.

That is hilarious! And so fucking true!

Who hasn’t bought an extravagant outfit for an imagined date with Mr. Big? Or a leather jacket in a putrid baby poo-poo green because it was on sale and you could see yourself rocking’ it out at the clubs (what clubs?), uh, dance clubs? Duh.
I did go dancing back in the day but I can count the times on one hand and a thumb, yet, I have to fight the urge to buy clothes for that girl every time I go shopping. “God, she would look so cute in this” I would often say to no one in particular as I bought pants that were too tight and underwear that was too fancy for the imaginary girl leading my imaginary life.

Just like Eva, I had business suits for the executive big-ass corporate whatever I was going to be (which I finally donated to Dress For Success, an organization that provides low-income women professional clothes for job interviews), and a leopard bathing suit cover-up for those yachting trips with Thurston and Lovey Howell. Or Robin Leech. Or The Rock—if The Rock were to go yachting and invite me because I pretty much will go anywhere Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson wants me to go and I need to have the appropriate cover-up at a moments notice. Just saying’.

But seriously.

You know me, I’m a firm believer in visualization and scripting the life you want, but clothing it?

How about entertaining and feeding it?

I have ingredients for recipes I’ll never make. Ever. You want to know how I know that? Because the last time I opened that cookbook—I cried. I can’t understand a word it says. I may as well be written in Mandarin and yet, I still have an unopened jar of Cream of Tartar. It’s been five years, I suppose I should chuck it—I mean declutter.

Those fabulous ingredients for those fabulous recipes (not to mention scores of fabulous napkins and tablecloths, candles and drink swizzles), were for the incredibly fabulous cocktail and dinner parties I was going to throw for all of my fancy friends. You know, In that fabulous life I’ll never lead.

The parties in my real life are likely to be upscale Bar-B-Ques (and by upscale I mean we use stainless instead of plastic flatware and plastic instead of paper plates).
I know, casual chic, what can I say? We’re the new Kennedy’s.

The bottom line here is that for years, just like Eva, and I’m certain just like a few of YOU, I was buying for a life I would never lead.

And I think because of that book—the jig is finally up.

I can thank unemployment for saving me from my imaginary Life of Riley. I don’t have the disposable income I once had to feed that fantasy, but old habits die hard.  Just today back at Wasteland, (the scene of my miraculous tuxedo find), I was wrestling with my old demons.
They were telling me to buy the Narcisco Rodriguez cropped pants and the leather and cashmere sweater from Vince—you know, to sit and write my blog in.

(If I succumb they’ll be a lot more vlogging so we can capture all of the fabulousness on video).

And I doubt this is gender specific. I know for a fact that my husband has a couple of motorcycles, a few pair of designer jeans and some tight white t-shirts that will only see the light of day if they remake Top Gun and he is cast as Maverick.

Here I go, I’m going to ask YOU now. What life are you investing in—the one you imagine, or the one you’re living?

Carry on,
xox

https://www.dressforsuccess.org

http://www.amazon.com/The-Life-Changing-Magic-Tidying-Decluttering-ebook/dp/B00KK0PICK

How lucky are we?

We all knew he wasn’t from HERE. Someone so otherworldly. Someone so fearlessly himself.

So maybe it was for that very reason that it never occurred to me that he could leave us.

Say what you will, even if you’ve never listened to a note of his music (which would seem virtually impossible and make you someone I’m not sure I could be friends with), you were aware of the man.

Because he was SO different.

An alien among us, so much so that he was the obvious choice for the lead in the 1976 film, “The Man Who Fell To Earth”.

But what made David Bowie, David Bowie?

I was crazy lucky to be in Chicago last year at the same time as the exhibition of his extraordinary life, “David Bowie is”.
So of course, nothing could keep me away.

It (the David Bowie-ness of David Bowie), started at the very beginning as this collection showed, giving us a peek into his private hand-written notes, diary entries and song lyrics. Among the treasures were many examples of his drawings for album cover art, stage mock-ups which he designed, and a remarkable collection of outrageously unique stage costumes (including early Alexander McQueen), photographs, and other rare possessions from the David Bowie Archives.

In other words, if Bowie was an alien—THIS was his mothership.

I stayed too long, (Rebel, Rebel) in the very last room, even as the museum people were trying to shoo me along to give the throngs of other Bowie-ites a chance to get a view. I was busy crying big, sloppy tears as I stood mesmerized by the multi-media presentation of floor-to-ceiling video tiles of concert footage and music (for which I was emotionally unprepared), which had me feeling as if I were onstage with him at Wembley Stadium.

It was without-a-doubt the best thing I’ve EVER experienced—in a museum.

All that stuff was just evidence of the obvious.
This guy knew who he was and what he came here to do VERY early on in his life and his focus and determination to be WHO HE REALLY WAS, no matter how strange and shocking that looked or sounded—separated him from the rest of us.

I was in high school in L.A. when that film came out and that’s also when I first heard his music at Martha Johnston’s house, (The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars… about a bisexual alien rock superstar—duh), and consequently, when I first snuck out to see him in concert.

It was a revelation. And while many aspects of it went over my Catholic-schooled, teenage head—still, it marked me.

He wasn’t like us. Was he a man or a woman? Both? Neither?

Shit! When I think about how ahead of the crowd he was with his androgyny and glam rock it blows my mind. I figure at least a decade.
And I suppose in the big picture none of that really matters except it kinda does because he influenced an entire generation of musicians; Duran Duran, Madonna, Lady Gaga to name a few; and in doing so—he influenced all of us.

They were all, with the exception of Gaga, part of the soundtrack of MY youth.

So, I think that’s what he did for all of us. What David Bowie is, as the title of the exhibit leaves blank for us to answer, is someone who gives us permission to be unique…maybe even a little bit odd. Someone who gives us permission—make that encourages us to:

To fly our freak flags. It may inspire others to do the same.
To stray away from the herd.
To control all aspects of our image.
To be different than the rest.
To have the vision of something shocking and untested.
To be forever curious, always moving forward.
To be our courageous selves, whatever that may look like—public opinion be damned.
And not to let any grass grow under our feet. To become a Master of Reinvention just as he’d done through the years.

We may never be as batshit odd/brilliantly genius as David Bowie. He set the bar too high.
But we can try.

I aspire to be like him. Receiving inspiration and creating until the end, but we may all be a little less brave without him around…for a while.

Annie Lennox wrote something that really resonated with me on her Facebook page today maybe it will with you too:

“Like a gazillion other people, I feel stunned by the news that David Bowie has departed this earth.
At the loss of someone who has impacted and influenced your life, you can hardly begin to measure the shape of what’s left behind.

Our personal and collective inner landscape has shifted and we’re trying to come to terms with it.
No one exists forever and it seems our elegant gentleman was well aware that his last mortal chapter was about to reach its conclusion.

“Blackstar” was his parting gift.
Provocative and nightmarishly “otherworldly”… we are jolted towards the twilight realms of epileptic seizures and voodoo scarecrows.
The bejewelled remains of Major Tom lie dormant in a dust coated space suit…
It leaves me breathless.
You must see it to believe it…
He knew…
He could see through it all.”

Love you, carry on,
xox

Happy Sunday you guys, this is my New Moon wish for you!

There was a New Moon in Capricorn at 8:30 PM EST, January 9 (so, last night). It signifies new beginnings, as do all new moons.

According to astrologer Leo Knighton Tallarico:

“This one is in Capricorn and as such it prompts us to get back out into the world, to organize and plan, to be more disciplined, to do what one needs to do, to make firmer boundaries, to be in one’s integrity, to demand more from yourself and others, to concentrate more on work and accomplishment, to have greater self-respect, to be more logical and realistic.”

Amen to that! I could use some more organized discipline and I’m always working on setting those boundaries!

If you want to read the rest of his take on the new moon (and he also does some astrological predictions for some of the Presidential candidates which I found interesting, here’s his website:

https://spiritualtherapy.wordpress.com

Carry on,

xox

Thank you over-entitled, underappreciative, totally unaccountable assholes. Thank you for keeping it real.

Okaaaaaay…
So, here I am trying to wrangle me some assholes.
Like an idiot, I think I can change their minds about their assholishness. But come on, we all know they can’t hear me because they are not at a place to, awwwww fuck it… (their heads are too far up their asses!), there, I said it.

Thursday I was talking to my friend Heather (one of the sweetest, nicest people on the planet. Waaaaay nicer than me!), and we were commiserating (uh oh, slippery slope), about how it seems that lately all of the—we won’t call them bad guys, okay, so maybe they can be called the “shitty people”.
How it seems that all of the “shitty people” (assholes) seem to be coming out on top. Either with their particular brand of financial trickery or the fact that their hijinks (general jackassery), is trying to suck the good cheer out of the new year—and is keeping us up at night.

Now, if I’m up late at night and YOU are the reason, and I had serial-killer tendencies, they would be materializing right about then. I know it doesn’t seem like it but I can be quite diabolical when pushed. I’m spiritual but I’m not a saint, and when you’re shitty to me or mine, I Ommmmm it away as long as humanly possible—and then I start plotting all the ways to…well, you know, kill you, or at least, ruin your day.

What I really need to do is mind my own goddamn business.
Seriously.
Just back away from the asshole; smile and disengage.
Then take a nap. Or go to a movie.
I’ve been seeing an awful LOT of movies lately.

Remember this poem from last year? Yeah me neither.
Just kidding, actually it keeps repeating on an endless loop in my brain—right alongside all the murderous thoughts.
I think it would be smarter to let IT win.

Here is what I’ve prescribed for myself today:

“Mind your own business” she said, the voice in my head.

“Who the hell are you?” I replied.

“Mind your own business!”

“Mind your own business” she warned, “Don’t look over there,
it’s not your concern, why do you care?”

I see some disaster and I’m compelled to assist;
like a poor choice of lipstick—I can hardly resist.

“Mind your own business”, she harped, “Keep your thoughts to yourself.
That’s the best piece of advice, better than any book on a shelf.”

“Mind your own business” she sniped, “And here’s more advice:
keep your nose outta trouble.
Don’t make me ask twice.”

“Darling. I’m you.”

Some people are just shitty assholes—so drink some water, go to the movies, and mind your own business this weekend you guys!

Carry on
xox