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On my recent trip to Canada, I was asked repeatedly if I felt any difference between the States and Canada.
You know, energetically. In other words a not so thinly veiled attempt to get me gabbing about the texting habits of our Cheeto-N-Chief.

Now I don’t know about you, but the butt cheeks in MY inner circle have been clenched so tightly since November that I for one could press a quarter into two dimes and nickel. Needless to say (so I will anyway), the discomfort caused by this collective gluteus charley horse has set everyone on edge.

And that was never more evident than when I spent a few days in Vancouver – or “America Lite” as I like to call it.

When I landed, there was a rare powdered sugar snow event happening which made the serene calm even calmer and the whole city eerily quiet. As if a benevolent snow angel was whispering a sweet little lullaby. That had the same effect on me as sucking on a chocolate covered Xanax.

Deep… exhale.

This Canadian silent night effect just exaggerated the fact that we, as a nation, are jittery, jumpy and wound tighter than a Real House Wife of Beverly Hills’ face (because we all live inside of reality show now, right?).

Right?

I mean, the past three weeks, in particular, have been a sucker punch an hour.
My guard is up.
My loins are girded.

Last week found me traveling in and out of the country during this cluster fuck immigration BAN—which I’m told isn’t a BAN—but let’s call it a BAN…because it is.

It may be on the legal ropes for the time-being.
But what time is it now?
That could change in the next ten minutes.

Listen, as you know, I’m a middle-aged white woman who lives in a blue state, one of the “coastal elites” and I was going to freakin’ Canada. Yet, I felt a bit anxious. I couldn’t help but clutch my “papers” to my chest like an early 1900’s, babushka wearing, Irish potato farmer – or a Syrian refugee. It made me distinctly aware that the only difference between them and me is the fact that through no effort on my part, I won the “uterine lottery” by having the good fortune of being born in Los Angles California, USA.

That being said Canada is looking pretty darn good to me right now.

I think Canada looks at us US citizens these days like I’ve always looked at Italians. With a mixture of admiration and pity. “What great people! They have so much going for them” I’d say. “The food, the wine, the shoes! Such a shame their “elected” officials are bat-shit crazy and their government is corrupt as fuck.”

Because I believe that a country’s moral aptitude trickles from the top down, many citizens in this new America are quite mouthy.
They have a newfound brazenness.
Sharp tongues.
Permission to carry a harsh political incorrectness disguised as “telling it like it is” as a weapon.

Perfect example:
I’ve NEVER heard the word “Fuck” YELLED in all of its many forms as much as it was on our American carrier as we sat on the tarmac for an hour waiting to take-off. Men, women, even babies. (It was so outrageous that a baby across the aisle yelled fuck, you know because they’re parrots, and even though her mother was mortified—we all laughed because a baby saying fuck in their cartoon voice is hilarious—and the tension inside that plane was absurd.)

As for exhibit B: On the Canadian carrier, it felt like I was inside of a time machine. Everyone was kind and courteous, like a flashback to 2014 before all of this mishegas started. So much so that we taxied away from the gate—then back again—to let a sick passenger get off (and her sisters and aunts and a couple of other random passengers) without any cursing. Next, the flight attendant announced that since our flight was going to be about an hour late on arrival, and since several passengers had tight connections to make, that while the cabin door was open and we were parked at the gate…anybody else who felt compelled to leave was welcome to do so!

Wait.
What?

I ducked.

I waited for the “fucks” to fly.

Nothing.
Silence.

As a matter of fact, good-natured silence.

That pretty much sums up the difference these days between sanity and the Twilight Zone in which we find ourselves these days.

What are you noticing?

Carry on,
xox

Since I posted it last year this essay is the most popular of any other BY FAR so why try to write something mushy about love?
I’d like to think it’s because of the story or the writing but I know it’s because it has the word “poop” in the title.
Enjoy!

“Bird poop brings good luck!
There is a belief that if a bird poops on you, your car or your property, you may receive good luck and riches. The more birds involved, the richer you’ll be! So next time a bird poops on you, remember that it’s a good thing.”
~Bird Poop Expert

What about if a single bird poops on your head while you’re driving in your car? You know, moving target and all. That feels like a whole lotta good luck coming your way—along with super silky hair, right?

I’m about to talk about poop, a lot!
Bird poop to be exact, so if you’re eating your eggs, best to put down your fork right about now. Or oatmeal or yogurt for that matter. Just stop eating until you’re finished reading, okay? Studies have shown that reading while eating can lead to something serious and most likely deadly, like choking while laughing, so in essence, I just saved your life.
You’re welcome.

And now, back to the bird poop.

Many people the world over believe that if a bird lets loose on you, then good things are coming your way. One idea is that it’s a sign of major wealth coming from Heaven (the place where ALL real wealth resides), based on the belief that when you suffer an inconvenience (like a head full of bird shit), you’ll have good fortune in return.

The most popularly held belief is that if a bird hits your noggin, it is so lucky, so random and rare (statistically speaking it is rarer than being hit by lightning), how can a lottery win be far behind?

A Case in point — and true story:

Can a head full of bird poop be lucky, you ask?
A Bay of Islands man swears it is, after winning $100,000 on an Instant Kiwi ticket. The man said a bird recently pooped on his head, and his friends told him it was a sign of luck coming his way.

“I thought it was a load of rubbish, but when I was in a Lotto shop I had $5 left in my wallet so thought I would buy a scratch-off and test my luck.

“I could not believe it when I scratched the right numbers and realized I had won $100,000,” the man told NZ Lotteries.

“It is such a great feeling. I plan to start a new life with this win. I want to wipe my debts and just enjoy life.”

The man is originally from Christchurch and plans to move back down there, undeterred by the recent earthquake.

“This win gives me the funds to be able to get down there and be able to help out in any way I can in the city’s rebuild,” he said.

Let me just start by saying that the man in the story is WAY more altruistic than I’ll EVER be. Or maybe not. After he pays off his debt and relocates, how much city rebuilding can he do? I’m worried about him and his financial planning abilities. He has to make that money last and $100,000 doesn’t go as far as it used to. Maybe he’ll have the free time to volunteer. Okay. I feel much better now.

Anyhow, on Saturday the hubster and I decided to get a jump-start on Valentine’s Day being that we had flaked, waiting until the last-minute and all the good ideas for Sunday were taken. Left to our own devices, we hopped into the car, put down the top, and decided to drive really fast out of the beautiful, summer-like temperatures and head into opaque whiteness of a foggy purgatory, the beach. Faced with the choice of putting the top back up or leaving fog-ville altogether and going for a big lunch, you guessed it, THE BIG LUNCH WON! (No surprise there).

Winding our way through the tree-lined upscale neighborhoods at a brisk 40 mph (oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it wasn’t a school zone and besides, it was Saturday. Nobody drives below 40 mph. on Saturdays), on our way back into town and our search for the perfect kabob, I felt something clobber my cranium.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, hands on my head looking around like a freak. You have to admire my economy with words. Don’t feel bad. I’m a writer.

Anyway…

At first, I suspected it might be space debris or a tiny piece of meteorite, and it was only when hubby, with his two bare man-hands, picked a rather large and thankfully solid piece of avian excrement out of my hair—that I realized my good fortune. Lottery WINNER!

Can I just take a moment to thank my husband for his courage, strong stomach, and lack of any real hygienic awareness? (He’s French). You are my hero and I will split the money with you AFTER I rebuild a city.

Needless to say, when the laughter subsided, (thankfully we share the same warped sense of humor that causes us to laugh at another’s misfortune), we hightailed it to the diviest Liquor Store we could find (because everybody knows THAT is where REAL wealth resides — not Heaven), and bought us some Power Ball, Super Lotto and Mega Millions tickets —and a box of Triscuits—the Rosemary and olive oil kind.

Then with big shit-eating grins on our faces (that’s an idiom, not literally, mind out of the gutter people, Ewwww), we drove to lunch.

Lottery or not, nothing says LOVE like picking bird poop out of your beloved’s hair—so I’m already a winner!

Love you my Big Handsome!

I know. You guys envy my life of glamour and romance. What can I say? I’m one lucky girl. Maybe YOU had a better Valentine’s Day than me? Huh? I don’t think soooo but I’ll listen!

Carry on,

xox

Tom Hanks posted a picture of this little reminder hanging in a grade school the other day. Leave it to Tom!

We could all use the remininder—some of us more than others!

Be kind to each other this weekend,

xox

Hello brave ones,

This is a post from ages ago. Three years to be exact but it has been a topic of constant conversation these days.

When do you take the leap to change?

I like the idea of permission, and I LOVE the concept of Grace.

So today, if you’re contemplating listening to your gut. Or you’ve already taken the leap and you feel like you’re in free-fall—maybe this will help.
That’s always my wish.

Carry on,
xox

Both feet have to leave the ground to leap.
Ohhhhhh Shiiiiiiit!

…and therein lies the rub.

When am I ready to leap you ask? Uh, just this side of NEVER!

We seldom feel like we’re ready….it just isn’t the right time…not yet.

But what the hell are we waiting for?
An illness?
Divorce?
The empty nest?
More diplomas?
Losing a job?
More zeros in our bank account (Ahhh, now I’m getting warmer) but how many are enough?

How about PERMISSION?
The WORD from God-on-high that all systems are go, and you’re ready for launch.
That’s what I want!
That’s what we all want. Right?

But you know what you guys? We’ve got that. We have our internal guidance, our intuition, our gut, to let us know when we’re getting close.

We’ve all been there. You get that restless feeling.

You start asking life WAY too many questions.

You feel as if you can’t continue to do that thing you’ve been doing for one. more. minute.

That to me, signals one foot off the ground.

Then I have to suck up every ounce of courage to trust those signals, and
Lift. The. Other. Foot.

Permission is Grace’s secret weapon.

If you give enough value to the signs; the synchronicity, that jumpy little feeling in your belly, and you turn away from the fear and doubt and really show up for yourself; you grant Permission.
Permission’s bodyguards, Faith and Courage, then clear the path for Grace to enter.

Then you know what Grace does?
She lends you her hand and helps you balance…
so you can lift your other foot to leap.

Xox

After waking up at 4 am to catch a 7 am flight back to LA, I braved a dark and frigid Vancouver morning

Once through security and my full body scan, (you can’t be too careful when it comes to us pasty, gray-haired fifty-something jihadists), I hurried up and waited.  That gave me a chance to get all caught up on the breaking news in the US (of which I have been blissfully unaware of for three days), thanks to a giant TV screen every three feet.

That’s when I saw it.

The Senate, led by the majority leader Mitch McConnell had shushed Elizabeth Warren!

Fueled by a profound lack of sleep, too much airport coffee, and a red-hot rage, I may have yelled back at the TV, “Oh, now you’ve done it! You don’t ever shush a woman!”

No crowd gathered. No one shouted their agreement (because it was before five in the morning and the only ones who heard it were a janitor cleaning the carpets…and a potted plant. Still! You guys! Seriously?

EVERY man knows that if he wants to live to see his next birthday—you don’t tell a woman she is overreacting —and you never try to shush her—in public. EVER! Most especially Senator Elizabeth Warren.

“What is wrong with you fools!” I may have sneered under my breath but still loud enough for the carpet cleaner to hear it over his machine and jerk his head in my direction. Soon there were hand gestures and some fist waving. “Don’t cite some archaic rule and twist it into a mandate fitting your agenda. Jesus on a cracker! Do you not have wives? Daughters? Someone you love who has a vagina and was born in the 20th century? I KNOW you don’t get away with this at home!”

In reality, they shushed two women when they forbid her to speak. She was reading a letter penned by Coretta Scott King back in the 1980’s in which she was criticizing Jeff Sessions who was then a nominee to become a federal judge.

No big deal. Just the widow of civil-rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

It seemed apropos to read it aloud seeing that now he’s nominated to become the Attorney General. Right? I mean are we so far through the looking glass…? Let’s see…too racially biased to be a judge…perhaps not fit to…you get the picture.

Sadly, they are trying to shush us all.

Oh, brother, this gets my hackles up. This boils my blood. Big Time.
Luckily for the gathering crowd at gate 82, I was obligated to hurl through the air at five hundred miles per hour in a metal tube for three hours. It gave me a chance to cool off. I hadn’t planned on writing anything but I have two plus hours up here with no internet and I’ve finished my People magazine–so here goes.
Here is me cooled off:

Dear House and Senate,
If you think you can shush us women into submission—you have another thing coming you silly, silly men. Weren’t our marches on Washington, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, London, Paris, Rome…just adorable? With our knitted caps and cardboard signs? Aren’t our phone campaigns that fill your inboxes to capacity just darling?
You ain’t seen nothing yet. You will hear our voices in every way imaginable.

You may have won the battle but you will not win this war.

Okay. I’m beyond tired. I’m going to bed.

Who’s with me? Not in bed…in outrage?
xox

Love. This.
Carry on
xox

A lot of us are experiencing our own personal pain AND tapping into global, collective pain at the same time.

We’re marching, or emphatically not marching.
We’re crying in the kitchen, out of the blue. We’re heavy with emotion by noon.

My loves, it’s critical that you let the pain move through you. You have to keep letting it go. And like, there’s no need to worry about being too detached from what’s going on. Because there’s new pain arriving daily. If you’re awake you will hurt. I’m with you…in profound agony over the state of the world. And, my faith and resolve are brighter than my doubt and stronger than my grief.

It’s an hourly practice to find that balance.

Feel it, fully, but don’t grip the pain and use it to bolster your position or identity. Holding on to pain is how you get bitter and brittle, and incidentally, much less effective.

It’s a feminine skill to process other people’s pain. Empathy. Whole humans feel things. Deeply. And then the heart wants to make something with the pain — to run it through its ventricles and transmute it into goodness. It’s a beautiful inclination. But we’ve got to keep our “pain processing for other people” in check or it will bring us down.

We might tell ourselves that taking on the collective pain is a form of being of service.
And it is — we’re in this together. But too much of that is martyrdom. And when you’re a martyr you become a burden on the system.
The pathway to the conscious management of psychic pain:
1. Feel your own pain. Analyze why YOU are personally affected.

1. And if you’re able, try to let it go by the end of the day if not sooner. Of course this is nearly impossible. But the intention will create a shift.

2. Observe other people’s pain. Seek to understand it. Relate or sympathize.

3. And if you’re able, let it go by the end of the day if not sooner. Very difficult to do, but NOT impossible. And then…return to your personal gratitude and power. Because… you must be in touch with your own blessings in order to be of service.

This is a daily practice because we’re all in pain. Humans, animals, Mother Earth…all hurting, badly. We have to let go of the pain on a regular basis so that it doesn’t backlog and turn into inflammation, depression, confusion. Or worse, blind rage.

Everyday, let it go. Give it up to Life, to God, to the cosmos and trust that we have the strength to heal. Speak out. Get a therapist for the sole reason of talking about world events and your rage and feelings of helplessness — and empowerment. Please, move. Get to a yoga class, or run your ass off a few times a week — for emotional reasons, not just for your ass. Dance! You’ve got to move the pain out of your body and psyche so that you can keep going. And we need to keep going.

If each of us made the effort to let go of pain and return to trust then there would be less pain in the atmosphere.
And with less pain in the atmosphere not only can we see more clearly and make more of an impact, but the low vibration stuff and fear-mongers have nothing to feed on and nowhere to hide. (Negative energies can turn a cloud of fear into a shit storm. So let’s not feed the cloud.)

Confront the pain with your unwavering trust and gratitude for being alive. This is where the limitless power is. Pain release and faith are a very effective way to serve. Every day. Over and over again… so we are free to rise.

Yessss. Press share to all the deep feelers in your life. xo

http://www.daniellelaporte.com

11.) Starring in a reality show.

12.) Having a blog. 😉

Happy weekend you guys,
xox

This is a re-tooling of a post I wrote several years ago.

OMG! You guys! I have to tell you what a fucking relief it was to make this tiny tweak in my belief about what was possible for me to have in my life!

Here it is in a nutshell: No dream is impossible. There is ALWAYS a way. Some ways are risky, fast and impractical, others take time and careful planning. Many take both. 

The choice is yours.

Everyone will weigh in. Ignore them! Do what feels comfortable, scratch that, I recommend reaching just a little bit out of your comfort zone for your dreams. It makes life so much more interesting!

Take a few risks.
Pick the road less traveled.
Occasionally drink wine before noon.

As my friend, Steph Jagger would tell you “Lift your restraining device and accept the call to adventure.”

And Carry on,
xox

We’ve all been bitten by the ugly green ENVY monster, especially when other people’s fabulous lives are vomited all over social media.
“Where’s my great kitchen?  “Why aren’t I wintering in the Maldives? ” They bought another car?” “Shit, I know that jacket, that jacket costs eight grand!”

Waaaah, Waaaah, Woe is me…where’s MY stuff?

I turned this around for myself years ago and then shared my devious little plan (insert diabolical laugh here) with my husband – who has turned it into an art form.

Seriously. He should hold seminars.

When I saw someone with something I really wanted, like a ten thousand dollar handbag, or a Tuscan Villa, instead of thinking that’s impossible for me and turning into a sad sack — I’d sit down and make a plan. I enlisted the same part of my brain that talks me OUT of everything fun—to talk myself INTO making it happen.

I Could Have That If I Really Wanted It —I’d tell myself — and it’s true.

If I wanted a wildly extravagant vacation, I could sell some jewelry, cash in my 401K, borrow money, even take out a loan. I could do all those things.

IF I really, really wanted it, I could make it happen.

The same is true for almost anything you desire. You CAN have it — but it’ll cost ya.
If it’s a price you’re willing to pay, great! If not, put a picture of it on your Pinterest page and keep living your life.

Guess what? It may still show up!

A friend Alex wanted a husband. A rich husband. So she made sure she was impeccably manicured, coiffed, waxed and outfitted; ready at a moment’s notice to accept only the BEST party invitations with only the BEST men in attendance. Even though I admired her commitment, I admit I often scoffed at her strategy. It seemed shallow and wildly expensive. She would just smile at me, undeterred. Three years later Alex married a billionaire businessman she met at a diplomatic dinner party in NY.

The bottom line is this — it is a choice. YOU make the choice. It’s not impossible, it just may be impractical, there’s a difference.

Impossible = says NEVER. That deflates me. Like a pair of saggy boobs, it leaves me feeling limp and disempowered.

Impractical Practicality (a term I made up)= says MAYBE. It feels hopeful. Like a calculated risk.

Sell everything and travel around the world skiing like Steph did sounds crazy, right? Only here’s what she did to make that happen. She did careful research in order to pick the destinations, plotted and planned. She got a loan on her house (gulp), saved her ass off and drained her savings. When others, like her dad, questioned her sanity, she just smiled the same undeterred smile as Alex. She wanted it THAT bad.

Now THAT feels empowering.

I wanted to own a house which is impossible when at the age of forty you‘ve only managed to save $1.57.
But I was ready, and it was time. How am I going to make this happen?  I wondered.
I had refused to believe it was impossible, so I made a plan. It actually played out as a mix of practical and impractical. I’d have to bank every cent of my income, adhering to an austerity program that would make the rationing in communist Russia look extravagant.

I’d have to practice wildly impractical practicality for one year — to gain the impossible — and I did.

At forty years old I put all my things in storage, moved into a room at my sister’s with my two cats and saved every nickel I made. I sold watches and jewelry, silver, and anything else valuable that I had collected over the years as an antique jeweler. I also put a large chunk of what I’d saved in the stock market, for the short-term. Very risky, I know, but I made out like a bandit. Impractical you say? Yep. But I was trying to make the impossible happen.

I brainstormed and researched areas I’d like to live in, forgoing my daily Starbucks, nixing the mani-pedi’s, and living on salads made at home. I tried to borrow money at different points during the year, to expedite things and was met with a tight fist every time. That should have discouraged me but I was in so deep at that point it only strengthened my resolve.

Eventually, the perfect house, in the perfect price range, in the perfect neighborhood showed up — exactly one year later, and not a moment too soon according to my cats.

I’ve often found that if you believe the impossible is possible — the Universe provides.

Years ago, my husband was going on and on about a certain car. The car of his dreams.
“Buy it!” I said. “It’s too expensive.” he shot back, without hesitation.

“You could afford it if you sold some things, you have thousands of dollars of motorcycle crap…” he flinched as if he’d taken a punch, “It’s all just lying around, gathering dust. Sell it!”

“First of all, that stuff is NOT crap, and second of all, it wouldn’t make a dent in the price of that car.” He sounded…deflated.

“Yeah, but it’ll get the ball rolling. Put the word out that you want that car, it’s not impossible if you really want it — you’ll find the money.”

He looked at me sideways, but the next day I noticed that his screen saver was a gorgeous vanity shot of that car.
Within a year, he drove it into our driveway.
I nicknamed it The Vomit Comet. Too much car for me. I couldn’t ride in it without getting carsick. Eventually, the bloom fell off the rose and he sold it — and put that money toward the next vehicle of his dreams. He got that car and then realized — it goes too fast, you can never use all that power off a racetrack.

NEXT!  He’s got this down to a science.

NOTHING is impossible. It’s all a choice.

Carry on,

xox

“Boredom is the basement in the house of change.”

This post throws us all the way back to the end of 2015 but it feels more timely now than ever. Do we as women wait for things to implode in our lives before we make a change? Do we march our butts down to the basement where the dryer drowns out the whisper of discontent and fold socks, or do we pay attention to this soft whisper from the basement and make it our clarion call to change?
I would urge you to listen for the call.
xox

I just spent the day writing an article about getting divorced at twenty-six for a series on divorce at all ages.

I called it I Was A Twenty-Six Year Old Divorced Unicorn because that was how…um…unusual I felt at the time.

You see, my ex-husband wasn’t a troll. He wasn’t a bad guy in any way. We just weren’t a good match. But you need more than that as grounds for divorce. Right? I mean, how was I to know we weren’t a match that could pass the test of time when I married him at the tender age of twenty?

By twenty-six I was desperately unhappy. Like can’t eat, can’t sleep unhappy.

Today I searched for the one word to describe how I felt at the time. At twenty-six I was not able to articulate exactly what I wanted and what I felt was missing. All I knew was that in my heart of hearts—I wanted more.
More than this relationship.
More than this husband.
More than this “until death do us part” commitment that was feeling more like a prison sentence than a wedding vow.

That’s when it suddenly hit me. Greedy. I felt greedy. On paper, I had so much. Everything. What all my girlfriends were clamoring for.

Greed instead of gratitude one friend scolded. 

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“You want more? More than what?” my dad had asked barely hiding his disgust upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “He’s a great guy and a good provider. What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!”

He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.

I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing and that I wasn’t able or willing to settle.

So that made me feel greedy. And greedy felt wrong.

Other people settle. Why can’t I?
Believe me, when I say, it would have been so much easier to just stay married!

“I’m a freakin’ unicorn! An anomaly; and NO ONE understands or knows what to make of me!”

Once I was single, I found out guys didn’t want to date a twenty-six-year-old divorcee. Used goods. High maintenance.

Typical First Date Conversation:

“So, you ever been married?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? He die?”

“Uh, no, we’re divorced.”

“He cheat on you?”

“Nope.”

“He left you?”

“Nope. I left him.”

(Beat) “Waiter, check please!”

Obviously, I needed to set my bar higher.

What I eventually discovered, after a whole lot of sleepless nights, and years of pain was that there were benefits to divorce; to asking more from life; to refusing to settle; to being greedy.

I also forgot that a Unicorn is a mystical, rare and beautiful creature.

So I’m curious…

This being what it is, more of a stream of consciousness, I want to turn the tables and ask you guys:

Q- What does it mean to you to settle? When have you done it and when could you not?

Q- Do you agree with the word greedy? What word would you choose when things look good but you want more?

Q- Are you a Unicorn? Why?

I love you all madly, carry on,
xox