writer

I watch the news these days with one eye closed. One eyes worth is all I can bear. The reason I even watch it at all is to stay current on politics which is the basis for a new screenplay I’m writing. 

You can also mix with that a dash of “car wreck” mentality. You know, when you drive past a bad car accident and you WANT to look away but you just can’t. You’re so afraid of what you’re going to see that you pull your glasses out of your purse and slow down. 

Is that just me or is it human nature? Please say human nature.  

Anyway, the events of each news cycle have been so “stick-your-head -in-the-oven” horrible for the past year and a half that local stations have actually started to devote an entire three minutes of a 1440 minute day to good news.

This morning it was about a recent medical miracle.

A thirteen-year-old boy in Alabama suffered a brain injury and actually died—for 15 minutes.  Although they got his heart to beat again, the lack of oxygen for such an extended period of time (a brain can survive without oxygen for only 4-6 minutes) left him brain-dead and on life support for several days while his parents made the agonizing decision to donate his organs.

All of the sudden, the day before he was scheduled to be taken off of life support he started to show weak signs of brain activity. That was two months ago. He still has a long recovery ahead of him but he is walking, talking, and nowhere near the vegetative state he should be in. 

“There’s no other explanation but God” he says. 

He should know.

My husband also suffered severe brain trauma due to spinal meningitis before he was my husband, so, BH. He was a healthy forty-seven-year-old man in the prime of his life and then he died. Once in the emergency room, they brought him back, did a spinal tap and pronounced him ”terminal” which meant he was pumped full of Morphine and wheeled into a room to die. As luck or fate or the angels who had listened to me cry my eyes out for a good man would have it, one lone doctor decided to treat him with everything at her disposal and within 24 hours she informed his family he’d live but would most definitely be a vegetable. (Which is why we currently have a health directive.)

But after three days in a coma, my before-husband-husband woke up quoting Proust and I.M. Pei. Okay, maybe only I.M. Pei, but my point is this: He could see, hear, and speak knowledgeably about French architecture—all of the things some of us humans can do that vegetables most certainly cannot.

“He’s a scientific miracle!” They all declared.

They should know.

Here’s what I know—

The boy is right. There is no other explanation but God. I mean, come on! 

Science can’t explain EVERYTHING. They try. We listen. They have rules and stats that are true for MOST of us MOST of the time, however…

If it ain’t your time—IT AIN’T YOUR TIME! 

If your brain dies and you wake up fine, I’d say it ain’t your time. 

If a piano falls on you while you’re walking down the street eating an eclair, I’d say carbs kill, no, I’d say sorry, it was your time. 

Nothing is certain. Apparently, not even death, (let’s shoot for taxes next).

Nothing is cut and dried, black and white, end of story, that’s all she wrote. Nothing.

I believe, or rather I know, there is a special ingredient, a secret sauce of sorts, a power greater than doctors, science and statistics. 

Call it prayer, hope, a miracle, or Miracle Whip, I don’t care, just as long as you know it exists.

That’s my good news segment for you this fine morning. Now skedaddle! Go out there and make it a glorious day! (And watch out for falling pianos.)

Carry on,
xox

This is a reprise from 2016 and as is often the case, I need to take some of my own advice and keep my mouth shut more often.  Unless it causes mouth sores, then I need to speak up. Still figuring out how to make that distinction. How about you?
xox

“Dear Lord — Please keep one hand on my shoulder, and the other hand over my mouth.”

Hard to find a better prayer than that.

When you are in the act of defusing a situation, be it a political argument or an obtuse disagreement about the pronunciation of the word foyer; and I say that because everyone knows there is only one correct pronunciation of the word foyer—Foy-yay—anyway, I highly recommend, if at all possible, a minimum of talking.

Think about it. We mostly defuse anger or frustration. We seldom defuse joy. When I say seldom, I mean never. When was the last time you said,’Oh, Holy Hell, there is just too much joy in this room, I need to change the subject!’
See what I mean?

Defusing is an act best left to heavily outfitted bomb squads, street mimes, or those who have, through some cruel twist of fate, found themselves without a voice.
I say that from experience.
Words tend to get… wordy, meanings become misconstrued, and at a certain point, nobody is listening anyway so I say the fewer the better.

Silent nodding is my preferred method.

Then there’s petting. I’m a big believer in defusing a tense or uncomfortable situation with some awkward physical contact.
I’ve been known to braid a person’s hair or lint brush the shit out of their jacket in the midst of that kind of kinetic, twisty energy.

I do all of those things because it is next to impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. Hence the prayer at the top.

Question: Have you EVER helped this kind of situation by stating the facts, calling for common sense, or getting the last word?
Yeah, me neither.

There is always humor but humor is subjective and it can backfire and not in a funny clown car kind of way.

Let’s face it, there are times when people want nothing more than to vent. Or argue. Some like to pick fights.

It’s been my experience that this seldom ends well if I put in my two cents, so I’ve learned to keep my small change to myself and wait for people to ask for my opinion (which they don’t), or I keep my mouth full of cake. Cheese will do in a pinch, but cake takes forever to chew and swallow, especially without coffee, and by the time you do—the topic has usually shifted to something else… like the deterioration of the Antarctic Ice Caps and how the ice in my drink and the car I drive are contributing to the imminent death of the Planet.

Head… silently…nodding…

Cake anyone?

Carry on,
xox

(Ice pack brain freeze selfie)

I try not to go full-metal-wackjob about entire months you guys, but I’ve never been so happy to be done with a month In. My. Life. 

April sucked!

Hallelujah! It’s MAY!

Maybe it was the Mercury retrograde, maybe solar flares, all I know is that it was a shitshow. A circus full of monkeys, who drove tiny little clown cars filled with farts that followed me from week to week like a bad friend who insists on asking you to smell something horrible.

I started the month with a mouth full of sores. While they were all pretty painful, I had two the size of dimes on my lips that kept me from eating and drinking and of course, I didn’t lose an ounce which only added insult to injury.

Then I got an abscess. In a molar. On a weekend. Apparently, I broke the root of a tooth that had been killed long ago by a root canal. I probably did it by grinding my teeth due to some unresolved family issues that were torturing me while I slept. So, on the 30th, as a lovely parting gift from this month from hell, I had oral surgery to pull the tooth and install an implant. 

So, if you’re keeping score (and why wouldn’t you be) my mouth took a beating in April. I lost my ability to kiss and I get bitchy when I can’t kiss.

If I ask the Universe why, which I do about everything, I get that it was because I didn’t speak my truth. My words were filled with rage and I bit my tongue. Figuratively and literally. 

People, don’t do that! It always catches up with you! I’d tell you that but I can’t use my mouth right now, it’s swollen shut (my husband is beyond grateful) and I’m icing it with my homemade frozen corn ice pack. 

I’ve used my homemade, frozen corn ice pack twice this month which is twice more than at any other time in my life! I hobbled around like a bent over crone for a week after an almost-fall on my hike (which I’ve come to find out is just as bad as a real fall —same pain from all of the aerobic contortions I used to stay upright— just without the bloody knees). Only my trusty corn-ice-pack got me back on the hill so I have to love it, but truth be told, when all of this is water under the bridge I’m going to light it on fire and feed the popcorn to the squirrels. 

My husband told me once how his grandfather, a French titan of industry, hated the month of April. That is, until 1953, when my butterball, Buddha baby husband was born on the eleventh day of that very month. All of his life he found it to be a cruel and inauspicious month, which in French sounds gorgeous but wreaks havoc on your life if you really believe it.  I think it stuck in the back of my mind, so when all of the havoc rained down on me, of course, it had to be April!

Several of my friends fell into depressions, pets died, vacations canceled, kids suddenly went into the hospital, relationships that seemed stable failed. Even the weather went schizophrenic! It couldn’t make up its mind if it was summer or winter.

You and I both know that a month doesn’t have the power to ruin lives, it’s just a collection of hours, days and weeks. But we can also agree that sometimes it seems as if a certain month conspires to be our undoing. 

Many of you hide under the covers until December is over.

I know people who hate January—too may pounds on the scale, too many bills to pay, too many resolutions to break. 

Mine is April. (Thanks Grandpa!)

Now that it’s May, a month that is all clean slatey to me, birds will sing, the sun will shine, and I’ll be able to use my mouth again for more than just gargling warm salt water.

God help us all! 

Carry on,
xox

I didn’t expect to be beguiled. After all, it was barely 10 AM on a hectic Saturday morning filled with errands, but how could I ignore it?

He had to be almost forty. Lean and tan with the legs of a cyclist showing off under a pair of baggie, beige khakis. The flip-flops and Ray Ban’s attempted to shave a decade off that number but with more salt than pepper in his purposely disheveled bedhead…yeah, I’d have to say he was close to forty.

She was eleven.

I know this because I LOVE eleven-year-old girls! They are one of my favorite things on the planet—and she told me. But that came later.

They walked into the bustling nail salon holding hands, both wearing grins like of a pair of Cheshire cats as they finished a giggle that I presume had started in the car. They tried to put an end to it prematurely like you do an ice cream cone in an establishment that doesn’t allow food, but just like it does, the giggle melted and ran between her fingers as she attempted to stifle it with her hand.

Joy doesn’t often enter a building using the front door. It’s like…an anomaly.

Every head turned and we all stared because well—joy had replaced all of the oxygen.

“Can she get a mani-pedi?” He asked like a pro, his hand resting gently on top of her head.

“Sure, have her pick a color,” one of the women closest to the door replied.

Everyone else went back to their respective daydreams. Me? I was enchanted.

As the manicurist ran the water for her pedicure, our little eleven-year-old skip/bounced over to the wall where hundreds of bottles of polish are displayed. I watched her eyes scan all of the various colors like I used to discerningly pick from my giant box of Crayola crayons (the one with the built-in sharpener in the back).

He stood behind her, absentmindedly playing with her long brown hair as she showed him the colors under consideration, weighing in on each one.

“I don’t like that pink as much as the first one,” he said, and “Why don’t you save the neon orange for the summer?” Were a couple of the opinions he offered. He was thoughtful and PRESENT.

Clearly, he adored her.

Once she’d made that huge decision, (and we can all agree right here at the gravity of this right of passage, seeing that the wrong nail color can ruin your life, even if it’s only for a week or until you get home and take it off yourself, wasting $25 and a precious hour of time you can never get back) she plopped into the big chair and made herself comfortable.

I watched him adjust the seat for her, moving it forward so her skinny little legs could reach the roiling blue water of the built-in foot soaking tub.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, feeling secure that the twenty or so women in the joint would look after his little girl. “I’m going right next door to CVS.” We all shook our collective heads, silently agreeing that it was okay to leave her, but only for a little while. She grabbed onto his fingers as his hand brushed her cheek. “Are we sure about the blue?” she asked him. She seemed to want him to stay longer.

He nodded and walked slowly toward the door, her eyes following his every step. “Daddy!” she yelled above the steady buzz of nail salon gossip, he swung around, “Bring me something?” They both made a fist bump followed by a high five kind of special hand gesture.

Oh, that’s where it starts, I thought.

Fifteen minutes later he returned with a bag of stuff out of which he pulled an Abba Zabba. And even though I thought it impossible—this old-school choice of treat endeared him to me even more.

I fucking LOVE Abba Zabbas.
And Eleven-year-old girls with their dads.
I love blue toenails.
And mani-pedi joy.
And being unexpectedly beguiled on a Saturday morning.

He came back inside after going out to use his cell phone as I was gathering my stuff to leave. He must have called his wife to ask her how much to tip because I saw him fold up a few bills and tuck them into the pocket of his daughter’s jean jacket.

“How old are you?” I asked as I walked by. “I’m eleven,” she replied cheerfully as she worked on her Abba Zabba. “You guys sure are sweet, “ I said, motioning toward her dad. Her face lit up with a big, nougat and peanut butter grin, “We sure are!” she replied without a self-conscious bone in her body.

Just imagine, I thought, with a father like this, what kind of woman this girl will grow up to become.

That thought and their joy stuck with me all day.

Carry on,
xox

I find myself, at the ripe old age of sixty in possession of a life I love, an extra ten, fifteen, twenty pounds, and a finely tuned bullshit detector.

It has been honed and calibrated through the years, no, make that decades, mostly by paying attention to how it feels when something or someone is serving me some “shit of the bull.”

It has become a visceral thing and by that I mean I can smell it—because it stinks.

And it feels really, really bad.

Like fall down the stairs bad.
Like hit by a meteor bad.
Like thirty car pile up on the Interstate caused by a jackknifed big-rig full of dildos (I swear that really happened to me) bad.

You get the picture.

With regard to the meme above, I’m terrible at hiding, well anything, most especially the bullshit—so I don’t.

Neither will I defend it. I may try, but the minute you look at me cross-eyed or call “bullshit!” I cave because
I ALREADY KNEW IT!
I had the t-shirt and the all-day VIP pass.

But throughout my life, the one that continually trips me up is that rascal— rationalization, and it looks like this: me getting out my old Weight Watchers scale and weighing up the pluses and the minuses. The good and the bad.
Tracking columns, keeping score, making lists.

All the while knowing full well that the bad feelings far outweigh the good, that the minus column is as long as the neck of a giraffe, but still, there is that nagging, underlying sense of…what?

What has caused me through the years (although with much less frequency) to override my bullshit detector TO. MY. DETRIMENT?

Obligation. Obli-fucking-gation!

And what is obligation anyway? It’s the “shoulds”. The unspoken agreements. The implied senses of commitment and duty. In other words, things we feel we can’t get out of…alive.

I refer to it as the dreaded seventh sense, and in most people (myself included) it is the most powerful sense of all. If you ask any Catholic, Jew or basically anybody with a mother, they will tell you that their sense of obligation can take over their common sense, their good sense, their sense of self and most importantly it rides roughshod over their sense of what is really important in life—and what is BULLSHIT.

I know I don’t have to plead with you to understand (the last mention in the meme) because, well, you’re here and you’ve read this far so I feel confident that you can relate.

After this most recent, calamity ridden trip down bullshit lane, a route freshly paved by an irrational sense of obligation, I am bruised, battered, beleagured—and smelly, but now my eyes are wide open and I’m hopeful that it will be my last.

How about you?

Carry on,
xox

I believe with every fiber of my being that we ALL have a superpower. The thing or things that we are better at than almost ANYONE else.

Mine is my memory. I remember every word you said, the shoes you wore, and the song that was playing on the radio when you dumped me.
And then there’s my ability to weave that into a story.
Ouch. Oh relax, I’m only joking…sort of.

I have a friend who can make a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies last for more than three days — I know — UNBELIEVABLE. Yet, I have seen it with my own eyes.

Most mothers, including my own, are able to hear the spoken and often un-spoken mischievous musings, whispered plans and naughty plots of their children clear across the house, sometimes from out in the backyard with a cocktail while listening to the Dodger game; or even from the neighbor kid’s treehouse,

“No, you most certainly are NOT going to rig that old clothesline and beat up beach chair into a neighborhood zip line!”

Is she kidding? Could she have cracked our code? How did she know that was our plan? She’s making baloney sandwiches — in a house —down the block.

I was convinced as a child that her pink plastic hair rollers were some kind of sound enhancing devices.

Or how about this other widely demonstrated talent — the eyes in the back of her head trick.

“I see you…give your baby sister her cookie back. NOW!”

How is that possible…she’s driving?

Maternal Superpowers — used mostly in the service of good rather than evil; although as a child, that point was debatable.

My little sister is a kind of Culinary Wonder Woman. She can put together an event or party at the drop of a hint and I can guarantee you — it will be SPECTACULAR.

If you want to feed 6 or 60, it doesn’t matter, call Sue.

She’ll cater it herself with eight to fifteen different appetizers, each more delicious than the next. Then she’ll serve a roast turkey AND a Prime rib, AND a smoked ham AND a goat; all lovingly prepared and garnished to perfection — with thirty-five gourmet side dishes — half of them using kale. That’s a talent.

Oh, and you’d better leave room for dessert. They’ll be seventeen pies, ten cakes, donuts, pastries and fountains of chocolate, both dark and white.

All of them homemade. In her spare time.

Every inch of her home will be decorated for the affair. Gorgeous fresh flowers (grown, picked and arranged by her own loving hands), tablecloths and centerpieces with white twinkle lights hung by Tinkerbelle herself.

You’ll receive a keepsake memento as you enter, and another as you leave (after she gets to know you better). They will be thoughtful and touching things that are personally selected for you and you alone. Things that will make you cry; items you will treasure for years to come. (We haven’t yet figured out how she does that; as far as we can guess she has a team of people who go through your drawers while you’re at the party, then shop, gift wrap and return before you’re ever the wiser.)

If you’re one of the lucky ones she may have put together a slideshow of long forgotten but favorite photographs which will play on an endless loop — with a tear-jerking soundtrack.

Her parties are so inventive and fabulous that Martha Stewart has installed a top-secret party cam just to swipe ideas.

At Christmas, the elves at the North Pole have a Pinterest page of several years of her winter wonderland home and decoration ideas, which they present to Santa as their own — tiny lying slackers.

Susan’s undeniable superpower? — Making people happy with delicious food, beautiful ambiance and her over-the-top thoughtfulness.

My husband has the good fortune to have been blessed, as many of you have, with two superpowers.

He has his MacGyver Superpower and his Sparkle*.
Our friends and I tease him about it…but if you’ve ever been on the receiving end, they are both equally indispensable.

He can build you a house out of eleven Popsicle sticks, a random shard of glass, nine paperclips, one stick of Black Jack gum, and a sweat sock.
With those exact items, he can also fabricate a life raft, patch a blown tire, signal a rescue helicopter, fix a motorcycle, design a prom dress, start a signal fire, and end world hunger.

You want him on your team when the Zombie’s attack.

As for the Sparkle*(ting)…well, those that have been caught in its spell have given us the best table at a packed restaurant, upgraded us to First Class at no charge, overlooking the fact that our three bags each were over the weight limit, and found us front row tickets to a sold out concert.

Men, women, it doesn’t matter, his superpowers don’t discriminate.

Does it only work for he and I? Nope, whole groups of friends have benefited from his equal opportunity Sparkle*.

If he switched to the dark side…the man could rule the world. Seriously.

We all have ‘em these Superpowers— have you figured out what yours is?

Carry on,
xox

Oh, man. Let’s talk boundaries…again.
Because let’s be real here, half of us never set them and get steamrolled and the other half have learned to set them and risk looking like heartless turds. So…
Boundaries — Find them — set them — enforce them.

Sounds easy, right? Yeah, not so much.

“Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.”
– Brene Brown

Boundaries with family? Look up “complicated, messy, clown car” in the dictionary and it’s a picture of a family without any boundaries.

I cannot tell you that setting boundaries always has a happy ending. It does not. One player always walks away disappointed and resentful so I suppose the only question we have to ask ourselves is this: Why is okay for me to be that person?

(I’m asking for a friend…)

Carry on,
xox

It’s uncanny. The way certain people in your life, even celebrities, can say or do or post just the right thing at the right time. Like they’re living a life parallel to your own. Liz Gilbert does that a lot. We have some kind of cosmic bond that was anchored by a hug way back in San Jose at an Oprah event.

Anyway, I too woke up this morning in a tangle. I’ve been tangled for a while now. Nothing as devastating as losing a partner like Liz, mine has to do with family and dysfunction, obligation, boundaries, and playing the role of the heartless turd, which is a nickname I gave myself last week before they all could.

When my mind is in distress it makes meditation a Herculean task. Like jumping rope without a bra, all my negative thoughts slap me around. I forget about my heart. I don’t know how I can because it hurts so much, but I do. And I know better.

The world seems very raw to me these days. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think so. Perhaps these words from Liz will remind you, as they did with me—to rest in the heart. Doesn’t that sound better than a boob slap?
I Love you, Liz.

Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones:
I woke up this morning with my mind in a tangle, and my emotions in a storm.

I lay there in bed for a long time, wrestling with my thoughts and fighting hard against my feelings. But I was losing ground. No matter how hard I used my powerful THOUGHTS to try to extract myself from my other powerful THOUGHTS, it didn’t work. My THOUGHTS just got darker, and then my THOUGHTS about my THOUGHTS got more panicked and distressed until new and worse THOUGHTS arose, and now we have a tornado, folks.
(This has happened to me before. But only once or twice.)

My mind thought: I NEED MORE THOUGHTS, TO FIX THESE THOUGHTS! THINK HARDER! FIND A SOLUTION TO EVERYTHING! STOP THIS! GET CONTROL! DIFFERENT THOUGHTS! BETTER THOUGHTS!

Then I remembered: I cannot use my mind to help my mind when my mind is in distress.
At these moments, only the heart can help.

So.
My heart stepped in quietly and said to my tired mind: “Come and rest your tangle here with me. I’ll take care of you, just the way you are.”

My mind said, “But, but, BUT —“

My heart said, “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

Then we all rested together — me, mind, heart.

No solving happened this morning.
Solving doesn’t always have to happen. Sometimes it can’t. Sometimes all you need is a safe place to rest.

HEART.

Then I got up and drew this picture, for the next time I forget.
Onward.
LG

Do you believe in energy?
I do.
Do you believe it can gather momentum?
You don’t? Oh, boy, I do!
What about those days when you wake up on the wrong side of the bed and before you can say crap sandwich​, you stub your toe, the cat pukes on every flat surface in your apartment, the zipper breaks on your favorite pair of pants and you get a parking ticket in front of Starbucks?

THAT is what I mean by momentum.

Thankfully, not all days are bad and neither is momentum.

Energy is an equal opportunity force that can kick up the volume on positive stuff too. Don’t shake your head like that! What about those mornings when your hair decides to obey all the laws of physics​ and arranges itself on your head in a not-so-shitty way, you find ten bucks in an old pair of jeans, and just when it seems like things can’t get any better—you get a primo parking spot at Trader Joes (which practically takes an act of Congress) in the ten minute window you left yourself to shop.

But I’m no different than anyone else. I forget about momentum. That would mean I have to pay attention to my energy and steer it in the direction that feels better. Fuck, that sounds exhausting!

It’s so much easier to play the victim.
Ouch.

The other day I got a front row seat to some wicked energy momentum and it was so blatantly apparent it stopped me in my tracks. You expect it to be stealthy, sneaky, but sometimes it is so in-your-face you have no choice but to pay attention and try and take control of the wheel before your day or week goes completely off the rails.

Case in point:
STANDING IN THE BATHROOM.

He: I saw on Facebook that my buddy’s business is sponsoring a race car.

Me: You were on Facebook? Are pigs flying?

He: Ha, ha, very funny. I know, I’m anti-social media. Anyway, they’re sponsoring a race car and I never heard anything about it.

Me: Why would you?

He: (aghast) Because! I’m the car and motorcycle guru. I’m their go-to guy for anything with an internal combustion engine.

Me: (Yawn) Right. Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure it was just an oversight.

He: (unintelligible) Grumble, grumble, grumble.

LATER THAT NIGHT…

Me: What’s the matter?

He: Nothing.

REPEAT THAT INTERACTION AT LEAST TEN TIMES.

Me: Okay.

He: I went to see my buddies at their headquarters to ask them about the race car, and when I pulled up I saw my electrician’s truck in the parking lot, and lo and behold his guys were there doing a bunch of electrical work without my knowledge.

Me: Well…Did you ask…?

He: No.

Me: Why not?

He: Because…it was weird.

Me: I know, but I’m sure there was some kind of mistake. A new guy maybe?

He: How could there be? They all know I’m the one who arranges any work that’s done there.

Me: Hmmm…

He: And when I walked into their office they were talking to another pal of ours and they all stopped talking, like I was intruding. It felt weird.

Me: (Thinking ) Then did they all flip their hair, laugh diabolically, and walk off together to homeroom? (Said out loud) Maybe it was just your imagination? What could they be saying that they wouldn’t want you to hear?

He: I don’t know. Nothing. It was just so weird that my electricians were there…

Me: I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.

He: Right…

Me: What about the race car? Did you ask about that?

He: Oh, yeah, it just happened. They were really excited to tell me all about it.

Me: See. It was nothing.

He: Right…

Me: Somebody needs a hug.

He: Somebody needs a bottle of wine!

As he downed his first glassof wine like it was grape juice, I gingerly mentioned the fact that it looked suspiciously like his energy of they left me out of the loop from that morning had gotten a whole lot of momentum and was having its way with his emotions.

I could instantly remember doing the same thing a million times. Can’t you? It hurts. And as obvious as it is that the crappy reality we’re creating in our minds can be changed if we just take the time to see it—sadly, we are always the last to know.

“Think about it,” I said. “Out of the loop is the one thing that all of those situations have in common.” He yeah butted me for a while until he could see it too.

“I’m sure when you talk to your guys tomorrow there will be a perfectly simple explanation that will have nothing to do with being left out.

And as it turns out that’s exactly what happened.
His electrician called him first thing in the morning to ask about the billing (proving that he wasn’t going behind his back) and later that day he found out there was a new guy at the company who wasn’t read-in on the maintenance-chain-of-command.

Nothing was nefarious or personal.
It was all just a bunch of misunderstandings that were feeding on his energy.

Do you believe in energy?
I do.
Do you believe in momentum?
I most certainly do. I’ve seen it in action!

Carry on,
xox

​

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

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

“True romantic infatuation is pregnant with melancholy.”

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

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

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

Carry on,

xox