writer

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

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

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

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

I love that.

Once upon a time, I created a day too.

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

Here ya go…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overlooking is never intentional.

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

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

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

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

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

Carry on,
xox

“If you sucked all the thoughts out of your head, you’d find nothing but peace.”
~ Jill Whalen

Swiping left is the new “talk to the hand”. At least it is for me.
(I know “talk to the hand” is so prehistoric that if it were a meme it would be that meme that made us all laugh our asses off last week—but now, when we see it, it only makes us cringe.)

So it’s the new “Bye, Felicia”… I know.

It’s get lost and kiss my ass all rolled up in the simple flick of the wrist. What more could you want from life?

So I’ve made it a practice to mentally “swipe left” when I’m searching for peace of mind by feeling dismissive.

Like now.

Dear 4,768th Blue Host renewal notice. I get it. You expire in March. Calm the fuck down — I’m swiping left.

Dear shitty thought in the middle of the night (which I can’t remember —but was epically terrifying). You know who you are. The one that woke me up and got me all sweaty in the pits and girly bits — I’m swiping left.

Dear sun-in-my-eyes while I write this because it’s winter and shade is nonexistent because the trees have no leaves and the sun is so low it feels like it has to try harder — I’m swiping left.

Dear Starbucks app. Sometimes I want to kiss you on the lips, but mostly you suck. Is this only in LA? — I’m swiping left.

Dear mirror, mirror on the wall. WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! — I’m swiping left.

Dear static electricity. You made my dress stick in my ass all day and you shocked me with such ferocity you nearly blew off the tip of my finger — I’m swiping left.

Dear Siri, you are useless and annoy me to no end — I’m swiping left.

Dear wine. Why have you forsaken me? — I’m swiping left.

Dear estrogen. Same question. — I’m swiping left.

Dear whiff of a thought of swimsuit shopping for my sixtieth birthday trip to a spa. You are one sadistic bitch — I’m swiping left.

Dear gnarly protein drink that was supposed to taste like a Frappuccino. Just so you know, false advertising is a criminal offense — I’m swiping left.

Dear everybody in Washington D.C.,  I will continue to look at you through my fingers like I do when I watch a horror movie. You are all scary as fuck — I’m swiping left.

You guys have got to try this. It really works.

Swiping left on Y’all now,
xox

I was talking by to a dear friend today about meditation and what a challenge it can be trying to fit this annoying exercise in futility invaluable tool into our busy lives.

“I’m lucky to grab five minutes!” She explained as we shared a decadent grilled cheese, tomato and ham sandwich from one of our favorite local haunts.

“That’s better than nothing” I replied with a mouth full of golden, drippy cheese.

“Yeah, well, just as I sat down to meditate yesterday, my husband barged into the room and ruined the vibe.”

Don’t you hate when that happens? I fucking hate when that happens!

It seems like just when I settle in, the gardener shows up with his bliss-shattering leaf-blower. Or my fifty-pound dog decides to jump in my lap.

I hate the interruption—but I don’t let it derail me. Let me explain.

As I’ve expressed here many times, I sucked at mediation…for decades!
I strained and struggled, I sought out the advice of gurus and I studied it endlessly.

One meditation teacher I had back in the early 80’s played loud music, usually Led Zeppelin, for an hour as we, his devoted idiots, students, sat in lotus, desperately trying not to mouth the lyrics. “Quiet the mind!” He’d yell over the voice Robert Plant.

Yeah, right.

One guy who was supposedly an Enlightened Master had us try to meditate with our feet submerged in ice water. That only made me have to pee.

Another teacher used the sounds of the city to try to sharpen our focus. She’d swing the doors and windows wide open allowing the symphony of traffic and sirens to bounce off the walls surrounding us in noise.

You guys, I sucked so bad at all of this. I mean, SO bad.

Trying to wrangle my focus long enough to settle my mind seemed as unattainable as a twenty-two inch waist.

Finally, my Shaman, yes, I had a kind of personal pocket-Shaman in the nineties, (long story) had no patience whatsoever for my endless complaining. “It’s easy to meditate in a dark and quiet room”, he’d say. “Child’s play!”

Yeah, right.

“The goal is to find stillness inside of the chaos.”

Didn’t I see that on a bumper sticker or an ad for Ambien?

“Right. Stillness inside chaos. Tell that to my monkey mind. It’s throwing its own poop right now!

Silently, (because who can argue with that compelling an image) he walked me over to a computer and pulled up a picture of a hurricane from Space.

“Look at this. Nature knows. See the eye? The eye is stillness inside of chaos. Be the eye.”

Well, shit.

But ya know what? One day all of that practice I’d had at focusing my mind in the midst of chaos paid off. I’m pretty sure I could meditate for a least five minutes next to a jack hammer—because I’ve done it!

And if you can do that, the next thing you’ll notice is that you won’t lose your mind in traffic—you won’t blow a gasket in the ten-items-or-less line at the supermarket when the guy in front of you has ten cases of different soups that have to be scanned separately—and you can sit with a group of co-workers, serenely sipping your latte while Bob, the guy in accounting, talks on and on about how Trump has made America great again.

All of this to say, practice pays off you guys. Five minutes leads to seven, seven minutes leads to ten, and the next thing you know, you’ll be so removed from the chaos you won’t know where your nose is or even if you have a face—and you won’t hear the timer go off.

I promise.

Trust me, it can happen. I’ve cleaned many a poopy wall—I know the struggle is real!

Carry on,
xox

Hi Loves,
Holy Moly…
Transformation is messy, and difficult and at times infuriating! Don’t lose hope. Don’t throw in the towel at the 11th hour.


Remember, before the caterpillar’s transformation into the beautiful butterfly is complete—it is literally soup.

Whatever you do, don’t open the chrysalis before you’re cooked!
Please, don’t take score too soon.

We are ALL in the process of transformation, the journey from one point to the next spanning our entire lives. You WILL get to your destination – you WILL metamorphose, of that I am sure.

The grander, more ambitious and fantastical the transformation – the more hellacious it seems during the process.

Don’t listen to the soup. The soup is well…soup. It’s uncomfortable and ugly and incomplete. The soup doesn’t know shit and it doesn’t give good advice.

Soon you’ll take flight,
Love you, Carry on,
xox

THE LAW OF DIMINISHING RETURNS

(the law of) diminishing returns
phrase of diminish

1. Used to refer to a point at which the level of profits or benefits gained is less than the amount of money or energy invested.

I talked to a man recently, a very accomplished man, who acts like he has the world by the tail. And by that I mean, he looks down on everyone who hasn’t had the good fortune of being him.

Whatever life decisions you’ve made, however you’ve invested your money, even what music you listen to is met with a pursed lip to go along with his disapproving face. (I have it on good authority that when you purchase them at the Smug Store—they come as a pair.)

That’s okay, dude. Gimme all ya got. I worked in Beverly Hills for two decades. Water off a duck’s back.

All evening long, as I listened to his risk averse, conservative, privileged and inflexible views on life, I couldn’t help but wonder, How does his poor wife put up with this shit?

Then I remembered. She does it by trotting off on one of her horses, that’s how.

Oh, dear God, how I wish I had that ability.

The ability to bend to someone else’s will. The ability to let someone else run my life. To bankroll it with every string attached. And then buy me a pony to reward my compliance.

I wish I had a price for my silence. It would have made my life SO much easier.

Because, you see, I was born with a big mouth. A big, loud, mouth that says stuff that makes guys like that shrivel in their underpants. Stuff like, “You’re not the boss of me!” And “Take your fucking pony and shove it!”

Some women trade all of the flack, disagreements, head-butting, and power struggles that happen in relationships for diamonds, vacations, fast cars and ponies.

Not me. I call that foreplay… Or Tuesday.

Unfortunately for me, (and probably for any man who has had a serious relationship with me) I have never been one of those women you could placate with bling. Biting my tongue and swallowing my opinions is much too high of a price to pay—for such little reward.

The law of diminishing returns.
Just one of the laws I have come to live by.
Along with no right turn on red, and chew before swallowing.

Carry on,
xox

If you’re feeling insignificant, wondering what your place is in this vast and complicated universe, take a look at this link.

https://ispot.tv/a/wNKu

I know, its a car commercial, but the images are gorgeous and the words gave me the feels.
I wish I’d written it!

Look up.

Carry on,
xox

See this stump? It may look like your run-of-the-mill vine that has been cut-down-to-the-bone. But oh, she is so much more than that!

Let me recap. This summer we suffered through a rat infestation so virulent that it made the biblical plagues look like the work of amateurs. Once we discovered that the rats were treating the gorgeous, perpetually blooming Bougainvillea that graced our back fence like a crack house, begrudgingly, we were forced to cut it all back.

That’s when we realized that the sixty-plus year old Bougainvillea had been holding up the equally aged fence. Our first clue came when it fell down. It collapsed like the house of cards we didn’t know it was and left us no choice but to build another.

Today I herby christen last summer as the Rat Bastard Summer of Limited Choices.

Anyway, this stump, and the Bougainvillea as a whole became what my husband likes to call “collateral damage”.

I hate that term.

In my experience, what that means is: We unintentionally broke, cut, demo’d, or otherwise destroyed something you love, and you seem mad—so we tell you it couldn’t be avoided.

Once the fence had been removed I asked the gardener (not my beloved Pedro, his assistant) to cut the Bougainvillea back even further so the guys could build a new fence without being impaled.

That night when I saw their handiwork I almost cried. I’m familiar with this type of eager overreach. Throughout my life I’ve suffered at the hands of your random hairdresser, trained by Edward Scissorhands, who left me with a hatchet job of a haircut so heinous that no hat could disguise the damage.

I was convinced my self-esteem would never recover.

And I was just as convinced that this Grand Dame of bougainvillea’s recovery would be sketchy at best. She is over sixty after all and they desecrated and disrespected her, whittling her into a popsicle stick.

“She’s dead. They killed her!” I moaned, with the same level of tortured angst usually reserved for roadkill, my favorite characters who’ve been killed off in a novel…or everyone on Game of Thrones.

I was furious.

But here it is, three months later, and just like my husband said as he reassured me that hot September night, she has risen from the dead. I have to bite my lip to keep from weeping as I write this.

Reliance is her middle name (she won’t tell me her first, she doesn’t trust me anymore).

From this day forward, when I feel beaten down and defeated, cut down and undermined. And when I feel ugly as a stump. I will look outside at this beautiful old woman, the crone of my backyard, who had the will to rise above the worst take a little off the top, collateral damage in the history of the world—and know that my problems aren’t worth shit.

Carry on,
xox

INTANGIBLE
in·tan·gi·ble
inˈtanjəb(ə)l/
adjective

Unable to be touched or grasped; not having physical presence.
“God seems so intangible”
synonyms:impalpable, untouchable, incorporeal, discarnate, abstract

Settling for the believable.
What?
Why?
No fucking way!

I learned this week that the TED talks want you to have documented proof and data to support your talk.

Fuck. That just makes me mad (no TED talk for me) and worse than that it makes TED a very dull boy.

What about the intangible?

I was reminded this week about certain properties of quantum physics. The fact that everything at the sub-atomic level is made up mostly of …empty space.

Including you and me. And the chair you’re sitting in while you read this.

Yet, we’ve all agreed to see things as solid.

What about the fact that particles make up atoms and yet those atoms contain properties NOT found in particles.
Then atoms gather together and make up molecules yet those molecules contain properties that are NOT present in atoms.
Molecules make up cells and…you guessed it, same thing.

So… we are made up of those cells with all of that unexplainable stuff inside.

Huh.

So far the intangible is waaaaaay more interesting to me than the easily believable. The stuff that adds up. The stuff that makes sense (yawn).

Talk to me more about the abstract, the impalpable; the divine.

“I don’t believe in things that can’t be proven,” said the little shit with the pocket protector.

Oh really Pointdexter? What about dark matter, string theory and the Higgs Boson Particle? Huh?

What about babies?
An egg and sperm collide (and that’s no easy task) and instantly cells start dividing. And somehow contained in those cells are an eyebrow, a penis and a heart that beats. Not only that, the whole thing mysteriously knows how to arrange itself. The penis does’t show up on your face and your heart at the bottom of your foot.

IT KNOWS WHERE TO GO AND WHAT TO DO.
At a cellular level.

It doesn’t arrange itself in a random pattern and become a turnip.
No woman I know of has given birth to a turnip.
Neither has any ape, elephant, cat or chicken.

What plays a role in that? Something intangible?

Where does love come from?
Alaska? Italy? (well, maybe Italy).
Can you order it on Amazon?

Where does it originate?

What about a great idea?
Inspiration? Work of art or piece of music?

I know they are received by the mind, but where do they come from?

Is there a documented storehouse for that?

“Um, hello, yes, I’d like to order two great ideas and if I could get those by Friday that would be great. What? That’s extra?
Fine, put it on my Visa.”

I will not settle for the believable. And neither should you.

Remember we’re all looking for wonder and wonder isn’t even in the same zip code as the believable, the mundane or predictable.

Go ahead TED —ask for data.
You know that white board the study is written on is made up of empty space, right?

Carry on in the most intangible way,
xox

As another year ends, I’m tempted to resolution the shit out of 2018. Like really give it the once over and tell it who’s boss.

But what if FIRST—before leaping forward—I looked back at 2017 with something resembling…satisfaction? Is that even possible for me?

Like you, I had a parent growing up, who could not find it in himself to praise an accomplishment—no matter how big or small. I can only assume that his fear was that I would find a giant pile of laurels and rest on them comfortably…into perpetuity.

“Sure, that’s all good and well but what about…” was his tag line when dolling out any kind of praise. And by praise I mean lack of criticism.

I realize this is like speaking greek to all of the millennials out there who think they’re hot shit right out of the womb, but to the rest of us, who had the privilege or misfortune (depending how you look at things) to be born in the twentieth century, we are hardwired to always be striving for better or more.

Nothing is ever “good enough.”

And THAT, my friends, is a recipe for disaster every January 1st.

Resolutions can loom large. And they can be debilitating.

I’m at my bff, Steph and her hubby’s new house as I write this, in the gloriously dark and damp Pacific Northwest Besides being such a welcome change of scenery for this dried up, smoke saturated Los Angeleno, looking around I can see all of the improvements they’ve made in the two-ish short months they’ve lived here and I must say—I’m wildly impressed. Not just a little bit impressed—WILDLY.

But here’s the thing, I’m certain if you ask her she has a list a mile long of what still needs to be done. No laurel resting for Steph!

We all have that laundry list of things yet unaccomplished.
And that thing is ravenous, growing exponentially by the minute as it taunts us in our father’s voice late at night when we’re trying to sleep.
“Sure, that’s all good and well, but…”

What did you cross off your list this year? No matter how miniscule I want to be the first to congratulate you with a hearty “Job well done!”

Doesn’t that feel nice?

In my humble opinion, any movement forward is commendable, even if it seems more like a cha-cha than a sprint.

I grow barnacles on my body like a piece of driftwood lost at sea for decades.
Skin tags, moles and such, so finally this year I had my entire naked body checked by a young, male doctor (kill me now) for cancer and had several benign moles removed in the process. Every morning when I look in the mirror, I have a flash of satisfaction followed by many minutes of disappointment when I see the twenty or so barnacles still waiting to be scraped away.

It’s like that for me with every unfinished project, broken promises made to myself, and goals left un-met. I take no pleasure in the items that are crossed off my list—I only feel shame for the items that remain.

That’s fucked up.

So, I guess as this complicated, hard to understand year passes into the history books (and believe me, it will) I wish that all of us—each and every one of us knows that we are great!

We are not only great—we are resilient af, and filled with love, humor and most of all…

We are enough.

Pass it on. I’m telling you, so now I’d love it if you’d turn to someone you know, someone who really needs to hear this, (which in my estimation is everyone on the planet) and tell them ever so gently—you are enough.

Many blessings to you, my tribe,

Carry on,
xox

“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for…what?”

I was listening to a podcast today and this “old saying” stopped me in my tracks.

Well, the big, juicy melted piece of gum I stepped in while I was listening and traversing the parking lot at Target actually DID stop me in my tracks. A stop so dead—I walked right out of my shoe.

I kid you not.

Seeing that we are deep into December, I had to park so far away that the actual Target store was just a speck on the horizon. I’m sure someone left their gum, like a bread crumb, to mark the trail back to their car so…I can’t really be mad, can I?
But enough about my glamourous life.

Back to the saying. You know, the myth that implies that there are more than enough hours in a day.

You work eight hours.
Stop laughing.
I know we’re smack dab in the middle of the holidays and what with shopping and wrapping and all—the Elves up at the North Pole have a shorter work day. And better benefits. And terrific catering. Nevermind.

So… you work.

Anyhow, you sleep eight hours. But seriously, who does? I’m lucky to get seven. This morning I woke up at 3 am because I thought I saw an orange glow down the hall and knew for sure the tree was on fire.
It wasn’t.

Too late, adrenaline rushes don’t keep regular office hours.

Then I couldn’t remember all of the reindeer names or get that damn song out of my head.
I lay there wondering where on earth my pine nut cookie recipe went and the next thing I knew it was 4am and all I could think about was how good coffee would taste with a pine nut cookie—so I got up and made some. Coffee. Not the cookies. I’m still at a loss.

So…You sleep.

But you guys, that still leaves at least several, maybe four, hours left to do whatever you want.

My friend says those hours are reserved for worrying.
Yikes.
My hubby says traffic on the 101 freeway chews up his spare time.
Jeepers, people.

What about eating?
Sex anybody?
Holiday merriment?

I decided to paint with a broad brush.
“I work 8 hours, I sleep 8 hours, that leaves 8 hours left for… FUN!”

That sounds downright illegal, doesn’t it? Fun? Really? And for eight hours? Oh, sweet Jesus, help me!

But fun can be anything, right?

A glass of pink champagne for no reason?

Maybe it’s staying up after everybody else goes to bed to binge watch Netflix.

What about going out to lunch and catching up with an old friend?

Today, my friend Kim and I played hookie and went to see a movie—in the middle of the day!

How would you complete that sentence? Gimme some hints, I’d love to know.

Carry on,
xox