writer

I worked as a supermarket checker until I was thirty. It was mindless work, paid decent money, and had the flexible hours I needed for the other things I cared about like school and acting.

I was a damn fine checker. The best. The kind you’ll wait in the longest line for. I was fast, nice, with a minimum of small talk. Standing and scanning groceries has a zen quality about it. The repetition can send you into a zone of complacency. If you’re lucky, faces blur and time flies.

That was the case for me maybe 10% of the time. The other 90% of the time I was judging the contents of everyone’s carts, making up stories about what they were buying and why.

I know! Your worst nightmare, right?

I was the girl who stifled a giggle when the dude with the greasy hair and the porn mustache who was drowning in Brut cologne came thru the express line EVERY Friday night. With a case of Coors, a carton of Marlboro reds and Maxim condoms (whose tagline was printed on the box: For those who live large) his story was a no-brainer.

“For those who live large!” Can you stand it? I couldn’t. The minute he was ten paces out into the parking lot, racing toward his Trans Am—I’d burst out laughing. Nobody else in line was paying much attention so I’m guessing my outburst appeared a little manic.

Whatever.

There was Ms. Shaw, an ancient, (she was probably in her late forties at the time) spinster/cat lady, who arranged her cat food in neat stacks by flavor in her cart. Anal-retentive doesn’t do her justice. She bagged every red delicious apple in a separate plastic bag and grouped all of the green vegetables together—away from the other colors. And once it was placed on the conveyor belt, none of the food could touch. (Is this making you a bit twitchy?) She also bought bourbon if I remember correctly, which seemed so out-of-character that I made up an imaginary life for her. In my imagination, she still lived at home with an even more ancient (sixty) boozy parent.

Then there was the woman who came in once a week and bought six bottles of Clairol #6 blonde hair dye. She had dark brown hair so I’m not sure what that was all about. Maybe she dyed her kid’s hair? Or her pubes? Who knows? Maybe she was a hairdresser who only liked to use that one color because she believed that blondes had more fun?

Whatever.

There were a lot of women back then that bought douche. Is douche still a thing? I read somewhere that it’s unhealthy for you since your vagina is self-cleaning, like an oven. Anyhow, if it went on sale there’d be a run on douche and these douching women would buy entire baskets of it. Inevitably, we ran out and I had to manually write-up “rain-checks” for Summers Eve douche while they made the entire line wait so they could take advantage of the sale price another time. I had one woman who bought douche and two pints of rocky road ice cream EVERY DAY. Eventually, the store had to put a kibosh on the douche hoarding. They came up with a limit. No more than three boxes at a time. When we tried to enforce that rule I thought there was going to be a riot! Pandemonium broke out. Nothing was going to keep these women from their “fresh feeling!”

I’m curious—Is douching addictive? Does your va-jay-jay forget how to self-clean? Whatever.

Speaking of fresh, I had a man who used to bag his meat and Irish Spring soap together and when I’d try to separate them he’d grab them away from me and reunite them. Finally, I asked him why. “I like the way it tastes”, he replied.
My intuition told me he lived alone. One evening the assistant manager was helping out, bagging groceries for me and when he saw me throw the soap in with the meat he just about lost it. “It’s okay”, I assured him, “he likes the way it makes the steak taste.” He looked back at the customer who was nodding enthusiastically. The guy swore by it.

I never had the courage to try it. It reminded me of menthol cigarettes. Bleck.

I’m going to say this—I can’t help it. The buying habits of the general public are weird. There were people who lived on TV dinners, people who, in my humble opinion drank WAAAAYYY too much diet coke, people who spent all their money on junk food and cigarettes, and the young anorexic girl who only and ever bought celery.

You can tell a lot about a person by what’s in their grocery cart. It’s a snapshot into a life—a peek into some of our most private habits—eating and personal hygiene.

So, I curate my cart when I go to the store. The implication of shame keeps me honest. Lots of fruit and kale, no candy or donuts. I know that no matter how disinterested they look the checker is making up stories about me so when I buy anything remotely embarrassing (like Monistat, lubricant, four boxes of Triscuit, or the second bottle in a month of the sour mix for my whiskey sours) I go thru the self-check-out line because I’m a damn fine checker. The best. Fast, nice, with a minimum of small talk—and most of all—discreet—not at all judgy.

Carry on,
xox

Since we’re all just making this up as we go along, I have a question for ya, because I haven’t been able to figure this one out for myself. What is the deal with women and pain? And do we tolerate more than we should? 

I suppose we can include men in this too. I mean I heard a man, a doctor of psychology, talking today about men tolerating discomfort. He cited having to pee really bad at a movie and not getting up until the “urge” had turned to an “imperative”. If you asked that same man (preferably after he relieved himself) what the movie was about, he’d have a hard time telling you. His discomfort took him out so of the moment it actually disrupted his quality of life.

Gotta go potty – 1
Quality of life – 0

Which brings me back to real suffering…and women. Why are we willing to sacrifice our quality of life even for one minute let alone several months or even years? Maybe it stems from the fact that we are genetically wired to push something the size of a bowling ball out of a hole fit for a marble without a complaint?

I don’t know. What do you think?

I had a friend in high school who suffered excruciating pain during her periods. The cramps were so debilitating she had to plan her activities so they wouldn’t fall close to “that time of the month.” When I told her that wasn’t “normal” and asked if she’d seen a doctor she replied, “Oh, gosh, no. I just figured every woman suffers like this.”
Uh, no. No, we don’t.

Cramps – 1
Quality of life – 0

What about men who cheat and the women who love them?

It seems improbable that any woman in her right mind would stay with a man who cheats and yet history and my contact list are FULL of them! And these are not stupid women. On the contrary, some of the smartest, funniest, most accomplished women out there have had their marriages hacked by the nanny.

And it doesn’t happen just once. Some men are serial cheaters.
And these amazing women look the other way. They settle.

I can understand the rationalization—because I’ve heard it all.
It can be a financial thing. Or a little kid thing. It can even be an “I’m just not ready to leave yet,” thing. Still, if you dig below the surface, just past the cave where the soccer team and their coach were trapped, you know, thousands of feet deep where all of the feelings have been buried. There, in the pitch-blackness, lies an endless stream of tears and rage. Along with a reverberating chorus of bats singing “Why aren’t I enough?”

Infidelity – 1
Quality of life – 0

Every one of these examples speaks to me. What about you?

I’ve had to pee so bad I’ve used a bush on the side of the road because I didn’t speak up when there was a perfectly good bathroom an hour earlier. I toughed it out. I guess I’m so familiar with discomfort, it barely registers…until it’s almost too late.

Same with my lady parts. I had a fibroid, okay make that eleven, that gave me a uterus the size of a sixteen-week pregnancy. It crept up on me slowly, over a decade, but come on!  There was bleeding and pain and there may have even been waddling and some incontinence when I laughed (which means I basically peed a little ALL THE TIME). Why was it okay to tolerate that? 

I have no idea. Like I said, I’m familiar with discomfort. 

I too had a boyfriend who cheated on me. I loved him something awful (which should have been an omen). And I can totally relate to the Why aren’t I good enough for you? syndrome. I was so distraught I thought it was somehow my fault which he LOVED because that meant he was completely and totally off the hook. I did research to fix us. I read every book on relationships and what goes wrong. I laughed at all of his jokes, cooked more of his favorite foods, and waxed off all my pubes.

But we all know that wasn’t the answer. So what is?

I know of two times he strayed and I forgave his lying ass, but I soon found out that was just the tip of the iceberg (the iceberg I wanted to tie around his scrotum to give him a tiny popsicle dick).
But I’m not bitter.  

So…please explain this to me. Why is it okay to settle for less and tolerate pain?

But first, go make yourself a sandwich, and buckle up. I have a feeling we’re in for a long, bumpy conversation.

Carry on,
xox

Once upon a time, there lived a couple. A man and a woman of middle age (if the average lifespan is 120) who’d been together for close to two decades.

Now, truth be told they were generally delightful, sharing many things in common such as their love of dogs and their wiggle butts, foreign travel, and food.

But alas, they also had their differences.

Besides politics—she was a life-long bleeding-heart liberal and well, his heart, although reduced to mush by babies, sappy songs, and car commercials had never shed any blood (politically speaking) so besides that, driving together had begun to come between them.

In all fairness, the man’s job required him to traverse the city of freeways numerous times a day. Frustrated, he operated one notch below full-blown road rage as he shared the streets of LA with the other clueless, dumb-shits, commuters.

She, on the other hand, drove very little; and when she did, a book on tape, podcast or favorite music mix would delight her, making her commute through LA almost…bearable.

When they rode together to dinner, the movies or to see friends all the way in San Diego, great caruments (car arguments) would ensue. There was yelling, tears and bad language and it all started to impede on their compatibility.

The women, feeling more and more like a Crash Test Dummy, may have used the words aggressive and dangerous when describing his driving, He preferred the words assertive and tactical.

When he drove, cars seemed to jump out of nowhere, threatening the poor sucker in the passenger seat (the woman), at an alarming rate. He was oblivious. It was his super power. And as such, he started to find her constant criticism more than mildly annoying. She found herself blaming him for her high anxiety and lack of fingernails.

All of this to say: When they drove together he was an assbite and she was fast becoming a wingnut.

On one such occasion, just the other night, the situation reached critical mass.

Winding their way home through the canyon after a delicious steak dinner and wine with friends, the woman noticed that he was driving uncharacteristically slow. Like pace car slow. Like “rush hour” slow. Like Asian tourist slow.

Curious as to the cause of this anomaly and sensitive to the fact that her nagging caused him to get defensive which never ended well, she delicately broached the subject.

“You’re drunk aren’t you?” she asked. “Otherwise why would you be driving like an old lady?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t adjust his speed or move his head. He just stared straight ahead, following the curves in the road at a glacial pace.

He must not have heard her she surmised, so she asked again, only this time louder.

“Is there a problem? Are you drunk? Why are you driving so damn slow?”

Undaunted, he stared straight into the night.

“Hey!”

“I hear you,” he finally replied never taking his eyes off the road. “I’m ignoring you.”

“Why?” She barely got the word out before he continued.

“You’re not happy when I drive fast and you complain when I drive slow,” he replied in an uncharacteristically non-defensive voice. “Besides, I’m a drunk old lady so I can only do one thing at a time.”

His response caught her so off guard that a giant force built inside her until her body could no longer contain it and out it burst. Giant guffaws of laughter filled the car. It must have been contagious because his face broke into a Cheshire grin and slowly he started to laugh too. For ten minutes straight, they laughed and they laughed and before they knew it—they were home.
Where they continue to live happily ever after (unless they discuss Hillary, health care, or how to get anywhere fast on the 405.)

Carry on,
xox

When I was younger, sixty seemed ancient to me.
Women who were sixty complained about their feet. They sweat profusely, bitched about their husbands, wore sensible shoes and shopped at Lane Bryant. I knew I didn’t want that to be my narrative!
How did I want to be at sixty? I wanted to be curious, and vibrant and full of the joy of life! Well, you know what? Now that I’m here, what I know for sure is that you have to put in the effort to look and feel good. And unless they figure out a way to reverse the aging process and put us back into the body that matches how old we feel inside, I intend to continue to make that effort. 

In the meantime, here are some things I know about sixty.

My neck looks like an uncircumcised penis. Underneath all of the loose skin lies the long, firm, neck of my youth. Sometimes I have to pull all the extra skin back just to wear a necklace.  Why don’t they have a Spanx for that? 

I love differently. Bigger. Deeper. And although their numbers may have dwindled, the ones I love now as opposed to back-in-the-day have embedded themselves under my skin. Some days I wear them like a cozy blanket or a cape. I know, it’s creepy for them—but I’m telling you—that’s what happens over time. 

I feel so good. I think it’s because I’m in better shape all the way around than I was at twenty. I eat better, I sleep better and I definitely exercise more than I did back then which isn’t hard. Nobody went to the “gym” until Jane Fonda and Olivia Newton-John shamed us into it. I certainly didn’t. I was too busy being a self-absorbed little bitch to walk a mere fifty steps a day. I floated instead. Over a sea of other girls like me in my desperate climb to the middle. 

That being said, self-care at sixty has become a full-time job. Between appointments to get the barnacles that have accumulated burned off my body, slathering Crepe Erase all over my neck, my arms and my everywhere, and the tweezing of stray, black chin hairs, I barely have time to fit in the hormone replacement appointments. 

Babies don’t come to me. They have a finely tuned sixth-sense and can smell the fact that I never had children and that I’ll probably get distracted and put them down and forget where I left them. 

My feet are still pretty but they’re loud and scream in protest. A lot!

The veins in my hands are so big they could carry crude oil to Alaska.

As far as fashion goes, black is a color. 

I love my gray hair.  While it took awhile to grow out the blonde, the lack of monthly maintenance has left me feeling so much lighter—and my wallet fuller. I highly recommend it.

People call me ma’am. They just do. I used to get annoyed, now I just smile and flip them off when they’re not looking. 

Men hold doors for me. I’ve become invisible to the opposite sex so I don’t expect it. Maybe I look frail? It surprises me every time, especially when I have to run because it’s clear they’re getting annoyed with me for taking too long. Just so you know, there is an expiration date on random acts of kindness. It’s three minutes. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, Kenneth!

I haven’t had to renew my driver’s license in ages. Longer than I can remember…huh.

I love my alone time. Being an extrovert and a people person, I used to hate being alone. If I was in a room by myself for one minute, I had to either turn on the TV or crank up the stereo. Filling every second with music gave me an awesome soundtrack for my life but it never allowed me to think. I’m guessing that was the point. 

I love texting. It’s quick and nasty and where has it been all my life? 

I waited a long time for true love. People discouraged me. They said I was too picky. I spent many a Saturday night feeling profoundly lonely instead of settling for a schmo.  But I held out hope kissing a lot of frogs along the way to forty-three. I’m happy to report that in the end—it was worth it. 

I’ve made some questionable decisions in my life. I’ve fucked up. I’ve gotten my heart-broken. I’ve hurt people. And now, when all the dust has settled, I’m not sure, looking back, if any of it really mattered… 

In stark contrast, I’ve made some great decisions in my life and there by the grace of god I’ve created this life I’m living now. I’m certain both the terrible and the inspired played a role. But would I have ended up here no matter what? I ask myself that question all the time and I’m not even stoned.  

Speaking of stoned, every vice imaginable has been pried from my white-knuckled grasp as I’ve aged. Call it allergies, call it hormonal, call it sulfites, the latest casualty is red wine—and I call bullshit.

But what do I know about sixty? I just got here. 

Carry on,
xox

Hi Guys,
It’s mid-summer and the tourists are out in full force here in LaLa Land. Unfortunately, some of them stick out like sore thumbs and it isn’t the white socks with sandals or the acid washed jeans (although I’ve been told they’re coming back in style, and I’m in denial)—it’s the stingy tipping. I know tips are built into the bill in Europe, I also know Texas is in the United States.

Please tip generously. And enjoy your weekend!
xox

“Never trust any who treats a waiter badly.” ~ Anyone with a soul (Also my number one rule for choosing friends.)

I’ve had a lot of jobs in my life. I worked my way through my twenties as a cashier in a supermarket while many of my friends waited tables, catered and tended bar. Based on our nightly bitch sessions, I can tell you without hesitation, that selling people their food and serving it to them are two completely different experiences.

Food service is grueling work. And it can be absolutely soul-sucking if people aren’t nice. Nobody has to lick your face or nibble your neck—just your standard-issue, basic-human-decency nice would suffice.

I’ve sat at the table with snippy divas. Women who are prickly, easily annoyed—on the lookout for trouble. It has always been my belief that if you’re lookin’ for trouble, trouble will not only find you. Not only find you, it will pull up a chair, order a drink, charge it to your tab, and over-stay its welcome.

We all know these women. They huff and puff and send stuff back. They act indignant, disrespected. Like me when I get carded by a millennial named Brick.

Maybe she doesn’t like the look of the lettuce. Or the ice is too cold or the coffee tastes burnt, so she shames the staff. Seriously?  The only time I ever sent something back was when my wine glass had a lipstick stain on the rim and I hadn’t sipped from it yet. And I apologized so profusely my husband had to shoot me some stink-eye just to shut me up.

Listen, I’m not particularly judgy. But be forewarned. I WILL judge you harshly for treating people in the service industry rudely.

That includes being a cheap tipper. I’m not even sure this has to do with generosity. Some of the lousiest tippers I know are extremely generous in other areas. They are the first to donate to disaster relief or send money to get a three-legged dog a prosthetic paw. Why do you think that is? Maybe they’ve forgotten what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck.

Lots of folks supplement a crappy base salary with commission or tips. It can be the difference between making ends meet and having to pick up a second job. Please, think of that the next time you’re tempted to hand the young man who ran three blocks in the rain to fetch your car—a lousy buck.

I’ve seen that.

One measly dollar. You know what one dollar buys these days? Uh…nothing.

The same is true for the young man or woman who spends twenty minutes hand drying your car at the car wash. I saw a lady the other day hand the guy ONE dollar after he not only hand dried her vehicle, but at her insistence spent extra time polishing the fancy chrome rims on her giant SUV—in ninety-degree heat.

Lady. This man is not your personal chauffeur, nor is he your indentured servant. You guys, I could smell the stingy. What is that anyway? Entitlement? Bad upbringing? I don’t care, just don’t be that lady. 

Get change for a twenty if you have to, but please be a decent tipper. Trust me, if you’re well off enough to get your car washed, eat at a restaurant, or use the valet—that person needs the cash a lot more than you do.

All this to say; this seems to be a polarizing time of me or them.

I might suggest that we find some common ground. Like hard work, industriousness, and hustle—and the fact that we’ve all been there. Then we’re just us.

Right?

Carry on,
xox

“A unique astrological energy fills this summer that you may well be feeling! On one hand, FIVE planets are retrograde in the heavens, bringing back old, sometimes ignored issues from the past to be reviewed, faced and cleaned up once and for all before a big, new cycle starts in autumn.” (This makes me want to vomit.)

For many years after my first divorce, more than I care to remember, I lived without air conditioning in LA. Many a hot summer was spent in that no-mans-land, north on the 405, otherwise known as the San Fernando Valley. 

Spoiled rotten after being raised in a home with central air, I roughed it in my twenties and thirties, too broke to afford a place with air-conditioning.  Many a night I braved the triple-digit heat naked on the floor in front of a fan, spraying myself with ice water. And I swore that when I had a few bucks I’d NEVER LIVE WITHOUT AIR CONDITIONING AGAIN!

Cut to: Friday of last week. Extreme heat advisories were issued as the temps set new record highs—rising to 113 degrees. I watched from the comfort of my air-conditioned home as the heat scorched all of my hydrangeas, caused the squirrels to loiter in my fountains, and shocked several of our trees into dropping all their leaves. 

Sitting in the cool, dry fabulousness of my home, I felt real compassion for all the suffering this extreme heat was causing. Been there, done that, I thought as I sipped a freshly brewed ice tea. Then, a few minutes later, I felt the tiny droplets of sweat form on my upper lip.

 Huh, that’s curious, I thought. With great haste, I made my way to the thermostat to see where it was set. You see, sometimes, when I’m feeling energy conscious, I set the thermostat to the recommended 78 degrees. But that happens so infrequently that I feel like I’m fibbing to you when I tell you that there was even the slightest chance that it was set at 78. 

Can we speak frankly? 

I’m fucking sixty years old. And I only mention that because I’ve been burnt alive from the inside out for the past decade or so. I guess you could say I “run hot”. But that’s a colossal understatement. That’s like saying volcanos “run hot”. Truthfully, I’m being burnt alive from the inside out! Luckily I have it under control. That is until it gets over 100 degrees. Then my body turns into a series of rolling wildfires. 

When that happens I’m not nice. I get short with people my husband. My tongue gets sharp like I ate glass for lunch.

And I most certainly CANNOT be anywhere that isn’t 72 degrees. So that was just the long way of telling you that our thermostat was set to 72 degrees. Do NOT get in my face about this! Trust me, it’s a preemptive measure because if I overheat I can do great damage. Seriously, you could weaponize me. 

So you can imagine my horror when I checked the thermostat and it was going in the wrong direction!

It was 79 degrees! 

I checked the vents. They were blowing tepid air in my face. 

WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD?!

I collected myself and calmly phoned my husband.
“I think the air conditioning is broken,” I chirped.

I know, that he knows, that if I know it’s not working we’re all fucked—so I pretend I’m not sure—when I am—sure that we’re all fucked. 

“I’ll call my guy,” he said. Then he hung up.

His guy. He has a guy—and he’s gonna call him. He’s gonna call his guy. I felt reassured. 

Cut to: Saturday afternoon. In an 87 degree room in our house. 

    “FUCKING FIX IT!” I screamed. 

And when I say screamed I’m not engaging in hyperbole. I was screaming. At the top of my lungs. 
What can I say? My inner heat index had reached DefCon 5 and I was about to blow. 
There was no reasoning with me, believe me, the sane part of me was trying. 
I watched our little brown dog run for cover, terrified.  We don’t scream in our house, well…ever. 

“FUCKING FIX IT NOW!” I continued to scream as if my husband possessed the superpower to shoot frost out his ass.

“I have a call out to all my guys; they’re swamped. Everybody’s air is breaking.”

Not everybody. All I had to do was stand next to one of the windows we had flung open searching for a breeze. But there was no breeze to be found. You saw that coming, didn’t you? Anyway, they were letting the hot breath of Hell superheat our house while I could hear a thousand of our neighbors cooling units happily humming a chorus of You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

SOMEONE NEEDED TO DIE FOR THIS. I was fully weaponized. God forbid a technician shows up now. 

“I swore I would NEVER live without air again!” I said.

“I know. You’ve screamed that at me a thousand times,” he said.

“Why aren’t you doing something? Aren’t you hot? Why are you fucking with your computer!!!” I screamed.

“I’m putting you in a hotel,” he said.

That’s when the technician showed up. As a favor to my husband. He’d made the time to squeeze us into his impossibly overbooked schedule. Because he likes my husband and they do a lot of work together.

I thanked him profusely, offered him a cold glass of lemonade and watched hopefully as he fixed our air conditioning. 

Nah. That’s not what happened. 

I annihilated him. I didn’t even let him descend the ladder before I laid into him. Remember, I was fully weaponized.

          “What do you mean it’s broken BECAUSE IT’S HOT! THAT’S WHAT IT WAS MADE FOR!  IT HAS ONE JOB! 

            WORK. IN. HOT. WEATHER!”

Then I caught myself and apologized with all my heart.

Nope. That didn’t happen either.

The guy came down the ladder—and quit. 

So here I sit on Tuesday, day five of a brutal heat wave with a crapped-out air conditioner. 

I LOVE a five-planet retrograde. And I really think I’m clearing out some of my old issues from my past, don’t you?

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