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I know this looks like a waste of perfectly good food, but someone had to drown—and better the brownies, than me.

Let me explain.

This was a long three-day weekend and seeing that my husband went on his annual Memorial Day motorcycle ride through the Sierras, I was left to my own devices—along with my bitchy malcontent of a dog whose every thought causes her to whine miserably.

She is the furry, four-legged embodiment of that friend we’ve all stopped seeing. The one who drove us nuts with her complaining. My dog suffers from the same affliction. She whines when I walk her because she finds the scenery uninteresting. She whines when she’s hungry (which she may have learned from me), and she whines when I feed her because I’m not moving fast enough. She whines when she’s in the back of the car and when she’s not—on the way to and from doggie daycare—and while falling asleep.

I can only assume that must be because her bed is too soft, the blankets smell too fresh, and yet her dreams are not exactly what she had hoped. Gahhhhh…

Anyway, I tell you this so that you can understand why I was sucking down the whiskey sours with my girlfriends all weekend. I was so grateful to have someone to talk to who wasn’t complaining about my shortcomings as a mother.

During the days I worked in the garden, wrote a little, took turns reading the three books I’m in the middle of, and by Monday night I forbid myself to make a whiskey sour on account of the fact that I would be drinking hard liquor alone.

I wish that bitch of a dog of mine drank—it could improve her disposition.

Since alcohol was out of the question, 6 pm found me rummaging through the pantry looking for something sweet. That’s when I discovered the box of brownie mix left over from the holidays. Maybe not the 2016 holidays, but I can safely say it was bought this decade. Right then I could hear my sister screaming at me, “Throw it away! That shit goes bad!”

She and I have agreed to disagree on this topic.

Processed food, in my opinion, will outlive us all.

Post-apocalyptic cockroaches, zombies, and astronauts from the future would be thrilled to stumble upon my brownie mix, so I figure if it’s good enough for them—it’s good enough for moi.

And just like that, I found myself pre-heating the oven, cracking the eggs, and adding the melted butter to the powdered chocolatey mix. I waited for that familiar tap on the shoulder from the part of my brain that rules common sense and good judgment. It needed to remind me of a thing called moderation and the fact that while I was home alone a batch of hot brownies was not only a terrible idea—it was about to be like crack to an addict.

I could feel the shaky anticipation as the house started to smell like Christmas. I savored every drop of raw batter as I licked the beaters. (My sister just hurled reading that.)

Only two things trigger me this way, brownies, and pie. I felt like I imagine a junky feels waiting for a fix.

I waited a whole five minutes for them to cool off before slicing them into neat little squares. Because my old O’Keefe and Merrit has a mind of its own, they were crisp on the edges and seemed a little dry but I didn’t care. I ate three in quick succession standing at the counter without taking a breath, while my dog whined about a long-lost morsel of kibble she had spotted under the stove.

I finally forced myself to walk away—but I could hear them over the constant whining; calling me from the kitchen. Brownies are cruel that way. “Janet, (they know your name), we’re here. Just a few feet away. Happiness disguised as chocolate gooeyness.” 

And so the battle began. The douchebag brownie’s siren song versus my willpower (and the fact that I was full), telling me to forget about them.

But I couldn’t.

I lasted about one hour. That’s when I found myself back in the kitchen, staring into the pan, seriously scoping out the best section to get the maximum chocolate return. The middle pieces, of course!

As I reached for the knife the part of my brain that had forsaken me suddenly kicked in “What the fuck are you doing?” it asked in a decidedly judgy tone, “This has officially turned into a binge. Stop a minute and think. What’s going on with you?”

It barely took an instant before I heard “I’m lonely”, come out of my own mouth.

Before I could process this sudden wave of vulnerability my hand took control. In order to save me from myself, it grabbed the pan and in one giant sweeping motion threw it into the sink, turned the faucet on full force, and drowned the brownies!

I was stunned.

I hate wasting food and chocolate food even more than most. But sometimes extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. Thank God a teeny-tiny part of me knows that.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a perfect person who always saves herself from disaster; far from it.
I am someone who, for the last decade has had a stubborn five (x4) pounds to lose yet I have secretly gorged myself on entire bags of Ranch Doritos, eaten entire half gallons of ice cream at a single sitting, and scarfed a second Thanksgiving dinner an hour after everyone has left while I clean the kitchen.

I’m not a serial binger but I know a binge even when its disguised as real hunger.

These days I’m just really working on being more conscious about everything I do and it sucks. You have to feel stuff. Like loneliness and the fact that after three days of whining you want to throw your dog in a blender.

The feels aren’t pretty and if you stop and acknowledge them they tend to circumvent instant gratification and who wants that? 

But they saved me the shame of an additional five pounds tomorrow so I’m grateful. Not really, but I’m working on it.

Carry on,
xox

 And when she’s not whining I get this: Silent. Judgy. Side-eye.

Morning!
This was written last fall during the election when I still held out hope that one (or both) of the candidates would succumb to a fever-dream which would result in some kind of self-reflection that would lead to sanity. Alas, my hopes were dashed. Crushed. Blown to bits.

Anyhow, as sure as I am at the existence of gravity (ask my boobs), I know that everyone sucks at something.
My sister sucks at feeding anything smaller than an army.
My husband sucks at telephone chit-chat.

And besides dancing, playing poker (I cannot control my face), dealing with uncertainty, facing failure, and eating just one potato chip, here is a longer list of my suckiness from last year.
Carry on,
xox

There once was a man, running for the highest elected office in the land, who considered himself to be perfect in every way.

We can all agree, that’s absurd, right?

I mean a certain amount of self-esteem is terrific, don’t get me wrong. But I also think it’s a helpful practice to be somewhat self-aware. To know your strengths and your weaknesses. That way you can surround yourself with people who compliment you.

Folks who are great at ALL the things that you suck at—and vice-versa.
So, that got me to thinking…here’s the short list of what I totally suck at:

1. Sports. I am athletically challenged. I do, however, have amazing eye-hand coordination that I have yet to capitalize on.

2. Staying on my side of the bed at night. I possess an unconscious desire to spread out. My husband’s nickname for me is starfish.

3. Backing up. In the car. I had a series of unfortunate metal-on-metal incidents while in reverse a few years back and so now I suffer from a form of Reverse PTSD.

4. Returning phone calls. I’m the worst. I remind myself so often to call someone back that after a while I mistakenly think I already have. That’s crazy, I know.

5. Wearing shoes. I have a passion for shoes and I own way too many pairs. Especially for someone who spends 99.9% of her time barefoot. I have driven all the way to the gym or worse yet, up the mountain to my hike only to discover once I’m there that I’m barefoot!

6. Making a soft-boiled (runny) egg. I am the world’s leading over-cooker of eggs. Sorry. Can’t do it. The end.

7. Reading. I know that doesn’t make sense. I read a lot. But a book has to really catch me by the end of the first page or I’ll put to down—and forget about it. I currently have, no lie, seven or eight partially read books lying around the house. Shame on me.

8. Making a decent vinaigrette. My husbands are to die for. Mine? Meh. It always tastes how I imagine motor oil does. Motor oil with a splash of lemon and too much pepper.

9. Sneezing quietly. You know those people who can silence their sneeze? I am not one of them. Mine is so loud—like a gunshot. I can’t help it. They sneak up on me and startle those around me. They can actually scare my husband to the point anger.

10. Tolerating lying. I simply cannot. I can smell a lie. I should work for the FBI. So… this Presidential campaign?  You cannot even imagine how many times my head has spun around in the eighteen months since this madness started.

11. I know I said ten but I suck at spelling and it needs to be mentioned. I used to excel at it. I won spelling contests in grade school. I used to correct other people’s spelling mistakes for shit’s sake! Now, I absolutely SUCK at it! I misspell my own name. I blame technology. Spellcheck. Auto correct. And laziness.

12. I suck at gambling and dancing and I don’t follow directions either. so…twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

Care to share a few of yours?

Carry on,
xox

Okay…these are good!

This is a post from back in 2014. My husband is leaving today for a weekend motorcycle adventure in the High Sierras and even though it is much tamer than his rides through Namibia and South America, I’m always reminded of this story and the fact that while he’s away no matter how much I say I won’t, swear I’m above it and lie to myself that nothing can happen—I worry.

As you can probably imagine, the sigh I breathe when I hear the motorcycle pull into the driveway is one that starts at my big toes, rolls around in my chest, and lowers my shoulders down from my ears on its way out of my mouth.

Be safe this weekend.
xox

My husband left yesterday for France, for a testosterone filled yet refined long weekend of car auctions, car parties, followed by a car show.

Can you say Gear Head?

Last night, after delivering the dead weight of both sleeping dogs to their beds, I looked up and was reminded of a mystical motorcycle message that was delivered to me on another night when he was far, far away.

It was a different kind of trip, raw and rugged.
He was pretty much incommunicado, racing in a desert over ten thousand miles away, but things had taken a turn and I sensed he was in danger.

So I asked for a sign, and the Universe, with her wicked sense of humor, delivered a doozy.

It was the second year he had decided to ride with his buddies at Rawhyde, down in South America to follow this crazy-ass off-road, Mad Max style race called the Dakar.

The year before they had the time of their lives, riding in that environment, among all the other idiots, I mean racers and being worshiped by the locals who line the route and gather in great numbers at every gas stop, handing them food, babies, and cameras to capture the moment.
They are revered, like rock stars.

The riding is treacherously fabulous.
The dirt roads through the Atacama Desert are rocky and rutted and they’re racing next to Rally cars, other motorcycles, and behemoth Russian supply trucks that decided a few years back that they too wanted a piece of the action.
It’s consistently well over one hundred degrees, and they have to cross the Andes via Paseo De San Francisco, which at over 10,000 feet requires them to do what the locals do to offset the altitude—chew raw coca leaves.
While they ride a motorcycle. Yes, you read that right.

It’s an insane cluster fuck, an accident waiting to happen. People die.

But as he’s told me, it’s the most fun he’s ever had with his clothes on.

Here’s a taste in case you’re interested:
http://youtu.be/UYFt7hrMWOg

This trip Murphy’s Law prevailed.
Everything that could go wrong did—and then some. I heard all about it in my one brief text per day. It was often terse and exhausted-sounding, sent at the end of another grueling episode of Chasing Dakar.

Let’s just say, things were not flowing, and he was not a happy camper. I felt terrible for him.

The day came to cross over the Andes and because of circumstances too complicated to get into, he and an instructor were leading the group up and over.

The idea is to do it as quickly as you can, spending as little time as possible up at that elevation. Get your paperwork stamped at the checkpoint and GO!
The previous year he’d told me stories of helping other riders back down the mountain, who were literally found laying in the road next to their bikes, sick and seriously delusional from the altitude.
Apparently, they’d never received the coca leaf memo.

Knowing all that only made things worse for me when I didn’t hear from him at all that day. Nothing.
The window of time in which I’d usually receive my text had come – and gone. Man, how I would have welcomed one of his cantankerous texts.
I started to worry.

With the phone tucked under my pillow, I laid there – waiting. Once I realized it was asinine to try to sleep, I decided to text him.
Hope you made it safely. I Love you.
I knew he wouldn’t answer, But it made me feel better…for about a minute.

It’s amazing where your mind can go when you’re sick with worry about someone you love.
Mine writes horror movies that could never be shown because of the graphic nature of the gore. They involve motorcycles and danger, blood, guts, and death.
That night I had him lost in the Andes, with no food or water, crazy from the altitude, eyeing a fellow victim like a pork chop. Or dead, his body carried away by the Andes version of a Yeti, never to be found.

I felt completely powerless, and I was making myself sick.

By 3 a.m. I decided to pray. I prayed the tight-fisted prayer of the terrified wife.

Please let him be okay. I even forgive the fact he hasn’t checked in. Please let him be alive. Please give me a sign.

I took a Xanax and finally drifted into a fitful sleep filled with nightmares. In one, the bedroom was filled with an eerie, greenish light. I could see it through my closed eyelids.
No, really.
My eyes snapped open and the room was filled with an eerie green light I’d never seen before. I blinked, then blinked again.

WTF? Slowly I got up to see where the light was coming from, half expecting a ghostly visitation from my dearly departed in the arms of a Yeti. What I found was almost as weird.

We have a 1953 Peugeot motorcycle up on the short wall that separates our bathroom from our bedroom. Yes, you can say it. All his friends do. I’m the coolest wife EVER!
Anyway…
You’re required by law, to have a fluorescent light in a bathroom. I’ve always hated the greenish glare those bulbs give off, so we installed it behind the motorcycle to assuage the inspector – and then had it promptly disconnected.
If you flip the switch, nothing happens.

But not on this night. I came out of my worry coma to find that the motorcycle above my head was impossibly illuminated. By a light that should NOT be working.

I stood there frozen, a shiver ran around the room, looking for a spine to run up, then it found mine.

It was my sign. It had to be. Light…Motorcycle…

Now just to be clear, he’s okay, right? This means he’s alive, not dead.

The exasperated Universe told me to cut the chit-chat and go back to bed. I flipped the switch which was already in the off position, not knowing what to expect, and the light went out.

Later that day, I received a text. It was short, crabby and filled with expletives.  It was the best text of my life
They had become stuck at the top for hours, and things had gone downhill from there (pun intended). But at last they were back at sea level; sleepless, starving, but safe and sound and back in the race.
It ended with Love you, and that’s all that I could see. I burst into large, crocodile tears of relief.

PS. That light has never worked since.

Keep Calm & Carry on,
Xox

Oh, Billy Bush.

I recently saw an interview with you on one of the morning shows.

You looked remorseful and you sounded truly humbled. And while my inner feminist still wants to punch you in the face for giggling like a hormonal adolescent at Trump and goading him into hugging that soap star, I have to admit that you took the brunt of this debacle.

You got fired while the other guy, the guy who uttered all the misogynist crap, he became the leader of the free world and that’s not fair. You have a conscience. You had to face your own teenage daughter asked you why you laughed because “It wasn’t funny, dad.”

I bet walking across hot coals was probably easier than living thru that moment.

Speaking of hot coals, I heard that you used this seven months off to self-reflect, do yoga and attend a Tony Robbins seminar. You told the interviewer how Tony had pointed you out in front of 9000 attendees and said, “One moment in your life does not define who you are.”

Wow. How incredibly profound is that? One shitty moment does not define a person.

Oh, Lord have mercy because I’ve had my share of “those moments.” But then again, who hasn’t?

I cringe when I think of all the times I laughed at inappropriate innuendo.
Or the times my big mouth said something thoughtless.
The judgmental, snarky remarks.
The clumsy responses; wanting to be funny or sound smart or be liked.

Uh oh, that’s more than one moment, isn’t it?
But wait, this is about you, Billy.

As outraged as I was last October I realize now that you were just trying to stay in someone’s good graces.
Someone who at the time was at the height of their fame, who was powerful and well-connected and lived to be a provocateur.

It takes guts to speak truth to power. We are witness to that every day with the same man and the high-powered people who surround him in Washington. What did we expect from a celebrity reporter?

I try to be a better person every damn day and I have to assume you do too, Billy.

My wish for you is that the public has a short memory and that they practice compassion where your next career move is concerned.

Listen, I don’t know if you’re taking suggestions but I think covering politics might be your next step. I’m not saying that you might have a score to settle, I’m just suggesting that after everything you’ve learned you could be the perfect person to speak some truth to this kind of abuse of power.

Carry on,
xox

Tony Robbins Quotes

“Anything worth doing is worth overdoing.”
~ Mick Jagger

Okay. So, you HAVE to watch the video to the end first before you continue reading. Go ahead, I’ll wait…

So…a darling friend of mine showed a group of us this video to help explain being an introvert. We were on our way to a Bacchanalian weekend of music, food and anything else you can think of that is worth overdoing.

As I watched the two birds listen to the guitar music I was struck by how clearly the one bird represented me (the puffed up guy with the big hair and his arms in the air—duh), and how much the other, more demure bird was a dead ringer for my friend.

“Look at how the shy bird puts up its foot like, stay away from me”, she said laughing hysterically.
It really was funny. But I heard the message behind the video loud and clear, “When things get rockin’ later—go and get big somewhere as far away from me as possible.”

There are a lot of introverts in this tribe so I had to show this to you. I knew you could relate to this shy bird’s obvious anxiety.

Not everyone likes to get big. Most people don’t like to draw attention to themselves.

While watching the video of the two birds, I caught my other friend M’s eye and we made a silent pact right then and there.

She gets me. We are fellow extroverts and although we would do our damnedest NOT to embarrass our friend over the course of the weekend, I knew I had a partner in crime, someone who could out-overdo me in every way possible. Our glee would be as uncontainable as that birds and we might even wear big hats and that realization alone caused a huge smile to cross my lips. I’m pretty sure a diabolical laugh leaked out.

We were gonna dance like that freak-flag flying bird—right up next to the stage—somewhere our friend would NEVER go.
And we did.

As the weekend progressed I kept my promise to my introverted friend. She only had to push me away once when I started bear-hugging her for no good reason during a particularly rowdy song. Other than that she danced in and out of our orbit on her own terms, at moments of her own choosing.

I have a new philosophy: It looks to me be so much easier to be an introverted human than a bird. You can show a video that explains your anxiety. You can go stand in a dark corner. And you can request something other than Elvis on the guitar.

Just sayin’.

Carry on,
xox

I found this tucked into an old journal the other day.
At the time these questions intrigued me and I remember cutting this out and doing what you do when you are lost and completely directionless—I journaled the shit out of it.

It’s from a magazine dated way back in 2010.

2010 was the year I started asking questions of life. Big ones. I had the universe on speed dial.

On the surface mine sucked.

I had lost my business just the year before, I was 52,  and I had no idea what the hell I was going to do next.
I don’t know about you but when the chips are down I’m not very nice to myself. All of that “buck up” and “stiff upper lip” shit kicks in and I’m not even British!

I really could not risk making any more “mistakes” so I went right back into the profession I had left in 2007.

Stripper.

Kidding.

Anyway, I went back to selling jewelry. I know, it’s not the gulag—but it was not the answer to my inquiries either.
The voice that was speaking, the one I was ignoring, it was telling me to write.

You guys, it may as well have yelled “strip” and waved fistfuls of dollar bills at me because I wasn’t gonna do it.

Then, slowly, methodically, and thankfully just in time, the universe, God, Bob or whoever you want to believe controls these things took the wheel.

Starting in 2012, through a series of coincidences and synchronicities, the most improbable people, writers, started showing up in my life.

These new women caused my life to change dramatically. Especially the one that died that very year.

She arrived on a white horse (or cloud) just when I was begging for a mentor.

Once she showed up crazy, mystical, weird-but-true experiences became a daily occurrence. So much so the I (we) wrote an entire screenplay about it.

And within three years my life changed forever. Bye, bye jewelry, hello writer.

All this to say, I believe that answering these questions is freaking magic, you guys. They unleash some kind of supernatural voodoo, woo-woo, vibe that unclogs the pipes and gets things moving in the right direction. I invite you to study them, answer them and then stand back, grab a cocktail, put your feet up, and let Bob steer the bus.

I promise you will love the results.

Carry on,
xox

Let me be clear.
I never wanted kids.

I knew my limitations and the list was long.

As an adult, I had a cat and at times, even that was a stretch.

Then I met my husband and he had a dog. Rather, he was a dog and not in the way you’re thinking (Those days were over.) He explained to me that he was part BMW (motorcycle) and part Boxer. He still is.

Suddenly, I was a mom. A dog mom.

Let me say right here that I approach this job with great commitment.
I pick-up poop (never had to do that with a cat), I load her in my car and take her with me when she’s not attached to her dad’s hip, and I’ve gotten used to finding these little dog hairs (boxers don’t have fur they are covered with the equivalent of eyebrow hair), EVERYWHERE.

My wood floors are scratched to hell, my white kitchen cabinets are perpetually covered with dried eye goobers, and most of the fabric in my home has the stench of dog fart baked right into it.

Let me also be clear about this: I love her. Truly, madly and deeply.

Well, except for this morning.

I hate being woken up by anything other than my own circadian rhythm. That was one of the reasons I sidestepped motherhood. I can’t be bothered by someone else’s needs. I even slept peacefully through the night my husband was suffering from appendicitis because he knew better than to wake me up—he snuck silently into the guest room to whimper pitifully until it was safe to complain.

Hey! I can hear you… Jeez… You guys are judgy AF!

Anyway, this morning was especially brutal because we had been away all weekend partying with friends.


See what I mean.

I needed sleep. Real sleep. Ten hours of sleep uninterrupted by alcohol and hotel sex if ya know what I mean.

Instead, this morning at 6 am while my husband was at the gym, I got skunked. Rather, she got skunked.

For the fourth time in six months.

I blame the skunk. He’s not stupid, he knows a dog lives here. There are “Beware of the Dog” signs posted all over the place to discourage this kind of bad behavior.

Besides, I’m sure he can smell her! But this guy doesn’t give a shit. He’s got his tail in the air like he just don’t care.

And for the fourth fucking time, my dog has been the face-first, one woman, early morning welcoming committee.

Since this debacle has happened more than once, we now keep the ingredients for the anti-skunking right there in the bathroom next to the shower.

1 Large pan of water.
Baking soda
liquid detergent (I use Dawn)
Hydrogen peroxide
Bloody Mary (optional)

I don’t measure any amounts because who can be bothered? I just make a paste and smear it all over the unfortunate victim’s face, rinse and repeat.

By the time her dad got home she was cleaned up but the house had the lingering, now familiar stench of skunk road kill.

“She must be a slow learner”, I said like I imagine a mother does when her kid bites into a lemon every time she hands it one. 

My husband wasn’t having any of it. You’re allowed to fuck up three times in our family while we good-naturedly just look the other way. Need a Silkwood shower first thing in the morning before we’ve had our coffee? No problem.

But four times? Fuck that. Four times—You are called out!

“What are you, a dumbass?” he asked her to her face.

She’s a teenager so she just shrugged and flipped her hair.

Different parenting style is also one of the reasons on that long list. Not that we would have ever had kids. My eggs had turned to capers by the time we met. But still.

So to make her feel better about herself I made her a sign. She likes signs. I told her it said “You is smart, you is kind, you is pretty” and she believed me.

In retrospect, I think I would have made one helluva mom.

Maybe not…

Carry on,
xox

• I love the lengths that the dearly departed go to in order to communicate with us!

“Oh, I wanna dance with somebody
I wanna feel the heat with somebody
Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody
With somebody who loves me
Oh, I wanna dance with somebody
I wanna feel the heat with somebody
Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody
With somebody who loves me”

This week has been …interesting.

You see, I talk to a dead person, a woman who happens to be my muse, all the time. This week it turned from singular to plural.

I officially talk to dead people.

It started innocently enough at a lunch on Tuesday with my bad-ass, no-taker-of-shit friend, Kim. Since becoming friends we found out that at the same time I was managing a jewelry store in Beverly Hills she was at William Morris agenting a Diva who was at the height of her career.

I like to think it’s the same thing.
What?
Is it not even remotely the same?

Listen, it’s my blog and I can dream.

Anyway, we were getting caught up, sharing a Chinese chicken salad at Joan’s, and right in the middle of her recounting a story about the screenplay she is collaborating on about her life working for the Diva, I interrupted her.

Me: (Salad spilling out of my mouth) Oh, oh, remind me to tell you about my dream. Whitney was in it.

Kim: And you’re just getting around to telling me this now?

Me: I know! I forgot, but your story reminded me.

Kim: Go on. I yield the floor.

The dream went like this: I was in a theater at the invitation of my good friend Tom Hanks ;-).
It was some kind of talk he was giving and although we were likethis I was not special enough to be seated close enough to him to breathe his air. While I was busy trying unsuccessfully to convince people “I’m with Tom” from my seat in the nosebleed section, a woman in a white evening gown stood up about ten rows in front of me. Besides thinking she was a tad overdressed, I recognized her.

“That’s Whitney Houston”, I said to no one in particular.
“It can’t be…she’s dead” they responded.

At that moment our eyes met and she started her way up the aisle toward me. When she got to my row I stood up because, Yo! It was freaking Whitney Houston!

“I think it’s high time we met”, she said handing me an autographed 8 x 10 picture of herself.

“Oh shit. you too?” was all I could say.

Back at Joan’s, Kim sat across from me dumbfounded. “I can’t believe you’re just telling me this! I have felt Whitney around so much lately and now she’s getting in touch with you!”

She went back to her story about hearing the song I Wanna Dance With Somebody, one of Whitney’s greatest hits, playing in her head day and night. “She wants it at the end of the screenplay”,  she announced with conviction. “It took some convincing of my collaborator but just last night, at my (and Whitney’s) insistance—we wrote it in.”

Whitney had a few more things to say to Kim at lunch. It wasn’t creepy at all. It was cool. She was…cool.

The next day, this bright orange sweater (in the picture above) caught my attention as I was perusing the racks of a second-hand store I’m currently obsessed with. When I read the large white lettering I gasped! I mean, what are the odds? Then I texted Kim a picture as fast as my fingers could type. Excited, I walked in a twenty-foot circle waiting for her to respond. About five minutes later she did.

Kim: wtf?
Me: Right?
Kim: She’s stalking you.
Me: I think that was for you!

That gave me a genius idea. I walked back over to the rack to grab the sweater to buy it for Kim. She could wear it to the movie screening! (With a designer skirt and wildly expensive shoes, of course.) Except…

Me: Kim, the sweater isn’t there!
Kim: Where is it?
Me: I have no idea! I went back and it’s gone! I’ve looked everywhere and there are only three other people in here and they’re nowhere around me. Wtf?
Kim: Corkie, solve the mystery.
Me: I can’t! It’s gone.

You guys, did it really exist at all?

I have a picture…

Carry on,
xox

This fascinates me!
We all know how different the tears we cry when we step on a Lego feel from the ones we shed at the end of a relationship.

But who knew that they actually looked so dramatically different. Like little salt snowflakes.

Clearly, this is more proof of the mind/body connection. Obviously, the body rearranges the salts, antibodies, and lysozymes according to how we feel.

We live in amazing times. Don’t you love science?

PS. Can anyone explain “tears of change” to me? Are those the same as frustration, fear, a bad haircut?

Carry on,
xox

This photo series by Rose-Lynn Fisher captures tears of grief, joy, laughter and irritation under the microscope.

Tears aren’t just water. They’re primarily made up of water, salts, antibodies and lysozymes, but the composition depends on the type of tear. There are three main types – basal tears, reflex tears, and weeping tears.

As you can see, they can look incredibly different when evaporated and placed under a microscope.

More info: http://bit.ly/RJqvK7

Images by Rose-Lynn Fisher, via the Smithsonian Magazine and ScienceAlert.

If I can say one thing with conviction it is that ink cartridges for your printer ALWAYS run out when you need them the most.

Case in point: The other morning while I was at the gym (trying to find my abs), my husband was in his office busily preparing invoices on his computer for the five or six different jobs he’s working on right now.

We like invoices. Invoices are check magnets. Checks allow us to eat. And we love to eat, so there you go.

Anyhow, when I returned he was circling the printer, cursing a blue streak. It seems his printer had run out of black ink and subsequently had refused to print the invoices. “I thought I had another black cartridge in here”, he grumbled through grit teeth while rummaging through a cabinet. He slammed the door shut and slumped in his chair. “Great. Now I can’t print these today.”

I could barely hear him over the growling of my stomach.

My husband is old school. He not only emails his invoices, he prints up hard copies for his files along with copies for his clients to hold in their hot little hands. He has found that these same hands are much more likely to write checks when they’ve just held one of his carefully prepared, itemized invoices. Nobody gives a shit when you email them a bill so basically, paper wins over technology every time.

This stopped me in my tracks. “What? I mean what about the color cartridge? You could print them in blue or purple?”

He shot me a look that straightened even my pubic hair.

“Listen”, I said, remaining calm. “You aren’t dressed yet, but I am, I’ll make a quick run to Staples and get you a black cartridge. I’ll be back before you’re out of the shower.”

After presenting a few lame protests, he agreed and off I went.

As I closed the door I heard him offer to give me some cash. “I’ve got it!” I replied, sprinting to the car. I remembered having about $50 in my wallet, I mean, how much could it be?

Not fifty dollars I can tell you that! Not sixty-dollars either. That fucker was SEVENTY-DOLLARS!
PLUS TAX!

“Whyyyyy?” I yelled waving the cartridge at the boy stocking the printer paper. He just shook his head and looked away.
“Why is this so expensive?” I hissed, interrogating the check out girl. “It’s a tablespoon of ink in three dollars of plastic!” She offered me a rebate without looking at me. A $2 rebate that takes eight weeks to take the two dollars off my SEVENTY DOLLAR printer ink purchase.

“People pay this? This is extortion!” I yelled as the manager walked up. He seemed hardened to this argument. He had talking points. “You save when you order in bulk”, he said, motioning to alert the three-hundred-pound security guard. I knew that guy would understand my plight. We needed to invoice! We needed to eat!

“Ha!” I guffawed loudly, a little bit of spit landing on my chin.

Embarrassed, I mumbled under my breath while handing the cashier my debit card “Bulk? You’ve gotta be kidding me. A bulk order of this ink is equal to a car payment.” I grabbed my cartridge made of gold—and the receipt with the fucking rebate to fill out and mail in. I wasn’t giving them that extra $2 godammit!

“What a racket.” Were my parting words as I passed the bemused security guard. He nodded in agreement even though I’m relatively sure he had no idea what I was talking about.

This whole thing really pissed me off. Our immediate need for an overpriced product stripped away all of my power leaving me with no options. He needed to print invoices. Today.

I opened all the cars windows on the way home, attempting to change my mood. It was a beautiful morning. I had already accrued my ten thousand steps. The invoices would be printed and we would live to eat another day.

“Let it go, Janet,” I said to myself. “This is how they can sell printers so cheap.” 

Then I started to think about the other NECESSITIES in our lives where they have us over a barrel.

Epipens came to mind. That’s just a crime. Plain and simple.

And Razor blades. Have you purchased a pack of razor blades lately? They’re so valuable people steal them. (Like saffron at the supermarket and Sudafed at the drug store.) You have to ask for them up at the register at Target.

Tell me why? They’re three one-inch blades of steel encased in fifty cents of plastic!

That got me thinking, maybe the razor blade price gouging started this beard phenomenon we’re experiencing. Men just threw up their hands and said: “Fuck it!” I can eat or I can shave. (Everything comes down to eating with me.)

BTW: I was wondering who to blame. Not every man looks good in a beard you know.

So the moral of this story is: It’s the principal of the thing. Even if I can afford it, I don’t like being taken advantage of for no good reason.

I know I’m not alone here. Tell me what gets your blood boiling.

Carry on,
xox