guidance

Okay. So, tens of you, my darling readers, have been living in suspense, asking me for days how I broke my green drink fast and if indeed I found some clarity as a result.

The rest of you didn’t care—Good for you!

Well, the answer is—bacon and sort of.

By Wednesday (the fourth day), I had so much energy there wasn’t a speck of dust left on any surface in my house, all the prep and chopping was finished, and I baked several pies in the afternoon. That was after I completed a triathlon and learned Mandarin.

Boundless energy. Apparently that is the side effect of every cell in your body silently screaming for carbs.

My friend Kim came by to witness my bought of plant-based beverage madness. And steal a pie. She can attest to my supernatural buzz and cheerful disposition.

Apparently that was side effect number two—I was delightful. Ask Kim. Ask my husband. Ask the girl at the gym and the guy walking his dog past my car, (who I thought I’d spoken to earlier that morning so I picked up the conversation where we left off only to find out it wasn’t the same guy OR the same dog, but I just smiled and kept on jabbering away like he was my long-lost BFF).

Gaunt and boney, (hardly), even dingier, (hard to imagine, but true), and delightful (oh absolutely).

Because I wasn’t hungry. Not at all.

So here is what you’re waiting for, oh patient reader; you want to know how I broke my fast.

“Go slow”, everybody advised. “Eat deliberately, take your time. Start with something bland and inert, like, like, a lemon. Suck on a lemon. Or better yet, sip hot water with lemon.”

Yeah, That’s so me. I’m someone who’s going to suck on a lemon after four days without solid food.

I could not disappoint. Not myself and certainly not you guys. You don’t come here to read about a spiritual guru who sits in perfection and quiet contemplation—fasting—then sipping warm lemon water while they advise you on all things holy.

Fuck that! You can read Deepak or Marianne Williamson (both whom I adore BTW) if you want to read the obvious. The expected. Perfection personified. THAT is everywhere!

Nope, I broke my four-day fast with bacon—on. the. grill.
Stop gasping, or laughing or applauding, I can’t hear myself think it’s so loud!

Here’s the thing, the kitchen was otherwise occupied Thanksgiving morning. My mad scientist/chef of a husband had the stove and oven firing on all cylinders—but I wanted bacon.
I needed bacon.

So I became inventive, industrious and clever as I utilized all the benefits of a four-day brain cleanse.

I cooked bacon—in a pan—ON THE GRILL! BAM!

Genius! And delicious. And satisfying as hell. It made me so happy I had a stupid grin and bacon grease on my face all day.

See, aren’t you happy it wasn’t freakin’ lemon water? I see you grinning, I can guarantee you—nobody grins all day from lemon water.

Besides, I’m not that girl and this isn’t that kind of blog.

Someone asked me the other night about the blog and I told them this, “I write the blog I always wanted to read: Sassy, messy, with stories of tragedy and triumph, tales of sorrow and success, with a dash of irreverence and a touch of cursing all wrapped in humor…and bacon.”

See that? Clarity.

Carry on,
xox

I’m going to rat myself out. Tell on my bad self. Tattle, like that snotty little kid back in grade school who thought he was the boss of everybody.

Well, I AM the boss of me and I’m here to tell you—I struggled with Shame on Saturday. Big Time.

I have to fess up because we talk about shame so much on this blog—how on earth could I look at myself in the mirror if I acted like it never touched MYlife.
Of course, it does! It’s not on the menu everyday—but more often than I’d like to admit.

What kind of whatever I am (blogger, advice giver, sister, friend, wife, nosey posey) would I be if I kept this to myself?

Now, there are numerous types of shame, many which I’ve experienced and some, by the grace of God, I have not.

This was not registered sex-offender shame, nor was it young divorcee or I wore a penguin costume to work on the wrong day shame.

This was familiar to me. Similar to bathing suit dressing room shame, only different.
Oh yeah, I knew this Shame.

We became intimately acquainted ( it slept with me most nights) during the year or so my store struggled financially—and every year since then it comes around less and less, but there are exceptions.
Trigger situations.
Believe me, I can still recognize Shame even with a different face and better shoes because it continues to wear that same cheap cologne and shit-eating grin.

Let me explain.
I have a ten-year-old car with almost 95,000 miles on it. It is not some piece-of-shit clunker with a bumper held on with masking tape. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had one of those. But this is different. It’s been meticulously maintained by yours truly and it’s one of those German Imports, a classy tank.

I’ve mentioned several, well maybe not several, is several more than three? Okay, then three. I’ve mentioned maybe three times that I wish it had Bluetooth, you know, for my phone. There, I admit to a tinge of Bluetooth envy. But never in a million years did I ever say:
“God, I hate my car, what a colossal piece of shit, I wish it was better, I need a new car!”

So, are we clear?

My current car is perfectly lovely. I could even go out on a limb and say it would be a lot of people’s dream car.

Shame. Oof. I can smell its strong cologne already.

Being that my car was getting close to having one hundred thousand miles on it, my husband, the car guy, gear head numero uno, began to ask me what car I thought I’d like next. My answer most times was: the Same car just newer I guess. The other times I told him I was perfectly happy with my existing car.

“What color would you get IF you were to get a new car?” he baited me.
“Blue, dark blue with tan interior.”
I chose that combination mostly because it is almost impossible to find. It would take him months and months to come up with a car in that combination.

I kept the New Car Shame at bay—or so I thought.

Thursday he emailed me a car at a local dealership fitting that exact description.
Shit.
“Let’s go check it out on Saturday” he suggested.

That is my husband’s ideal day. Vehicle shopping. Add a steak dinner and a nice bottle of wine to that and he could die a happy man.
I loath shopping for a car, besides, I really thought the one I was driving was just fine, Thank you very much.
But my mouth overrode my brain—it does that a lot. “Okay,” I agreed.

Now you’re all thinking oh, boo-hoo, he wants to buy you a nice new car. Where’s the problem? Quit your whining!
Well, that’s what I told myself all the way down to the dealership. But as we all know, logic and reason are no match for Shame.
Shame kicks their asses every damn time.

After we looked at it and I sat in it and even gave it a test spin, my husband eyeballed me with that “Let’s take it” look I know so well.

I froze. I stammered and stuttered, staring off into space, my eyes spinning in their sockets and I’m sure it appeared to the gregarious salesman as if I’d suddenly suffered a stroke.
“Can you give us a few minutes,” my husband asked after he observed my bizarre behavior, sending the salesman back into the showroom to stew in suspense.

I could feel the hot river of shame burn in my veins as it replaced all the blood in my body.
I observed it. I named it. I even cursed it. Well, duh!

I wanted to shout I’m feeling Ashamed! at the top of my lungs so it would crawl out of the shadows and dissipate.
That’s what happens when you acknowledge Shame. It leaves. I can only exist if it’s kept a secret.
But it had inhabited me so completely at that point I could barely gather my thoughts. A sinister voice had taken over the Pollyanna Land that normally resides inside my brain, spoon-feeding me well-disguised bullshit.

It was a sickening, sad, and sorry case of New Car Shame.

Now, I could get lost in the minutia of this moment and how horrible it all felt. I could do that. It’s kinda what I do. How my right eyelid was twitching compulsively and it suddenly felt like all the saliva had left my mouth. How everything went into slow-motion, like walking through deep water on stilts.

What? I think he’s talking to me. What’s he saying?

“What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this what you want?” he asked, not used to seeing me frozen and silent.

This man is a good man.
He is incredibly generous with me. Probably too generous. (See there it is).

Here’s what I SAID—out loud—remember? No more secrets.

“I don’t currently have a job that brings in any money. I don’t pull my own weight. At the moment, our relationship is financially lopsided and unbalanced. You are literally supporting me—for now. ( I always have to add that). Who am I to have a new car? Such a nice new car? (the rabbit hole was in sight). This is all making me extremely uncomfortable. Why are we doing this? Why are YOU doing this?”

Now, here’s what I was THINKING—thanks to that piece of shit, Shame:
You shouldn’t reward me for not working. You don’t gift an unemployed writer a snazzy new car. That comes later. Let me PROVE my worth. Let me drive my existing car into the ground. Let me wait until the bumper is held on by masking tape. I don’t deserve a new car. Not one so nice. Not This car. Especially not this car.

That is a veritable Molotov cocktail of Shame. And I was throwing it back like a barfly.

So there. I’m ratting myself out. I went there, to that dark place of unworthiness. I was So freaking ashamed of myself.

“You are the hardest working unemployed person I know”, he said looking me straight in the eye which was made difficult by the fact that mine were spinning and I had started to wander, walking in circles to clear my head.

“You have manufactured a writing career out of thin air, which you work tirelessly on EVERYDAY. That has not gone unnoticed by me.”

He was right goddammit! I have so many irons in the fire these days that my fire is full. You couldn’t squeeze another iron in that fire if you tried.

“And explain to me what in God’s name any of this has to do with a car. You need a new car for MY peace of mind.”

Shame triggers. They make no sense.
They are ridiculous and if you try to sidestep them like I did, YOU look ridiculous.

So there you have it—my story of New Car Shame, and how it ALMOST won. I have named it so many times and now I’ve written about it so it must skulk away, back into the shadows, preferably back to hell— because it is my wish to be free.

Do you have a Shame story to share?

Carry on,

xox

How are you with loss? OMG you guys I sucked at it!

Coping with any kind of loss has been a learning curve for me.

First I was a cold-blooded jackass looking for payback, then an armoured up she-devil, then, slowly, eventually. I started to figure things out.
Take a look, see if what you did was radically different (do tell) or if you are a part of my tribe.

Please share with anyone you know who might need this right now. I’d also love it if you’d leave a comment on the HuffPo.

Thank you, love you, and carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/learning-to-navigate-loss_b_8671602.html

This graphic has nothing to do with anything—it just made me laugh.

Heeeeeyyyyy…Why does my car smell like a fart?

It’s not the dog, our usual suspect in all things foul smelling—she’s with her dad.
So…I’m the only one in here and as far as I know I haven’t passed gas.

Why do the bank and the market and the stroll over to the beauty supply also smell like ass gas?

Maybe that rotten egg, sulfur smell is a natural gas leak. Yeah, that’s it.
We must have a major gas leak in our neighborhood. That could be dangerous.

Note to self: When I get home I need to call the Gas Company to come out and check on that.

That could be a lifesaver, especially with all of the cooking and candle lighting going on the next few days. Nobody wants their face blown off lighting a candle.

Then I promptly forgot.
I had other things on my mind.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was busy!

Someone else has probably called by now. It is up to another Good Samaritan to save our lives.

God, I hope it’s not my face that gets blown off.

I was reminded that I forgot, (See how that works?) by the smell of dog fart inside my own home!
The same one I had spent all day Hazeling. The one that was minus one poopy dog.

Sourly odiferous. That’s the smell.

I went inside and washed out my nostrils. I did! It was like that dog-farty-sour smell was somehow stuck inside my nose, tainting my entire day.

I lit incense. Nothing helped.
It just covered it up for awhile. A Nag Champa Poop blend.

Turns out I had dog poop on the bottom of my shoe and it had accompanied me all day everywhere I went.

Has that ever happened to you?

See where I’m going with this?
I’m not even going to say it because you guys are so smart you already know that I’m going to say that the poop on my shoe was exactly like a metaphor for a bad mood. Or sadness.

That you take that shit wherever you go.

Carry on,
xox

So here we are at the three-year mark. The third anniversary of the spontaneous creation of this blog.

It has changed me. YOU have changed me. For the better.

You make me want to be a better version of me. To write better. To always tell the truth.

Without your love, support, comments and hilarious off-the-grid emails—I’d have stayed sad and stuck.

I hated stuck. Stuck sucked. So did sad. Sad was like quicksand.

So thank you.

For letting me vent. And rant. And offer advice. And maybe even make you laugh.

You guys are the best, honestly—and I love you all madly.

Color me Immensely Grateful.

Carry on,

xox

I just switched to a summer bag. I know, I’m late to the party, being that it’s the third week in July.

Nevertheless, I transferred all of my purse “loot” to a bag that is lighter in both actual heft and color. It’s a happy pink bag. One that I purchased in Santa Fe, in a snowstorm, while my best friend shopped for sexy lingerie. It was at the bottom of a sale bin for thirty dollars.
SCORE!

It wasn’t a simple task. I carry around a lot of shit on a daily basis.
Useless, out-of-date, superfluous shit as it turns out.

I don’t want to hear one man snicker. Have you guys cleaned out your wallets lately?
What about your murse (man purse)? Have you really examined its contents in the last year?
Yeah, I thought not.

My husband utilizes his entire immediate environment as a wallet. So vast is his sphere of influence that a mere man-bag or wallet cannot contain it.
His car collects business cards. Hundreds of them.
His home-office overflows with receipts and warranties, gift cards and gum. And Altoids. Boxes and boxes of Altoids bought in bulk at Costco.

Not me. I’m much more self-contained so I didn’t really anticipate the jaw-dropping magnitude of this bag and switch.

And here is what the excavation revealed:(Drum roll)

Paperclips. Just like an archeologist at an ancient burial site, I stood holding three small paperclips, trying to figure out their significance in my daily life and what in the hell they’re doing in my purse. I have a vague recollection of using one as a barrette on a bad bang day.
Here’s the thing, I don’t clip paper. Ever. I’m a computer girl, I barely use actual paper much anymore, (which is tragically sad when you think about it). That may explain why my award-winning cursive (Miss Law’s seventh-grade penmanship award) has devolved into the scrawl of a deranged serial killer.

One schmutz covered open tube of L’Occitane Shea Butter hand cream. After much digging (burial site reference again) I found the lid.
It doesn’t matter. From the looks of it, the contents dried up sometime during a road trip back in 1992.

An LED pink and grey camouflage flashlight—that actually still works. Now I can rest easy. Not as easy as a signal flare would make me rest, but easy just the same.

An Advil bottle filled with an assortment of pills.
I thought it would be a hoot to open it up and take a trip down memory lane since I can’t remember the last time I put anything relevant inside that bottle.

Contents:
One Benadryl. That was for our dog, who, when she was a puppy was allergic to bee stings. She died in March at the age of nine.

Something that looks suspiciously like a birth control pill. Wha…what? Why, at fifty-seven does an obviously lost and alone birth control still make my heart skip a beat and my blood run cold?

Seventeen Motrin. An odd number since the recommended dose is two, and kind of an F-you to Advil. Like having Pepsi in a Coke can.

One half of a migraine pill. For those days when I’m suffering from one half of a migraine.

One half of what I think is a Xanax. First of all, half? Really? Any situation that requires Xanax—requires an entire pill. AND, Can I just tell you how many times I wish I’d known that was there?

One Midol. Awwww. How sweet. I’m going to open my time capsule and put that in there with my tampons, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

A Zeiss ten power bad-ass jeweler’s loop. Don’t accidentally flash your engagement ring my way—I’m trained, armed and opinionated.

One dollar and fourteen cents of loose change (which I will promptly donate to the nearest tip jar).

A package of pink flamingo tissues. I have NO idea where they came from. I know I didn’t buy them. Pink Flamingos? come on! Plus, they have the consistency of crepe paper and  I wouldn’t let them touch any part of my body on a dare.

My prescription from the Optometrist The latest one from January 2015. A girl with eyesight as diminished as mine can’t be too careful.

One petrified Cliff Bar. In case the Zombies attack. I could throw it at them.

My sad, pebbly brown leather, Hermes wallet which has lived an abused and overstuffed life (Overstuffed with everything except cash.)
I have blatantly disrespected this beautiful, obscenely expensive, vacation purchase,(because who looks at prices on vacation), until now it is so stretched out on the sides you could store your umbrella.
I love it so…I just can’t let it go…I need help.

Inside there are tens of assorted cards, which sadly at my age have switched from the latest, greatest club, boutique or restaurant; to one for a dermatologist, my hormone doctor, a podiatrist and other assorted magicians. My how times have changed.
I did find a business card for my realtor, the lovely man who helped me purchase my home—in 1999. I wonder if he’s still alive.

An old California driver’s license which expired in 2001 after ten years of extensions. It has my old name, and a long forgotten address from the nineties, but I keep it because the picture chronicles the decade I dyed my hair bright red and…well who am I kidding, it verifies that once, I was five foot five and after a nasty stomach flu, weighed one hundred pounds.
Sometimes, on a low day, with my grey hair and stretched out yoga pants, after snarfing down an entire bag of Fritos—I just need to see that.

A Costco, Ralph’s and Vons card (because I tend to have revolving loyalty, although I shop almost exclusively at Trader Joe’s) and a Petco card.

A checkbook. With unused checks. I can’t decide if the archeologists gets this or the time capsule.

A leather pouch containing five MAC lip glosses (which are all three-quarters empty), Bobby Brown cheek tint, (because you never know when you may want to tint a cheek),and a KCRW Fringe Benefits Card (which I always forget to use and if you’re not in LA it won’t make sense anyway).

Forever stamps from the U.S. Postal Service, which loose half their value by the time you walk out to the parking lot.

Danielle LaPorte Temporary Tattoos. I think they come with like eight or nine inspirational words in her handwriting, and of those, only blissful, love and joy are left. I haven’t gotten around to those words yet. Hmmm…I wonder what that means?

One groovy rhinestone skull glass case which is always empty because the groovy skull magnate isn’t strong enough to hold the glasses in place. Which leads me to believe it was probably made in Italy where everything is stunning, but nothing does what it’s designed to do. It also explains the loose pair of designer cheaters whose lenses are so scratched it’s like looking through wax paper.

Oh, and my iPhone 6, which also gravitates toward the bottom of every bag, (or the floor of the passenger seat of my car) no matter how many specially designed pockets are sewn inside.
I suspect it’s magnetized—attracted to the earth’s core. Fucking Apple.

So lets see here, what have we determined about me?
That I have a little Girl Scout survival preparedness thing going on with the flashlight and the Cliff Bar (and the lip gloss).

That I can’t spend good money on nice things because I can’t be trusted to take proper care of them.

That rhinestone skulls are my kryptonite.

That I carry way too much make-up for a woman my age.

That I’m going to have to break down and wear blissful, love and joy on my body someday.

That it is crazy how badly I need a new wallet.

And that I’m just like you—a walking, talking, hot mess contradiction—who’s just doing the best she can—with a bright pink summer bag.

Carry On,
xox

So… you can practice acceptance like I suggested to help you cope or you can thank Adele.

Happy Thanksgiving!
xox

It’s Tuesday morning.
The start of day three of my sort-of-self-imposed green drink fast.

My stomach is growling so loud it woke up the dog.
It sounds like the insistent, angry growl of a lion eyeballing a Gladiator like a pork chop.

I would kill for a pork chop right now. A thick juicy slice of pig-on-a-plate.
Or bacon.
OMG. Don’t get me started on bacon. If I smelled the savory aroma of bacon cooking right now I would drown in my own saliva—I just know it.

Instead of a mass of bloated puffiness, after two days I am now all gaunt and boney.
Seriously.
Okay. Not really. But anyway.

“Feel that!” I urged my husband last night in bed, taking his hand and rubbing it down my right side.
He humored me with a couple of hand passes before rolling over.
“Those are my RIBS! I can count them. Do you know how long it has been since I could count my ribs? I am literally wasting away.”

I heard him snicker from his side of the bed now to be referred to as Outer Siberia.

On Sunday night, that same guy stood in the kitchen and finished off two pieces of cheese pizza and half bottle of wine while I stood feeding kale into the blender.

“It doesn’t count if you’re standing. Everybody knows that” he responded to my dirty looks. “But in solidarity I’ll eat power bars and protein shakes for the next three days.”

What a guy.
As of this morning, he’s lost seven pounds. SEVEN POUNDS! In TWO days!

I have never weighed myself. I go by how my clothes fit. Besides, for me this is about finding clarity, not weight loss.
Yeah, right.

But my gaunt and boney self wants to hurt him—just a little.
I can’t lie. I’m too hungry to lie. It takes too much energy to lie.

My dreams have changed. They have been colorful and epic in their scale and scope.
I dreamt of swimming and running and laughing and drums.
And so has my sleep.
When my eyes opened this morning, BAM! I was awake. Wide awake.
No sluggish slugginess, no urge to meditate or ask questions.
Just BAM! Up and Adam. Protein shake, here I come!

It’s now 9 a.m. and I’m going out to run all my errands. Too Da Loo!

It is now after three and I ran every errand with the speed and efficiency of a woman in labor on a scavenger hunt.
Then I came home and chopped up some shit, made my mom’s sweet potato soufflé and baked a pie.
I also garlanded a wreath within an inch of its life and planted some white poinsettias while the pie was in the oven. I even found my smile—it was hiding in the kitchen junk drawer.

Who am I? I don’t even recognize me.

So clarity…

It is clear I have waaaaay more energy That is for sure.
And I’m not hungry anymore.
And I may be taking this whole thing a tad too far. I accidentally licked some baked sweet potato off the spoon and promptly spit it into the sink. Crazy, right?

It’s a Decathlon people, not a sprint, and I must not cheat—tomorrow is the home stretch.

Okay, enough chit-chat, it’s time for tea.

Lots of love from your gaunt and boney, seriously delusional, green drinking, whirling dervish, pie bakin’ friend—me.

Carry on,

xox

I am so screwed.

On Sunday morning, during meditation, the voice in my head, THAT voice in my head, suggested in a strong tone that I needed to start a minimum three-day green drink fast.

Shit. You’ve gotta be joking.

I knew the voice who was doing the talking and it’s not a prankster.
Part of being intuitive is recognizing the different voices in your head. It was not my Muse, the bossy pants who writes, nor was it the tender-hearted poet. I’m still getting them all straight.

Some would call it my imagination—or even mental illness I suppose. But I love them all as they come to the forefront of my mind and until one of them commands me to rob a Seven-Eleven—I trust them.

This was the wiser, more tuned in presence that resides somewhere close by—always guiding me. An expert at the spiritual heavy lifting that is required in order to keep me on my path. It was that same voice that suggested I could be happier, that maybe I needed to leave my husband back in ’84—it was also the voice that told me I’d live after the devastating loss of my store.

It also guided me toward writing.

It is the steady voice that takes the bull out of bullshit and turns things around. It has steered me right so many times. Too many to mention. So I listen.

But they know who they’re dealing with when they make their suggestions so naturally I struck up a negotiation. It’s what I do. It’s my superpower I suppose. I never take anything at face value, and I most certainly never take NO for an answer. I really should work for the U.N. or the State Department.

The voice said a green drink fast meaning NO food, but first things first—No coffee?
No way.
Not gonna happen.
A compromise? I MUST have my coffee! I yelled in my head. I didn’t hear any argument so I took that as a yes.

Negotiations complete. Now I’m happy to do the fucking fast.

I am SO accommodating. And enlightened. Are you getting that?

Deep down I knew why the fast had been suggested.
Because Isis makes me eat.
Not terrorism as a whole, and not even Al-Qaeda
It is Isis.

Last week was the worst. Isis threw me into an epic food-binging blur.
It made me reach for the wine on a weeknight. We try not to imbibe on school nights, you know, so we can feel disciplined.

All bets were off. As the coverage of the attacks in France escalated, instead of curling into the fetal position and crying I dove into the Triscuits. Fucking Triscuits and cheese! Like, crack cocaine. And wine. Did I mention the red wine?

Also…last weekend…my husband’s ex-wife killed a man.
Yep.
As if the energy wasn’t batshit crazy enough, we heard that his ex-wife had committed first-degree murder. What do you do with that information? How do you process such a thing?

You add meat to the cheese on the Triscuit. Then you throw in some sort of fried food. And wine. Have I mentioned the wine?

So it appears I have developed an Isis and first-degree murder inspired eating disorder, which is redundant if you think about it and the all-time weirdest sentence I never thought I’d write. But I’m guessing you have too. 

By Saturday night, I was in a food frenzy coma. Feeling bloated and angry with myself, I said a little prayer as I rolled like a Weeble into bed.
Let me receive clarity, I asked. Clarity on all of it—Life, death, Isis, stress eating—all of it.
I’m not sure, but I think I feel asleep with a Triscuit in my mouth.

Do a green drink fast for at least the next three days was the first thing I heard the next morning in that place between asleep and awake. That’s my sweet spot, that place. I’ve heard amazing things there from the part of me that has my well-being at heart. Life changing things. Hard things. Things that terrified me in—a good way.

So I assumed that was the answer to my query.

Remember me? I’m the one practicing surrender. Fucking surrender. To what life offers and where my intuition guides me.

So here I am, late Monday morning, a little over twenty-four hours in and I am suffering! The timing of this is a cruel joke.

We shopped for Thanksgiving yesterday, so not only are there Triscuits in the house, there are Ruffles with ridges. And dip. And the ingredients for pies. Pies that I will have to make during this green drink thing.

Lord help me.

There were so many delectable holiday food commercials on television last night that I put myself to bed at 8:30. I couldn’t stand it. Even the Denny’s commercial had me salivating. I think I have to give back my foodie membership card for saying that.

This morning I’m hangry (anger brought on by hunger). I almost killed a man with my bare hands at the car wash. I see you there, you man. Enjoying your Power Bar. Asshole.

I’m coming unhinged.

Pray for me. I’m winging it here and have clearly lost my mind. I’ve decided to go all the way through Wednesday, making this a four-day green drink fast.

This is noteworthy. I am someone who only dabbles in green drinks. I am an amateur and an all time whining wimp. This is the Olympic Decathlon of green drinking and my hope is to medal because I’ve been told by the bravest part of me, the part that knows no fear, that after such a systemic detox—then I will find clarity.

Until then…

I am so screwed.

I’ll keep you posted.

xox

Hi guys!
Last week a friend posted this adorable little video, with an animated mouse teaching meditation, narrated by Dan Brown and that got me to thinking about his book 10% Happier and how he discovered meditation and it changed his life, and the fact that I wanted to recommend his book a while back, but I spazzed out and forgot and how helpful this could be in the week that follows with family, and you know, how timing is everything —oh well, this is a glimpse into how my mind works and the fact that I’ve had too much caffeine…oh yeah, have a great Sunday!

Carry on,
xox

http://www.amazon.com/10%25-Happier-Self-Help-Actually-Works–/dp/0062265431/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1447361807&sr=8-1&keywords=dan+harris+book