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There are those of you who tease me in a semi-snarky way about never making a misstep. Of projecting the illusion of a perfect life.

This post is for you.

Sunday started out like a cream puff of perfection if a day can be such a thing. (Don’t get mad. Keep reading, it’s gonna go south fast.)

After the brutal heat of the past week, this morning dawned clear and cool. The sky was so blue it hurt my eyes.

My coffee was perfectly creamed, my bed head only mildly Einsteinian, and even though we’d splurged on some fried food the night before, the little white shorts I’d found in the back corner of a bottom drawer fit like a glove. Okay, so maybe as tight as the OJ glove—but fuck it—I didn’t have to wear my Spanx (I have a ‘no weekends’ rule with them) and even then the Velcro stayed closed—so I’m calling it a win.

After spending an hour watching Sunday morning politics, I put my head in the oven to stop the madness but nothing happened so I had another idea—food numbing. I texted my friend the “Hike Nazi” about meeting me for breakfast after she was finished hiking (any cardio in temps over 68 degrees is unacceptable to me)—and she agreed.

On my way up the hill, I could see that the temp had already climbed up into the eighties so I made a pact with myself. After breakfast, I would complete all tasks that required being outside before noon. First, I had to water the plants in the back and then run to the market. Once that was finished, I would spend the rest of my alone time (Raphael and the whiny little brown dog had left early for a car show) watching movies in our den which for some unexplainable reason gets as cold as a meat locker when we run the AC.

Say what you will, at least I know myself and the fact that this older 2.0 version of me has a very low heat tolerance, ask anyone. I am a delicate flower and I no longer have the stamina for triple-digit heat.

Up at the top of Beverly Glen is a little deli my friend frequents so we met there and that is when she introduced me to Mrs. Harris.
I’m in love with Mrs. Harris.
I want to lick her all over.
Before you barf up your bagel let me explain. Mrs. Harris is a scrambled egg and cheese sandwich on rye bread (because any bread other than rye would be a crime against humanity) that completely erased any memory I had of Trump, Mitch McConnell or that miserable snake woman, Kelly Anne Conway.

Life was good.

(Insert sound effect of a needle scratching across a record, the air being let out of a balloon, or a giant dog fart.)

I went to pay for my Mrs. Harris when I noticed that my debit card was missing from my wallet. No big deal, I thought, it’s probably at home or in the car or…anywhere other than my wallet. Nevertheless, I had like seven cents on me and when I pulled out the pockets of my tiny white shorts to check for change there wasn’t any because pockets that small are strictly for decoration and are never meant to hold money, keys, or a phone. In other words, my friend paid for breakfast.

On my way down the hill, I forgot about it completely because Prince was on the radio. Right? I mean, come on, Prince!

Anyway, when I got home I immediately went online to check and make sure that some culprit hadn’t absconded with the gigantic balance in my checking account. You see, my much too enormous to talk about health insurance payment gets automatically taken out this week. I’m never sure exactly what day that happens, so I could picture the money being spent on somebody else’s idea of fun, like buying taxidermy or taking a road trip to see the world’s largest sticker ball in Longmont, Colorado, and Blue Shield having no other recourse but to order the hospital to put my uterus back in!

I could picture the crooks furiously hacking their way into my account only to experience emotional schiophenia—hysterical laughter followed by unexpected feelings of pity—and then rage—at the colossal waste of their time. Minutes later I see my card being thrown out the window of their fast-moving car and getting lost in the dry brush on Mulholland.

Anyway, after I was assured that my vast fortune was intact, that my uterus would remain just a memory, and that there had been no activity since Thursday, I felt bad about my boring life and the sad fact that I hadn’t been anywhere or done anything that cost money in three days— then I breathed an enormous sigh of relief and started wracking my brain while I watered my plants.

Where in the fucking fuck was my debit card? 
I don’t normally lose things. I misplace them, that’s different. It’s one of the quirks that makes me delightful.

You know that sinking feeling that grips you in the guts when you can’t find your wallet or your credit card goes missing? I had that. The dreaded where-in-the-hell-is-my-stuff gut grab.

I mentally retraced my steps (there weren’t many so it didn’t take long), called a couple of places, struck out, and finally decided I’d cancel the card and then just let it go. But alas, I couldn’t let it go. In the supermarket, I appeared to anyone watching to have a nasty case of Tourette’s. I’d walk halfway down an aisle, stop, think of a potential debit card scenario, yell “Shit!” or “Fuck it!” when I’d realize that it wasn’t a viable solution—and then keep walking.

In other words, I was mildly obsessed.

I bagged my milk and frozen stuff together at the self-check-out, stuffing everything in a ‘cooler’ bag, and made my way back out into the one-hundred-degree heat. By the time I got to the car, I was a mumbling, twitchy, sweaty mess. Since I only brought my car keys (which this high-tech vehicle only has to smell to open and start) and my wallet with me, I threw them in the bag with the groceries and then watched in horror as the back hatch of the station wagon clicked shut…and locked.

With the keys inside.

Not surprisingly this had happened to me once before and the experience was burned into my memory. In a frenzy I had called Raphael, my savior, my rock, and my McGuyver whose reassuring response went something like this: “How can that happen?” and “What am I supposed to do from here?”

For some reason, the doors won’t lock if the keys are in the front of the car but I have it on good authority (The Google) that the car can’t sense them when they’re inside of a bag—all the way in the back.

So, that’s when I went full batshit crazy. I ran around the car, desperately trying every door. while cursing a blue streak. Nooooooo!!!! I screamed. Dogs barked, car alarms went off, and birds fell out of the sky—but my car remained locked. It was so hot I could feel the skin sizzle on my shoulders. That’s when I realized I didn’t even have my phone with me to call Raphael so he could say the same damn things and offer the same useless solutions. Finally admitting defeat, I threw my hands up in the air as an act of surrender. That exposed my Casper white belly and caused my boob sweat to trickle in streams through my tiny white shorts, down my legs, and pool at my feet.

I knew what must be done.

That’s when I started the one-mile hike home. In my stupidly small, white, shorts and flimsy black flip-flops. Wondering why it felt like August in the Sahara Desert, and why in god’s name I was dressed like a seventeen-year-old Daisy Duke impersonator who was judging the best butter sculpture at a 4H State Fair. 

Looking at the big picture, the whole thing was kinda funny. I mean, I was so wrapped up in the debit debacle, that it distracted me enough to make me do something I swore I’d never do again!

The lock and walk. 

Then the unthinkable happened. I hadn’t even made it fifty feet when I experienced the mother of all fails. The fucking flip-flop fail.

My flip-flop chose that exact moment to fall apart causing my bare right foot to hit the superheated black top, scalding it in an instant. Imagine being barefoot on hot sand or walking across hot coals. Yeah, like that.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck!” I yelled, hopping backward on one foot in the middle of the parking lot while awkwardly bending over like some ridiculous French fried Flamingo to pick the thing up, fix it, and nonchalantly walk away. “There’s nothing to see here!” I yelled. But I had to admit…there was.

Soldier on. Keep walking, I told myself.  Three steps later it flew off again! Foot burned. Fucks flying.

Always a quick study, I hopped over to a postage stamp sized bit of shade to assess the situation and that’s when I started to laugh because:

A: I was shit out of options. I knew I’d have to hop on one foot the entire mile home or just burn the shit out of my foot and deal with it.

B: Once momentum gets going in a downward spiral you’d better figure out a way to change its course—or else. (Or else your clothes start on fire and your shoes explode.)

C: I’m sure I looked beyond ridiculous! A sweat-drenched fifty-nine-year-old woman in tiny white shorts, one flip-flop, and a scarlet red right foot hopping down a busy street. I mean, I can’t even!

Holding the irreparably broken flip-flop in hand, I hobbled home praying the entire way for Raphael to be there so I could beat him with it, he could hug me, kiss my blistered foot, and give me a ride back to my melty groceries. He wasn’t, and I couldn’t walk on my right foot it was so burned, so I grabbed better shoes (ouch), and the spare key, jumped into his big van, and drove myself back to the scene of the crime.

I figured we could pick up my car later.

I was gone all of five minutes, but when I got home he was there—wondering how one person was driving two cars. He just figured the van had been stolen. As I told him the story of my adventure in hell, he shook his head (because he knows I’m crazier than Lucy Ricardo) and gave my poor fried foot a ton of sympathy.

But wait!… Did you ever think you’d read a story where the antagonist was a flip-flop? (I never thought I’d write one!) Don’t you want to be me? Don’t you wish you had my glamorous life? And is anybody out there still worried about the debit card?…ha! exactly!

#flipflopfail
#Sundayfootfry
#animperfectlife

Carry on,
xox

The innocence of this post from 2014 makes me want to cry. And march…and VOTE! Now, more than ever!
Carry on,
xox

Dear America,

Home of these United States.

Happy Birthday, Girl!

I am eternally grateful, even after traveling the world, make that especially after traveling the world, to have won the cosmic lottery by having had the good fortune to be born in your golden state.

I have traveled this country, sea to shining sea, mostly on the back of a motorcycle, and I’m here to testify that it really does have purple mountain’s majesty and amber waves of grain.

It is gorgeous.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the trash, graffiti, and poverty through these rose-colored glasses of mine, but by and large, this country is a heart-swelling source of pride for me.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

That last pursuit, the pursuit of happiness?

We are unbelievably blessed that Thomas Jefferson had the wisdom and foresight to write that into The Declaration of Independence. No other country in the world gives its citizens the RIGHT to happiness.

Who knows what that even means, what happiness even looks like?

To them, it meant emancipation from British Rule.

Happiness means something different to everyone, but we, WE are entitled to it thanks to that sacred declaration—and by God—we go for it.

The American people I’ve met all want the same things from life: Love and a good cup of coffee.

Americans are hard workers. Some of the hardest in the world – don’t argue, check the stats.

We love our pets
Damn, we love our kids.
We are an irrepressible bunch. We are gregarious, outgoing and LOUD.

We are innovative, curious, quick-minded and clever.
And we don’t take NO for an answer. (Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs, my nephew.)

We are MacGyvers. Most of us are industrious enough to fix pretty much anything with gum, a paper clip, and dental floss. It’s in the water.

We willingly give directions to people who look lost.

The Americans I’ve met, will help a stranger in a heartbeat. They are generous and kind.

The United States is only as great as the sum of its parts; in reality, it is only a landmass with man-made borders.

It is the people who make it great and make me grateful to have been born here. 

Don’t agree? Travel outside the states and you’ll share my appreciation for :

Clean water
Indoor plumbing
Hot running water,
A toilet with Real toilet paper
Things that work as expected
Ice cubes. Cold anything really
Decent French fries
King size beds (not two twin beds pushed together)
Street signs that actually give you correct information.

7 eleven (the ability to buy tampons or Motrin or band-aids at 2 AM)

Personal space (other countries don’t have the same personal boundaries that we do).
Story: We were standing in some line in Europe (where they are big on lining up for things to which Americans would say “No fucking way”) when my husband looked over at me with the saddest mix of incredulity and humiliation. The old man behind him was standing so close that if he even so much as puckered his lips, he would have kissed the back of my husband’s neck.

It freaked him out and he’s French… So yeah,  personal boundaries.

A relatively dependable police force and fire department.
A somewhat workable bureaucracy. (Just try to get your VAT tax back.)
Real cabs that don’t have hoodlums for drivers
Soap
Pillows that are thicker than 1 inch.

CUSTOMER SERVICE. DEAR GOD, CUSTOMER SERVICE!

I’m serious, these are things we take for granted that some other countries just haven’t figured out yet.

Happy Birthday, America. I do love you. You don’t look a day over two hundred.

My birthday wish for you on this momentous day is a big fat cake with tons of candles, heaps of vanilla ice cream, and the most badass fireworks display ever, complete with marching bands and a flyover by the Blue Angels.

Too much? Nah, we’re Americans!

*Addendum: there are some things that other countries do that kick our ass.
My husband was riding in the middle of the Namibian desert last year and he had cell phone service – like four bars – four bars is unheard of in LA.
The electricity was dicey, but he was able to FaceTime me every night.
So, yeah, they’re killing it with cell phone service.

Want to wish her a Happy Birthday? Put it in comments below and I’ll forward them to her.

Much love,
Xox

This is a 2017 rant. It was before family separation at the border, the Muslim ban and other Trumpian greatest hits, so it is ranty in a regular way and is not to be confused with a 2018 rant which is fueled by a year of hopelessness and rage and can go sideways real quick. 

xox

“Ultimately, America’s answer to the intolerant man is diversity, the very diversity which our heritage of religious freedom has inspired.”
~ Bobby Kennedy

This morning dawned bright and cheery and I was in a good enough mood after my meditation to turn on the news.

Big mistake.

Dufus had just caved to the conservative religious right by Tweeting his most recent policy shift (you know like most Presidents do), banning transgender people from the military—yet another step in his never-ending quest to send us back into the dark ages.

As I sat there I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck these old white guys are so afraid of?

Strong, opinionated women?
Transgender folks? (Listen, any trans person I’ve ever met just wants to pee in peace and be left the fuck alone.)
People of color?
Democrats?
The Media?
Educated Elite?
Sick people?
Poor people?

Then it dawned on me. It’s diversity. All of those groups are the ingredients that make up the soup that is America.
It’s what makes us great!
It always has you whiny, fearful sons-of-bitches!

Anyway, as I tried to get my head back in the game of life, I remembered this video of well over half a million people in London singing along—IN UNISON—With harmonies—to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. You guys, they even sang the guitar solo, duh.

Here it comes, a stream of consciousness…

So that got me to thinking about the fact that humanity can move me to tears with its inherent goodness, about how proud I felt to know that I could have stood in that crowd and sung every fucking word of that song at the top of my lungs—with a British accent, about music and what a unifying force it can be, about the potential of Kid Rock running for office, red states and blue states and the fact that we, as a nation, need to become more purple. More integrated. More unified. To feel proud of our diversity instead of afraid and then I remembered that purple is (among other things) not really My color, but it is the color that represents royalty and royalty brought me right back around to—you guessed it—Queen!

Is any of this making sense to you? It’s blowing MY fucking mind!

Then my sister sent me this:

And I knew the Universe (or Freddie Mercury) who I could feel in that gorgeous London sky, was trying to tell me something.

“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see
I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy
Because I’m easy come, easy go, little high, little low
Any way the wind blows doesn’t really matter to me, to me”

And suddenly, all was right with the world. Are you with me?

Carry on, you diverse ones you,
xox

*If you follow me on Instagram you’ve already seen this but it is worth sharing.

“If you can’t say anything nice—come and sit by me.”

I know, I know, that runs counter to everything our mother’s taught us as children, otherwise known as the “Don’t say anything at all” rule. 

I was the poster child for this way of thinking as a kid. But the minute I realized, around the age of twelve, that the girls who didn’t adhere to this dictum were so much more interesting and fun, well—you get the picture. 

Us “nice sayers” were a boring bunch. We helped in the convent, populated the honor roll, made cupcakes for the bake sale, wore horizontal stripes on free dress day, and our blue and grey plaid skirts always touched just below the knee.

Our less well-mannered classmates were a raucous bunch. Ragtag and rebellious, sassy and cheeky, they were smart girls who talked openly about taboo topics, made up funny nicknames for all the nuns, and generally seemed to be having one hell of a good time. 

Listen, if you can accomplish that in an uptight Catholic school, during the “duck and cover” days of the cold war, über repressed 1960’s—I have to tip my hat to you.

Secretly, I wanted to be just like them, flaunting the norms in favor of fun. It wasn’t unkind or hurtful. No one went home crying and nobody’s parents called the school to complain. 

I hate to use this tired cliché but nothing fits better—It was good, clean, fun. Don’t confuse nice with kind. They’re not the same thing. 

Eventually, I jumped ship, and by high school, if you couldn’t say anything particularly nice—you sat with our group of girls. 

Now, at the risk of sounding like someone who waxes poetic at the memory of the ten-cent phone call—at a payphone—or music embedded into the grooves of acetate discs, these days of social media have taken “Not nice” to a whole new level. To me, it looks a lot like, well, hate.

Let me be blunt. People seem fucking MEAN. 

If you don’t look, speak, or think like me—or live where and how I do—I fucking hate you.

What?

Not only do I not want to sit next to those people— I don’t want them anywhere near me!

It is my experience (which I admit at this point includes a minimum of tweeting and more just looking at the comments of the brave people who do) that Twitter is a cesspool filled with all of the ugly vitriol that repressed people who should have flown their fucking freak-flags back in middle-school should have already gotten out of their systems.  

I’m just gonna come out and say it—I miss civility. I miss the days where all of the people with horrible ideas still lived under rocks. I miss the days where nicknames happened on the schoolyard, not in the President of the United States’s Twitter feed. I miss peaceful protest and bands of rivals, and humane politics (if there was ever such a thing). What has happened to civil public discourse over differences of opinion free of name-calling and public shaming? And when did cruelty get to be a thing? I miss the days when the majority of us could agree on what was cruel and what wasn’t—and we didn’t quote Bible verses to justify it.

And I really, really miss vinyl records. 

Enjoy your weekend and carry on,

xox

“Character shoes are among the unsung heroes of musical theatre. They are comfortable, versatile footwear that makes a dancer look great without distracting from her form. Practically invisible, they are meant to be worn on a wooden stage. 

Performers often wear character shoes during auditions to be ready in case the director invites them to go into their dance.”

(Gahhhhhh!  That last sentence makes my butt pucker.)

If you look closely, you can see my black “character shoes” hanging at the window above my desk, next to the waving Liz. I keep them within my purview to remind me of the fact that I’m a character.  I know to you that seems pretty obvious, but when I’m holed up inside my little she-shack disguised as an office, I need to be reminded that I’m more than just a person who writes. Once upon a time, I donned those very shoes to sing and move in a way that resembled dancing if you squinted your eyes just right, or removed them altogether—along with any preconceived idea of what you thought “dance” should look like. 

I’m also a person who has friends, which is why I have all of the photographs of the people I love scattered around the space, so I don’t forget to call them or tell them I love them for no reason at all, which I’m prone to do—because I just glanced up to see them smiling back at me. 

I also have little pieces of nature, like driftwood or a couple of roses from my garden to remind me that I even have a garden and that maybe this afternoon, I should take a break from writing and walk around barefoot in the grass of that garden which lies on the other side of the fence. (Which is there to keep me from staring out the window at my garden all day.)

I have hundreds of inspirational quotes placed here and there to inspire me, although they’ve been there for so long they’re like visual white noise and I don’t really see them. Hence, I’ve been known to sit here for hours, surrounded by inspiration —feeling completely uninspired. 

Right now I’m staring at a stack of six journals, each more gorgeous than the next, with about two sentences written on the first page. They’re all gifts. I would never buy myself a journal because I don’t write shit down. I never have. I’ve never kept a diary or a journal, which continues to make the fact that I have a blog so incomprehensible to me. 

All of this to say, we are so much more than we claim to be. 

I may be a writer, but I’m a character too.  We all are. Some of you are parents but trust me, that’s just a fraction of who you are.  We pigeonhole, build a box and give ourselves labels and then we try our damnedest to conform to fit them.

I have no idea why we do it— if I knew, I would write a helpful handbook with instructions on how to escape that trap and then buy myself an island and never give any of this a second thought. All I know is that we do it—I know I do it. But it’s getting harder for me as I age. Too much water (or dance/spazzing) under that bridge. No identity crisis here—I’m hopelessly schizophrenic—in the best kind of way. 

When asked what I do I say I’m a writer, but in the next breath I want to explain that in addition to that I’m someone who loves music, food, motorcycles, foreign travel, and dogs; books, twinkle lights, Christmas, walks in nature, the beach, anything sparkly, and whiskey. 

But by that time, the person who asked has usually made an exit just this side of running. People don’t really want you to answer that question with anything but one word.

“Doctor, I’m a doctor.” 

“Oh, you are? Listen, I have this pain…”

The poor woman. She probably wants to jam a pen in her eye, or claim she sells tires—when all she has to do to end the conversation is start listing all the ingredient in her famous coq au vin.

I’m rambling now, trying desperately to avoid getting back to my real work. I suppose I could have written all of this in one of those beautiful, empty journals—but what fun would that have been?

Carry on,
xox

I had my laptop balanced on my knees furiously NOT working. I was busy trolling the internet for false eyelashes or any derivative thereof—if you must know!

I had the cable news on low because I’m writing a screenplay with a more political bend and it’s basically research. But these days the 24/7 news cycle has changed from the Russia probe complete with all of the creepy villains with borscht in their teeth and shady as fuck business practices—to the appalling stories of kids being separated from their parents at the border. 

Now usually, I can compartmentalize all of the shenanigans taking place in our nation’s capital, I have to stay sane and write humor after all!  But this—this with the pictures and audios of children wailing for their parents, well, it was too much. It was unignorable. 

I happened to look up right at the end of The Rachel Maddow show because I felt something weird happening. Sure enough, she was breaking down on camera, unable to complete the report that had just broken about small infants and toddlers being set to “tender age” shelters in south Texas. 

Slowly, I shut my computer and proceeded to sob for a good ten minutes. What is happening to my country? What has happened to common decency? Why the cruelty? 

I have tried to keep this “situation” in perspective which has proved to be a Herculean task. After all, what can I do besides send money, sign petitions, call and make the lives of everyone in Washington who thinks this is a good idea—miserable? Just the same, in that moment I felt about as powerless as I’ve ever felt in my life and well, emotions are emotions and sometimes you just need to cry your fucking face off. Especially when you observe the sorry state of affairs unfolding day in and day out in our country without so much as a chance to take a breath.

Afterward, I sat there like a nimrod, checking to make sure I hadn’t cried my lashes down my face and into some no-man’s-land—otherwise known as my cleavage. 

Then I made dinner.

By the time my husband got home the entire incident had gone on the back burner right next to the cauliflower mashed potatoes. He had a particularly spectacular day so we shared a Spanish Rioja and grinned at each other a lot. 

About an hour later I heard a loud humming sound. It was so low decibel it hurt my ears. Was it a low flying plane? Did our air conditioner (which wasn’t on) have bronchitis? Or had the blender finally decided to lead a meditation class with the toaster and the coffeemaker in the pantry? 

So I did what you do when shit like that happens. I muted the TV.

“Can you hear that?” I asked my stubbornly deaf husband who thinks he can hear a pin drop—but couldn’t hear a piano if it were dropped from a ten story building. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “What is it?”

We both got up and walked toward his office where the ceiling had turned into a waterfall. I kid you not. Water was pouring from the ceiling, flooding the concrete (thank god) floor below. 

But at least the humming had stopped.

Right above his office is the attic where our water heater lives. Suspecting that it was the culprit, up a ladder he went and into a cubbyhole he disappeared. I began throwing towels down and putting buckets in place while our dog slept through the entire ordeal. 

“Yep. It’s the water heater.,” he confirmed as he carefully backed his way down the ladder. 

“The intake hose has a leak and the pan underneath which is supposed to drain any water that leaks, well, it isn’t connected either. A double failure at the same time which is rare.”

“How rare?”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“And what was the weird humming—oh wise one?”

“Dunno.”

Huh. And no big whoop. It was just a hose and a pan thingy. 

Later that night in bed, because I’m me and nothing can ever be accepted at face value, I looked up the meaning of a water leak. The first thing that came up was “emotional turmoil” which I dismissed immediately since things around here, emotionally speaking, are pretty chill. 

Feng Shui says it’s money leaking out but that didn’t feel accurate either. 

Hey…Wait just a minute… 

Hadn’t I been sobbing my head off in despair just an hour before the waterfall appeared?

OMG.  Had I made our house cry?

You be the judge.

Carry on,
xox

Go here if you want to help in some way:
https://togetherrising.org

“Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. … They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew some day, the train would come.”

When you read that story, about the train and the Alps, how does it make you feel?

Are you thinking, Why do I care about a train in Europe? I have three job interviews this week!

Are you more practical, like How fiscally irresponsible is that to build something that no one can use?

Or… are you more like me?

As you’ve probably already guessed, that little anecdote gives ME goosebumps the size of Montana hail, a lump in my throat, and every time I read it my boobies tingle a little—because that’s just the kind of inspiring, real life, stranger-than-fiction, magical nonsense that makes me excited to get up in the morning.

That passage is from a favorite movie of mine, Under the Tuscan Sun, which if you haven’t seen it or read the book, (which is marvelous) is about a woman going through a profound life change whose purpose, timeframe and final destination are completely unknown to her. Day after day, terrified and miserable as fuck, she just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

Like we all do. Even people who aren’t steeped in faith find a way to carry on. Maybe they get it from stories about trains.

If you think about it from my very Pollyanna Perspective, every great work of art, creative endeavor, and scientific accomplishment started with some track building. I’ll take it a step further and insist that we all lay down tracks we can’t use until we flesh out our ideas from start to finish.

I do it every freaking day and so do you!

A dear friend of mine has gone back to school to get her degree. There’s no job lined up yet, no clientele or guarantee of employment waiting for her at the finish line. Nevertheless, I see her working her tail off—laying the tracks.

From the age of thirteen, Misty Copeland would practice up to eight hours a day, barely listening to the naysayers who insisted that she was too dark, too curvy and had started dancing too late to have a real career in ballet. She was too busy laying tracks for a position that did not exist before her—the first African-American principal ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre.

Steve Jobs imagined the smartphone, a technology so innovative that it didn’t exist before he thought of it. I’m sure plenty of intelligent, well-meaning people told him not to waste his time or money on what must have seemed like an insurmountable amount of track building. But he did it anyway.

He gave us something we never knew we needed—that now we can never imagine living without.

Like a train across the Alps.

What tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

Carry on,
xox

A written invitation?

“Yes. Yes, I am. That would be lovely. Except can you also make sure you send me an email reminder because—brain farts.”

I don’t think I’m any different from you guys. I see your Insta accounts!

I too have a virtual factory full of creative ideas inside my head that are clamoring to get out. A real David Copperfield meets Industrial Light and Magic warehouse of the mystical, odd and wonderful. The only trouble with my idea factory is that it really didn’t show up until I was close to fifty.

Hey, has yours shown up yet?

I have an excuse. In my early years, I was too busy to entertain a creative thought. 
I liked to eat, so I had a job. 
It was a real slog. 

I spent twenty years slaving like a diamond miner.  *sniff. Who am I kidding, I bought and sold gorgeous diamond jewelry in the land of swimming pools and movie stars. To be honest, my job was more like the life of a protected baby seal, basking on a warm rock while being fed tiny chocolate covered squid—by hand.      

Anyway… after I turned fifty the creative juices ratcheted up a notch (while all of my other juices took a hiatus—if you catch my drift) until now, at sixty, they’re in full, maximum, overdrive!

What the fuck? I have the best ideas of my life while I struggle to keep my tits from sliding over my knees?

How is that fair?
That seems like a huge mistake. 
A cruel joke. 
A cosmic fuck-up of epic proportions! 
Someone screwed up, right?

In the meantime, it appears that the Amy Pohlers, Amy Schumers, and Tina Feys of the world have figured this out.

God bless them.

Meanwhile, it took me FIVE years to collaborate on the first act of a musical and put it up on stage so I could listen to actors say our words and singers sing our songs (which, btw was sublime and surreal I’ve gotta tell ya). 

But all I kept thinking the entire time was: Why aren’t I thirty?  Why is this happening NOW? You don’t start stuff like this at my age, besides…
FIVE YEARS! 
A lot of things can go down before Act Two ever sees the light of day? 

It would be like me having a baby a sixty. How will my body ever recover, who will raise it AND will I be around to see it graduate?

Question: In this chapter of my life how many of these deep-divey projects should I take on?

Don’t answer that! It was rhetorical because the answer is: ALL of them! Seriously, what the fuck am I waiting for? 

Here’s what I’ve come to know for sure that the Amy’s and Tina already knew:

If you wait until your ready — forget it—You’ll never be ready!
If you wait until you’re good—forget it—you won’t get good until you try!
If you wait until you have the time or the money—forget that too—there will always be something that will gobble that shit up!

So this is my cautionary tale. A Special Public Service Announcement from me to you. 

If you’re filled with creativity, no matter what age you find yourself at, DO IT!  Don’t wait another minute!

Carry on,
xox

Oldie but goodie…and it feels even more apropos in these crazy-ass times. Maybe because the antics we are seeing played out daily in our political discourse are extremely familiar if you grew up with a family or you know, interacted with anybody who didn’t necessarily have your best interests at heart. 

Stay strong out there!

xox

Judgment alert! There may be some judgment leveled here. Hey, I’m no saint.

How come the crazy ones never lose any sleep?
Is it their complete lack of a conscience that causes them to appear so slick, smug and impossibly fresh?

Not a hair out-of-place.
Barely a hint of the devil that lies within.

While those of us that have the misfortune to find ourselves in their orbit are sleep deprived, disheveled, walking disasters.

The fact that people who operate outside the constructs of polite society can close their eyes at night and sleep the uninterrupted, peaceful sleep of the just.

That will always bother me.

Why is that?
How can it be?

Case in point: The night before an arbitration with the attorneys for DWP to discuss the fact that their one-hundred-year-old water main had burst and turned my store into an aquarium, I tossed and turned until the sheets were knotted up around my head and neck, fashioned into some kind of an unattractive turban/noose—and I ground my teeth down to tiny, baby, Chicklets. This left me the next morning gumming my toast, with a foggy brain and pronounced sheet marks on my face that didn’t fade until after lunch.

Once at the courthouse, the team of He, She and It, who represented the water company, entered the room laughing. Uproariously.
Like Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon had driven carpool.

I felt at a distinct disadvantage. Out of the loop, like the funniest joke ever told was completely lost on me. Was that their plan?

Upon closer inspection, they were meticulously coiffed and groomed, cool as the proverbial cucumbers, while I was permanently wrinkled, drenched in flop sweat, and frantically struggling to remove a poppy-seed from between my two front teeth with my tongue.

Note to self: Don’t accept half a poppy-seed bagel when you’re out of coffee. And you forgot your water.
You’re going to need something to rinse your mouth with when the Big Guns enter the room.

If I’d had more sleep I would have remembered that.

They all seemed so nice, so genuinely happy to meet me; that is until the bell rang and we went to our respective corners. Then the gloves came off and the crazy started to show.

They gaslighted. They made shit up. Their entire alibi was jack-crap.
With graphs, documents and flow charts they made a pretty compelling case. Listen, if you show me a flow chart, I’ll believe almost anything. Somehow they double teamed my attorney and me, and in the most well crafted, legal babbley, thinly veiled insulting way, they pinned the whole thing on me! They made the accidental, midnight break of their water main seem like MY fault!

It was 2009. Business was slow, debt was high, banks were failing left and right and I needed out—only I was too stupid to commit arson.

I know, crazy, right? But when we broke for lunch even I wanted to throw the book at me.

The picture they painted of me was that of a sad-sack, loser of a businesswoman, which was exactly how I felt at the time.
I think my lawyer drank the Kool-Aid too—they were that convincing. She wouldn’t make eye contact, skulking into the corner on her phone, and then disappearing for the entire lunch break.

But you wanna know what trumps sleep deprivation? Rage. That’s what.
It also instantly removes sheet marks from your face.

It also over-rides all victim-hood.

Crazy and Rage are curious dance partners and they should never be left alone in a room together.
Let me tell you why. Crazy is so put together, so charming and unflappable that she never breaks a sweat. And that bitch looooooves a victim, she gets off on them—they get her panties wet.

Rage is no victim, he’s a gangster. He’s raw, he’s greasy and he talks real dirty. He wears a wife beater t-shirt and too much Aramis; and he has only one thing in his crosshairs—Crazy.

Crazy gets high on Rage and it quickly becomes a street-brawl.

But let me tell you something, Rage is better than Sad, which is where I’d pitched my tent for eighteen months. Some say you can get caught in anger and never feel despair. The opposite had been true for me.
And sad victimhood? Well, that’s like chum in the water to Crazy.

So Rage felt better. It felt…empowering. If sadness felt like quick-sand, Rage, like solid ground.

It got my attention and cleared my vision, so I could finally see the truth and it kicked Sad’s ass to the curb.

I locked myself in a public bathroom stall and kick-boxed the toilet-tissue dispenser for nearly an hour before taking a walk around the building, coming to my senses, and finding my courage.

I knew my opponent. I was very familiar with Crazy.
You see, I had met her as a teenager in the form of my father’s second wife. I had witnessed her devour her victims whole and I was smart enough to remember that Rage threw her into a sort of drunken frenzy.

I also remembered that there is no reasoning with Crazy, and nothing can get to her.  Nothing touches her heart. There is no sympathy, empathy or compassion and absolutely nothing is open for discussion.

She acts as your judge, jury, and executioner.

And the more they sense is at stake, the faster and louder the accusations come. Their aim is to keep you off-balance, on the ropes.

Remember, Crazy is rested, ready and strong after her peaceful night’s sleep. How is that fair?
Because Crazy get a buzz off this shit and she doesn’t care about anything other than winning.

I sure wasn’t feeling sad anymore, Rage had taken over and hatched a plan but I knew better than to let it enter that arbitration room. I could hear the team of Crazy, Crazier, and Craziest, whopping it up inside so I waited outside until I saw my attorney exit the elevator.

“You handle this, I’m leaving” I announced. I had her by the arm and was walking her back down a long hallway of endless doors, out of earshot of the hyenas.

“What?” she looked surprised.

“You don’t need me here. They can smell my fear and sadness, and well, their offer is beyond ridiculous. See what happens when they can’t focus on me. When they have to deal with you and only the facts.” We had walked in a circle making our way back toward the bank of elevators.

She reached into her bag for paper and a pen. “Give me the number you’ll you settle at,” she asked. She seemed relieved like the day could be salvaged. Like it could go back to a language she understood—the law.

I wrote a figure down. She looked and nodded in agreement, folding the paper into a small square and tucking into her suit-jacket pocket. Just then the elevator chimed, opening right on cue. People were packed in like sardines, but as I stepped inside she grabbed my purse strap, turning me around. “This could end today,” she said with a hint of a smile, letting go of my purse as the doors closed.

A hairy mystery hand reached around me and pushed the button for LOBBY, getting me the hell out of that DWP building. I know it was Rage. I could smell his Aramis. But I made sure I left him behind, losing him in the crowd.

*I got the call a couple of hours later that they’d settled on the figure I’d written down. “Piece of cake” I remember her saying in a distracted voice, she was already on to her next case.

I feel safe in saying that we all slept well that night.

Maybe some of you guys needed to hear this,
Carry on,
xox

*And don’t get your panties in a bunch if I anthropomorphize emotions. We all know crazy is not female and rage is not male, so calm the fuck down. 

What is your favorite thing about earth?
I’m a muller. I like to mull things over. And I like lists.  Over the past five-ish years I’ve posted lots of lists. Things I love, things I don’t love, books I like, even…

What will you miss when you go?

A short time before her death, the great Nora Ephron closed her book, I Remember Nothing with her list.  I’m including it below because I agree with most of it with only a few exceptions. I would change the New York references to something quintessentially LA, like maybe perfect beach days or hiking the canyons. And I’d have to add lipstick, mascara, and raw cookie dough.)

What I Will Miss

My kids

Nick

Spring

Fall

Waffles

The concept of waffles

Bacon

A walk in the park

The idea of a walk in the park

The park

Shakespeare in the Park

The bed

Reading in bed

Fireworks

Laughs

The view out the window

Twinkle lights

Butter

Dinner at home just the two of us

Dinner with friends

Dinner with friends in cities where none of us lives

Paris

Next year in Istanbul

Pride and Prejudice

The Christmas tree

Thanksgiving dinner

One for the table

The dogwood

Taking a bath

Coming over the bridge to Manhattan

Pie

Thanks, Nora! But I digress. 

I watched a sci-fi movie recently where the question “What is your favorite thing about Earth?” is asked by a boy who has only ever lived in a colony on Mars—to a girl living in the mid-west somewhere (may not seem that different but it is) and it got me to thinking, gee, every day on Mars is…red, there’s no fresh air and it’s working non-stop trying to kill you dead. So, yeah, if you make the question planet specific like that—what ARE my favorite things about Earth?

My Favorite Things About Earth

It is NOT trying to kill me on a 24/7 basis

Rain (Which was the girl’s answer in the movie and I agree wholeheartedly!)

Thunder and Lightning

Water

Reflections of a mountain vista in a still body of water

Blue sky

Snow

The color green

Fire

The temperature 72 degrees

Sunrise

Sunset

The seasons

The diversity

My shadow

Animals

Whales

Dolphins

Clouds

The oceans

Gravity (I just heard my boobs shout their opposition—but it stays on the list.)

Insects (Not really. I know they are invaluable to the eco system but they will not make my list. Sorry. Don’t hate me.)

A soft breeze

Trees

Flowers

The smell of jasmine

Avocados

Shade

The eons of “set your watch by it” continuity

That last one is the kicker. I can be a worrier, and the one thing I never worry about is the sun coming up in the morning.
I appreciate that in a planet. 

Okay, this is the part where you tell me YOUR favorite thing(s) about Earth.

Carry on,
xox