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I love traditions. And spells. God, I love spells. And symbolic flying fucks.

Don’t you?

I love rituals, and ceremonies with candles and incense, and btw, I love them with or without the help of a full moon; which is kinda bitchy, I know, but I have an extremely complicated relationship with the moon so, yeah, moon, lend your energy—or don’t—doesn’t matter to me.

Anyway, back to my childhood memories of dipping my fingers into warm candle wax and deeply inhaling Frankincense smoke. (Which explains a lot, don’t ya think?)

I just assume that my proclivity for all things ritualistic is probably why I was born a Catholic.

As I write this we are deep into Lent which mimics the passage from winter to spring that every Pagan worth their bare-chested-dancing-in-the-woods wonderfulness celebrated this time of year.

Did you know that the word Lent actually comes from the Anglo-Saxon lenctene, which means ‘the time when the days lengthen?’
Yeah, me either.

(As an aside, my French husband swears that every word of English has its roots in his Mother Tongue. I pick my battles so I just smile in agreement.)

Shhhhhh, don’t tell the word schadenfreude.

Anyway, Lent for many throughout the world means fish on Fridays, giving up things they love, like chocolate and masturbation, and regular visits to confession so they can cop to cheating on their Lent promises.

I did that for years but if given my druthers I’d choose a Pagan spell over confession any day!

Like the one above, which I love. All you need is a candle and some shits you want to give away. And who doesn’t have tens of thousands of those on any given day?

So, here ya go, and before you get down to business I’d like to ask one favor—let’s all agree, as a collective, to stop changing the clock back and forth every year and just commit to daylight savings time!

Gah!

That’s going to be the first shit I expunge with this spell.

Wait. Do you smell incense?

Carry on,
xox

I never thought of myself as a late bloomer until recently.
But I have come to the unavoidable conclusion that I most certainly am.

And I don’t just mean someone who found a new life’s passion in their fifties, which by-the-way, has been a big surprise.

No, when I think about it, I was always bloomed later than most. I didn’t get it right in the relationship department until I hit forty-two, and I didn’t start a real profession that could keep me alive (acting didn’t count) until I turned thirty.

It didn’t even occur to me to channel my focus and dive into antiques and jewelry until after that pivotal birthday.

Turning thirty was the proverbial line in the sand that I had drawn for myself. It was the self-imposed deadline I needed to get my shit together and measure how close I was to my desired goal, which back then was a paying acting gig.

I had some income trickling in from TV commercials, but I was always in debt, living a deficit lifestyle.

I worked two jobs to make ends meet and that was all right—until it wasn’t.

At the time most of my friends were studying for a real degree or working at real jobs and having real kids. And although to the outside observer it may not have looked like it — I was seeking fertile soil with my face to the sun desperately trying to bloom.

Fucking finally, a decade later, all of my hard work produced the dividends acting never provided. I too had a real career, making real money. By the time I turned forty, I bought a house all by myself.

Then, in my fifties, in an act of whatthefuckery, I started writing, or rather, the writing began to pour through me, and this little seedling has not only broken ground, it has started to blossom.

Some days I wish I’d started writing in my twenties, I can only imagine how much further along I’d be. Then I remind myself that everything happens at the exact right time –– you know, Divine Timing –– and I stop my daydreaming, put down the Fritos, and get back to work.

Late bloomers; blooming later in life;  it’s a subject I’m starting to embrace.

Please read the New York Times article below if this subject interests you, and I assure you, you will feel in such good company.

“They” say the key is the ability and willingness to try new things.
I can sum it up in one word: CURIOSITY.

Remaining perpetually curious will facilitate a bloom later in life, and aren’t the flowers that show up after it snows the most beautiful?

Carry on my late blooming loves,
xox

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/21/your-money/finding-success-well-past-the-age-of-wunderkind.html?emc=eta1&_r=1

Where are my dark lensed sunglasses? I have other pairs but those are the ones that have the really dark lenses that help render me completely incognito (in my imagination).

I love them and I can’t find them. The last time I saw them was…well if I knew THAT! Anyway, I remember having them at the Post Office…

I still have Forever stamps, right? I mean, are the Christmas themed stamps I still have in my wallet this first week of March, are they Forever stamps? I should go look.
Where’s my wallet? Which pocket do I keep my stamps in? The side or the…

Wait. There’s that card from the dentist. First I need to call the dentist. When I was there last they wanted me to replace a crown. I can’t call them today! I don’t have the bandwidth for that! I need to eat something bad or have a cocktail first. I need to emotionally prepare. It’s the dentist!

That’s it. Wallet back in purse and…wait a sec…is that the charger I’ve been looking for? Damn! Wait. Is it the one from my old iPhone 6 or the one from my new iPhone 8? I’m going to have to fish it our to check the end and…hello! Where have you been MAC lipgloss? I thought I left you in the car we sold in January. I’ve been mourning your loss and you’ve been here all along you sneaky monkey.

God, I love this color. What’s it called? Bountiful? Beautiful? Bouncy Full?

I hope they don’t discontinue it. Everything I love gets discontinued. I mean, that Donna Karan perfume back in the 90’s that was my “signature scent” and was discontinued even though it was perpetually sold out. Why do companies do that? They force us to go all “black market” and buy our discontinued cosmetics from questionable vagrants on shady street corners. Maybe that’s just me…

Oh, Oh, I meant to go ask those guys on the corner how long their construction project is going to last. It has something to do with the sewer system so the neighborhood continuously smells like poop. And not even dog poop which is vile enough, but people poop which takes noxious fumes to a whole new level. I have to burn a candle 24/7 so I don’t vomit in my mouth.

Has anyone seen the matches?

Carry on,
xox

This week I was confined to bed with the flu. Bid deal, join the club, right?

Once I got over the mind-numbing headache and the all of the body functions that made the bathroom my preferred room of choice, I watched a lot of TV.
Is it only me or was this week a literal catasrofuck?
Between my CNN phone alerts and the news itself, I found myself with no bejeezus. It was scared right outta me by our current political situation.

But then I remembered I could binge-watch the remaining first season of Star Trek Discovery on my computer and rest comfortably​. The war between the Klingons and the Federation seems tame compared to CNN.

In the final two episodes, both the protagonist and antagonist are badass women (which, of course, I love) and one has​ been a mentor to the other. Cornered, and in what appears to be their​ final battle, they form an uneasy alliance to defeat their shared enemy. With death literally at the door, the mentor tells her apprentice this story about fear.

Once I know fear how do I defeat it?

On the eve of battle, on a cold and windless night, an old general turned to a young soldier. ‘Tomorrow,’ said the master,’you will know Fear.’ The young soldier who had not yet experienced the agony of war looked at the general with quizzical eyes. ‘How will I know Fear if I do not know what it looks like?’

The general replied ​’You will know Fear because it speaks very fast and it speaks very loud…’

‘If that is how Fear acts, recognizing it is easy.’ But as the young soldier considered the general’s advice, she asked the question facing us now, ‘Once I know Fear, how do I defeat it?’

Later, the battle-weary​ protagonist answers her mentor’s​ hypothetical​ question as she struggles with the loud voice of fear persuading​ her to abandon all of her principals in hopes of a win. This felt so apropos to me I just​ had to share.

We defeat fear by telling it ’No.’ No!
‘We will not allow desperation to destroy the path of righteousness. No.
We will not break the rules that protect us from our most base instincts. No.’

Sometimes in “battle”, ​it appears that we do not have the luxury of principals. But in the end, they are ALL we have.

God, I love Scifi!
Carry on,
xox

OMG! This is still SO true! I’m such a suggestible sap! Three years have​ passed and I think I’m even worse! I’ve had a couple of nasty drug side-effect experiences​ recently that I didn’t even know were possible! wtf?

One night a couple of weeks ago, my husband went into the lab for a sleep study.

It wasn’t all about the snoring so much as the ceasing to breathe (apnea). He gasps for breath like a fish out of water, and when the loud gasping wakes me up — well that shit has got to stop,

I can’t afford to sacrifice one moment of my beauty rest.

Seriously, apnea can cause a whole myriad of health issues — including death — which we all have to agree is the ultimate side effect—so he packed up his pillow and jammies and spent the night at the lab.

“You are one of the worst cases this lab has ever studied,” his doctor exclaimed, barely hiding her surprise as she read the report. “You wake up on average, thirty-seven times an hour! In other words, you get absolutely NO rest!”

She promptly wrote a prescription for one of those sexy CPAP machines, assuring him that it will “change his life.”

I know she’s right — I see a change in his sex life coming real soon.

That night when he got home he couldn’t stop yawning.
“I’m sooooo tired. You know; I get absolutely NO rest” he said, shooting me a zombie-eyed look as he stifled another yawn.

Two hours later, after yawning and complaining his way through dinner, I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Damn, you sure are suggestible,” I teased. “You felt fine until she told you weren’t getting any sleep, now look at you.”

He grinned sheepishly, “I know, right?”

I may know a thing or two about suggestibility.

I am NOT allowed to read the side effects that come with a prescription drug because I cannot be trusted from that moment on to feel anything legitimate.

If it says may cause constipation –– I won’t poop for a week.

May cause drowsiness –– I lapse into a coma.

If it lists depression or psychotic episodes –– I start hearing voices.

The same goes for Web MD.
It is my belief that no one without a medical degree should be allowed to log onto that site!

A few years back, that very same husband met me one morning in the kitchen doubled over, holding his side and wincing in pain. Seems he was up all night self-diagnosing his affliction with the help of the internet, and by morning they’d both agreed –– he had all the symptoms of appendicitis.

Ever the perfect, caring and sensitive wife –– I called bullshit.

“Oh sure you do. Come on, it’s just gas. Buck up and take an Alka Seltzer and quit being such a baby.”

In this case, I was wrong. He had to have an emergency appendectomy later on that night.

But my argument still stands!

Don’t read that shit, especially late at night or your headache will morph into a brain tumor in a matter of hours.

Trust me on this.

She felt amazing…until they told her she was sick…

I’m a firm believer that doctors should forget about their malpractice insurance for a minute and neglect to tell a patient the downside, the side effects, and the survival rate.

Most people are just too damn suggestible (myself included.) That information goes in their ears, bangs around in their brains, fires up all of the fear receptors, and then sets up shop up there—and becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

My father was told that people with his stage of lung cancer had about eighteen months and by God, he kept that appointment with death. Shit dad; it was an educated guess, not a directive from the main office.

Studies have shown that men are the worst. They will obediently mark it on their sub-conscious calendars.

How about if we all agree to attach our hopes to only the positive suggestions; otherwise known as The Placebo Effect—Things work out for the best because we BELIEVE that to be true. 

They feel more like a hopeful heart flutter than a gut-punch.

That procedure doesn’t hurt a bit.

Owning a pet helps you live longer.

Sex can be counted as cardio.

It isn’t only diet and exercise that keeps you healthy, it’s a positive state of mind.

This bug only 24 hours, you’ll feel better by the morning.

Coffee is good for you.

Red wine keeps cancer at bay…

Blonds have more fun.

Those are the yummy suggestions that we should let set up shop in our brains and become a prophesy fulfilled –– not the drama and dreck the fear hands us.

Agreed?

Carry On,
xox​

“An art professor must draw on his abilities as an assassin to kill an unknown enemy agent during a Swiss mountain climb.”

WTF?

I mean, seriously, that guy’s toast, right? Enemy agent? He’s just an art professor with an ability.

I sat here, with two pieces of Kleenex wadded up and stuck in each nostril in an attempt to stem the tide, just trying to decide about this movie. But I couldn’t get past the description.

I mean, there you are, living life, art professing, going through the motions grading charcoal sketches of David, dupe, da dupe, da dupe. When all of the sudden, you encounter an apparently life-threatening situation where you are forced to draw on your…abilities.

Good with colors? No.
Makes a great omelet? Nope.
Assassin. Yeah, that’s the one!

I suppose we all have hidden abilities that only come in handy once in a while but…

Then this art professor turned assassin (and let’s be clear here, being an assassin is not a hobby. It’s a cold trained killer) is going to use this ability to kill an unknown enemy agent. Wait. If the enemy is unknown, how in the hell can he kill him? How will he know him at all? And what’s the weapon?

What’s he gonna do? Paint him into a corner?

This is all so confusing.

But I think the bigger question is this: how did an art professor make such a lethal, yet unknown enemy? An enemy agent?

Bad grade in pastel landscapes?
Making them repeat ceramics 101?

And that last part. ‘during a Swiss mountain climb.’ What are they doing in the Alps? Vacation? Art retreat? I don’t think so.

And brief nudity? Don’t get me started.

This may seem silly to you and it is. I just notice words. And I have a cold, so I’m cranky.

But the point here (if there is one) is that a lot of things are written these days that are hard to decipher. Is the writer just lazy? Did they even see the movie?
Or are they intentionally trying to confuse us?
I say pay attention.

How about this instead? An assassin, undercover as an art professor, is sent to Switzerland to eliminate another agent whose identity has yet to be revealed.

Blah, blah, carry on,
xox

This morning on the ​treadmill, surrounded by CNN on all of the ​large TV screens that line the walls of the gym, I struggled.
Not only for breath, no, this morning I struggled to hold back tears as I watched the survivors—the kids from the Parkland school shooting eloquently voice their disappointment.

They had taken the long bus ride to the Florida state capital​ of Tallahassee to plead their case for gun control to the legislators—who listened but agreed to keep things the way they are.

But don’t worry. The Florida state legislators declared pornography a ‘public health risk’. Guns? Not so much.

This issue has felt hopeless for…well, forever. For as long as I can remember.

But as I’ve watched these incredible teenagers mount their #Neveragain campaign, a tiny sprout of hope has surfaced. Would they be the ones who could turn this previous unturnable thing around?

Things feel different this time.

But today, as I left the gym in the review mirror, that tender sprout of hope started to wither.

What could I do to keep this hope alive? Besides sign petitions, call my congressman, send money and march?

What could I do? What could I do?

I know this sounds crazy but I decided that I needed to plant rose bushes.

Why roses you ask?
Because it’s still the dead of winter (even here in LA where the high today was a brisk sixty degrees) and in the dead of winter rose bushes look dead.

They are unimpressive in their bare, thorny, ugliness and if you were just dropped here from another planet and someone told you that in a few short months those dead bushes would be covered with the most beautiful and fragrant flowers imaginable, you would marvel at that transformation.

You would ask me how that’s possible and I would tell you, you curious alien, that some things that appear dead—are merely dormant.

I would also tell you that for me, roses always hold the promise of spring.
If hope was a plant, it would be a rose.

So I planted rose bushes today.

And my wish is that by the time they’re in full bloom, sometime in the middle of summer, maybe just maybe that little sprout of hope inside me will have reason to blossom as well.

Carry on,
xox

I recently bought a bathing suit…online.

Yep. I’ve become that person.
The individual who won’t take the time and energy to drive to a brick and mortar store in her neighborhood. The person who doesn’t support small businesses.
The person who…

Nope. Nothing that premeditatedly sinister has happened.
I just cannot, WILL NOT, torture myself by diving into a pile of bathing suits at Nordstroms. Or Canyon Beachwear. Or any place where the sales girl is named Amber or Breezy and is younger than the yogurt in the back of my fridge.

I’m turning sixty in a month and the one thing I’ve learned over the years (if I’ve learned anything) is that self-care reigns supreme and I’ve run out of “fucks given” —and both of those things combined spell disaster for any bathing suit within a twenty-mile​ radius.

Here’s the thing. For my entire lif, ​ I was a single-digit-size. But the past few times I’ve swallowed hard and shopped for a suit, I’ve noticed a rather horrifying pattern.

It seems that for every five years I’ve added over forty—I’ve jumped a size.

No longer can I mix and match the sweet little bottoms with the hardier, unwire bra-top. Oh no, I now require a full coverage one-piece bathing suit made of trampoline bounce-back-ability gauge spandex.

Black spandex to be precise.

No more prints, patterns or bright colors. All I ask of this garment is to hold in my jiggly bits and help me to blend into the lounge chair.

So I did the research and I found the culprit on Amazon. You heard me, Amazon.

A name brand in an optimistically low double digit size. I hit ORDER and then I held my breath. When it showed up I laughed at my own audacity. “What’s that?” My husband asked as I​ timidly started to open the box. I broke into a terrifying wild hyena laugh, embarrassed at my own hubris. “A bathing suit”, I cackled over my shoulder as I sprinted toward the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

It took me three days to try it on. My hopes were so low they could feel the heat from subterranean magma. One suit? ONE SUIT? What was I thinking? I should have ordered five or six in three different sizes. You know, given myself some options to try and coddle my fragile ego.

But wait.

It fit.

It fit?

Well…hot damn!

But that defies all rules of the space-time​ continuum. You don’t just order a single bathing suit online and it fits! That is the stuff of legends and fairy tales. That is the stuff that fucks little girls up. That and all of that Prince Charming crap.

So let’s just keep this between ourselves. We shall NEVER speak of this again. And if you see me on the street just nod and keep walking. This is our little secret.

Carry on,
xox​

Sexual Chemistry — “It’s hot. It’s groovy, it’s great! Everyone should have it!

Romantic Infatuation — “Seeing your reflection in your lover’s eye MAKES YOU TEAR UP!”

“True romantic infatuation is pregnant with melancholy.”

Oh, Jason, I don’t know…you may have a point.

I wrote about Sexual chemistry once: http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2015/01/flashback-friday-chemistry/

You guys let me know how you feel about chemistry and infatuation. It’ll just be between you and me…

Carry on,

xox

Let’s get real here. Valentines Day sucks. It just does.
Oh sure, when you’re in the beginning of a relationship it can be all hearts and flowers, but in my opinion, it is the pink-clad, chocolate covered ugly step-sister of New Year’s Eve. Neither rarely live up to our expectations.

That being said, for their own emotional survival, some single women take things into their own hands.

Amy Pohler for instance. She invented Galentine’s Day.

Galentine’s Day is a popular fictional holiday for women to celebrate with their girlfriends.  Created by Amy Poehler’s character, Leslie Knope on the NBC sitcom Parks and Recreation, the holiday takes place every year on Feb. 13 in celebration of female friendship.

I love that.

Once upon a time, I created a day too.

Except mine makes me shudder with shame. You be the judge. 

Here ya go…

I am not proud of what I’m about to reveal—but it’s the truth.

Once upon a time, I had the world by the balls. Or the tits. Both are equally painful if you think about it.

Anyhow, I had a job I loved, lots of friends and foreign travel. I ate and drank well. I had enough sex (although, do you really ever have enough sex? — Asking for a friend). Only one thing stuck in my craw and I was an A-number-one brat about it.

Thinking back on this chapter of my life, I can’t believe what a spoiled jerk I was. A serious boil on the ass of humanity.

Nevertheless, I still think the cause was a good one—I just went about it all wrong.

I was nearing my forties, terminally single, and childless by choice.

One night, tipsy on wine and inadequacy after attending yet another friend’s baby shower directly on the heels of Mother’s Day, I decided that there needed to be a National holiday to celebrate women like…well, me…who am I kidding? Just me.

I picked a day in September, because of where it sits on the calendar (I wasn’t a total asshole). I placed it directly after summer and just prior to the run-up to the holidays. I think it was September 20th.

After careful consideration, filled with equal parts entitlement and hubris, I gathered together my family and friends to decree that September 20th would heretofore be known as Spinster Auntie Day!

I wanted cake. Cupcakes to be exact. I wanted decorations. And gifts. I think I even registered somewhere. God help me.

Why my sister didn’t, at the very least, gag and tie me up until I decided to behave myself is beyond me. Anyway…

My feeling was this: I celebrated everyone — all the time.
Weddings and their showers, babies and their showers and birthdays. So many baby birthdays… I lost count. In your thirties, celebrating matrimony and childbirth essentially takes up most of your Saturdays and many of your Sundays. Society at large celebrates mommies and motherhood. And families. As fun as that can be—and it was fun—after a decade I felt like an outsider.

It was a club of which I was not a member. Cue the violins.

There was no day for me and the many women like me. (Insert hands on hips, whining and foot stomps here.)

The unmarried, childless women that all the other women turned to in times of joy and crisis.
The Auntie. In my case, The Spinster Auntie.

The diaper changing, stroller pushing, tote lugging, binkie washing, baby wranglers.

The ones who take worried midnight phone calls, do emergency 6 am pharmacy runs, and read Goodnight Moon over and over tens of thousands of times. We sit covered in drool or some unidentified sticky substance to watch Frozen or Toy Story or Cars until we want to gouge our eyes out while the mommies grab a quick shower, run an errand, or God willing, catch a nap.

We were regularly available because we were a part of that village, you know, the one that it takes to raise a kid.
And besides that, we had no real life.

At the time I knew the parents were heroic. No question about it. But I couldn’t help feeling like at times we were the unsung heroes. No one meant to overlook us. They were sleep deprived and just so fucking busy being full-time parents.

Overlooking is never intentional.

Now before you go and totally hate me (If you don’t already), don’t get me wrong. I loved my auntie duties. My time spent with my niece and nephew and the children of all of my friends are irreplaceable. Every boo-boo kiss, hand-hold, “I wuv you”, and baby-belly-laugh was pure joy to me and I wouldn’t have missed it. I felt lucky to be a member of the inside circle.

I just wanted a day. And cake. Don’t forget about the cake.

I don’t remember if we ever celebrated Spinster Auntie Day more than once. Probably not. I’m certain I went on with my life, too ashamed to bring it up again. I think if asked my sister, with a shudder, could remember.

Come to find out I was not alone in my unadulterated shamelessness. In 2009, someone actually got a National Aunt and Uncle Day added to the calendar (I like my title better), but I never heard about it because by that time I was married and had, at long last, finally gotten over myself.

Listen, loves, the point here (if there is one), is this: Is there an unsung hero, an Auntie or Uncle either by birth or just their proximity, around you now? Please, please, will you say thank you and buy them a cupcake? From me?

Carry on,
xox