writer

“Fear shows up unbidden, it almost never goes away if you will it to, and it’s rarely a useful tool for your best work.

~Seth Godin

I’m going to tattoo this on my forehead or better yet, get it as a tramp-stamp. How about you?

“Never drink wine while operating power tools. The dust will spoil it.”
~Ted Bixby

…or apply eyeliner. “Never apply eyeliner while operating power tools. The line will always be crooked.”
~Me

We are forbidden in our house to use the words never and always. Mostly because when we do they’re spit out through grit teeth during an argument, and secondly, and most importantly—because they’re never true. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

“I can’t wait for that to never happen.”

It’s a good rule (of course it is, I made it up), and I credit it with the longevity of our marriage.

“You never take me anywhere” is quite simply a lie. My husband and I are in the car together a lot and most of the time he drives. Same with the motorcycle, so just as a technicality—it’s total bullshit.

The same holds true for “You are always picking on me!”. IF there were a grain of truth in that statement, he would have left me long ago or my forehead would have met with a fork in a very unfortunate way.

It’s all about communication. Picking the right words. Saying what you REALLY mean…and chocolate. Relationships, and pretty much all the other good things in life are made that much more tolerable with chocolate.

So as not to belabor the point and to maintain my status as a contradicted mess—here are some never’s that never disappoint and a few always that always hold up.

“Wicked people never have time for reading. It’s one of the reasons for their wickedness.”
― Lemony Snicket

No matter how smart you are you can never convince someone stupid that they are stupid.
~Anonymous

I never made a mistake in my life. I thought I did once, but I was wrong.
~Charles M. Schulz (And my husband)

Never moon a werewolf.
~Mike Binder

Never ask a starfish for directions.
~Anonymous

Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else.
~Margaret Mead

You can always tell when the groove is working or not.
~Prince

It always seems impossible until it’s done.
~Nelson Mandela

If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. And if they don’t, they never were.
~Khalil Gibran

Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible. (grimacing a little on this one, but, okay…he’s the Dali fucking Lama…)
~Dalai Lama

All of this just goes to show that it’s a good idea to watch your words and that every rule is made to be broken!

Carry on,
xox

Okay. Prepare to have your minds BLOWN.

I am currently reading The Power of I Am ~ Two Words That Will Change Your Life Today ~ by Joel Osteen.

Yes, you read that right. The book is by pastor Joel Osteen.
Yes, THAT Joel Osteen,
Pastor of the America’s largest congregation, Lakewood Church in Houston Texas, where more than 45,000 people attend services EVERY WEEK.

Before you all think I’ve flipped to the tele-evangelist side of the street, let me explain.
First of all, the rumor that he is supporting Trump is unfounded, I checked, so calm down.

Here’s the thing, when I saw him recently chatting it up with Oprah on Super Soul Sunday, I was like, ‘Oh Oprah, really?’, but if she was willing to devote an hour of her time to promote his book, I could settle in for the forty minutes (sans commercials), and attempt to practice open-mindedness.

You all are familiar with that? Right? Open mindedness I mean.

Well, I did it and I’ve gotta tell ya, to my surprise he did NOT thump a Bible, not once! As a matter of fact, he speaks my language, the language of Law of Attraction, something I’ve studied for over thirty years!

What?

Instead of Universe, or Higher Power or Scott, the terms I prefer, he uses God or The Lord.
I can live with that.
The rest of his message is the SAME!
But you probably already knew that, right?
I forget that many of you still practice Christianity and are not heathens…like me.

The basic tenets of his message being:

Watch your thinking.
Watch your words.
Watch your beliefs, yadda, yadda, yadda.
And it will change your life.

I write about all those things here. A lot.

So, I felt connected. Simpatico with the Pastor. Loving HIS interpretation of that book known as the Bible.

In his book, he talks about a particular passage in that book, Deuteronomy 15 to be exact, and about a law that God gave the people of Israel. Here it is: At the end of every seventh year, you get released from any debt you owe.

Which means—all things are temporary.

“The seventh year is when you break free from any limitation that is holding you back. Sickness, addiction, worry, debt, and constant struggles. Things that looked as if they would never change.”

Situations look and FEEL permanent. Each day repeating itself without any hope of things changing. We’ve all felt that way.

Until…suddenly they do.
Suddenly you meet the right person.
Suddenly you get the right doctor.
Suddenly your health improves.
Suddenly a check arrives.
Suddenly you get the best idea you’ve ever had.
Suddenly things don’t seem insurmountable.

We’ve al had THAT happen too. Come on. You know you have!

According to Pastor Osteen (and Deuteronomy) and the Bible–that’s your “seventh year” in action.

Don’t you love that!

I was reminded once again by Facebook of something I did seven years ago this week. Someone, a friend, had posted a kind response to an email I had sent to the loyal customers of my store. It was 2009 and the economy as in the crapper. Stores all around the neighborhood were closing. Some of them overnight without so much as a whimper. A few of them I loved so much that I was devastated.

Why hadn’t they shared their plight with us, their loyal following? Maybe we could have helped.

When things in my retail world started to crumble and I was literally three months behind in my rent, I decided to send out an email. A clarion call of sorts. It took me days to complete.
It had to have just the right tone. Not too needy—or pleady—or sad-sacky. I thought that if I could explain just how dire the situation was—that I was thisclose to being arrested for squatting—they could consider themselves forewarned and might be more likely to take advantage of the 50% off that I was offering.

It was a HUGE deal for me. I’m not someone who asks for help or solicits pity. I hate feeling ashamed.
I’m a stiff-upperlipper. One of the best. So as you can imagine (or maybe not), I puked when I hit send on the email that day. Then…

Suddenly things turned around.
Suddenly we all stopped pretending things were “great”.
Suddenly people started showing up and BUYING stuff.
Suddenly I could become current with my landlord.

The store did drown later that fall, but still…it was an exercise for me in how people react to courage and authenticity. (They react with compassion and more authenticity, by-the-way).

Knowing that it’s been exactly seven years since I incurred the biggest debt I’ve ever carried while at the same time committing the bold act of leaving my retail career in the rear-view mirror to pursue writing, I feel a renewed sense of excitement after reading about this seven-year forgiveness plan.

So, what was happening with YOU seven years ago? What burden can be set free for YOU?

And if you think about it, every day is your seventh year from something. Which was exactly the point.

Nothing is written in stone, people.
Well, except for the commandments.
But not the bad stuff.
Take it from me. The new Biblical scholar.

Carry on,
xox

http://www.amazon.com/Power-Am-Words-Change-Today/dp/0892969962/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1461613626&sr=8-1&keywords=the+power+of+i+am

To all of you out there, and there are many, many of you, who are willing to be toast on your way to transformation—we are all in this together—and I applaud you with my crispy, toasted little hands!

Love,
The piece of burnt toast you’re smelling right now.
xox

Just when I thought my screenplay was finished, my Muse, who is like a shark in the fact that she never sleeps and hasn’t met anything she won’t eat, suggested that we open our film with the song “Let’s Go Crazy” by that artist who was known as Prince—then the symbol—then Prince again..

Just so you know, her suggestions are more like directives. Softer than outright orders, but hey, who are we kidding, they’re really not open for negotiation.

But still, it’s me…I argued.

“What? What are you saying?” I quizzed the silly ghost who was harping on the fact that it would be a kick-ass opener. A real sit-up-straight-in-your-seat moment.

Well, no argument there, but…

“Just imagine it” she’d say, and I would—vividly—with goosebumps and all—but not without some reservations.

Now don’t get me wrong, I LOVE that song and I’m bat-shit crazy about Prince.
In the 1980’s he was more than the soundtrack of my life. I adored everything about him. I even thought the acting was GOOD in the movie and I subsequently wore the grooves smooth on my Purple Rain album.

But my Muse? SHE is someone from another generation, someone more likely to suggest Nina Simone or Nat King Cole.
Certainly not Prince. Never Prince.
So I questioned her judgment on the relevance of that song at that particular moment in that movie of that subject matter—which is life after death.

During one particularly strenuous argument that I was making about Prince being someone who NEVER licensed his songs out to anyone—for anything, she actually reassured me.
“It’s not your job to worry about that stuff”, she insisted. “None of that will be an issue when the time comes. Besides, why are you arguing? You love that song!”

One day at the gym after that song had interrupted the podcast I was attempting to listen to five times in a row, I heard her voice.

“Hey, you wanna know why this song is so perfect? Did you listen to all the words?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Really? Do you know EVERY word?”

“Maybe… Do you?”

“Sing it for me”, she demanded, testing me.

As I sang the words out loud that morning at the gym with the music blasting in my ears, I suddenly realized, ‘Shit, I’d better shut up because people are staring AND OMG, the bitch is right! This song is all about death and life…and life after death… and… OMG! Who knew?!’

So of course argument over and into the screenplay it went.

FADE IN: [SONG] LET’S GO CRAZY – PRINCE, THE REVOLUTION

EXTERIOR. DAY. CEMETERY
The screen is black. Slowly we see the top of a coffin as the camera pans up to show an overview of mourners, graveside, all in black.

[SONG] “Dearly beloved,

We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life
Electric word life
It means forever and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you
There’s something else —
The after world.

A world of never ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night
So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
You know the one, Dr. Everything’ll Be Alright
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left
Ask him how much of your mind, baby
‘Cause in this life
Things are much harder than in the after world

In this life-
You’re on your own.”

EXT. DAY — WIDE SWEEPING AERIAL SHOT – MULHOLLAND DRIVE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The camera follows Mulholland Drive while the music plays and the credits roll until we see a Red Fiat Spider convertible sports car with the top down racing along this winding mountain road.

Ironically enough, I spent a majority of March marinating in all things Prince (there’s another Prince song that closes the film), something I haven’t done since my twenties; changing things around, re-writing and wondering whether or not he would approve of the use of his songs inside our material.

During this time I remembered The Tambourine.

A good friend of mine had absconded with one of Prince’s tambourines after working the sound on an impromptu concert two years ago. As the story goes, (and I will believe this until the day I die), it was the actual one that Prince played himself that night.

After I peed my pants, did my spazzy happy dance, and squealed the high-pitched scream of a twelve-year-old girl—I hung it in my “office” as one of my most prized possessions.

Holding it in my hands in March, I consulted with the tambourine (you know, like you do), and the answer came to me loud and clear (and was accompanied by some tambourine rifts just for good measure).

I felt that if he read it—he’d get it.

No need for that after today. The artist known as Prince has gone to the great concert in the sky and knowing what I know about the after world (that it’s a freakin’ free-for-all, y’all), I can rest assured of the fact that my bossy little friend has a back-stage pass—no wait, she’s with the band —and she has cornered the poor guy and is telling him our story. Which means that in due time she will hammer out any and all of the details for our licensing agreement. Mark my words.

Because that’s what they do in the afterlife, they keep doing all the things they loved.

But I can’t help wondering…did she get a head’s up for his departure from this mortal coil in advance? In other words, did she know he was coming?  Was she at the arrivals gate?

For someone of a completely different generation, she seemed REALLY sure of herself about all things Prince.

WTF?

Anyhow, I suppose that’s for her to know–and me to find out…eventually. And when I do, you guys will be the next ones to know.

Carry on,
xox

This is the tambourine. I know. So cool!

Hi you Guys,
You’re going to LOVE this story. Trust me. I know. It’s just what your dear hearts ordered.
Carry on,
xox

“When the world feels cold and dark and lonely, take heart: Anybody can make their corner of it brighter.”

By Elizabeth Gilbert

Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in New York City during rush hour.
Traffic was barely moving. The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated—with one another; with the rainy, sleety weather; with the world itself. Two men barked at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here.

But as the bus approached Seventh Avenue, the driver got on the intercom.
“Folks,” he said, “I know you’ve had a rough day and you’re frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here’s what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight—just leave ’em with me. My route goes right by the Hudson River, and when I drive by there later, I’ll open the window and throw your troubles in the water. Sound good?”

It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight. People who’d been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence were suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious?

Oh, he was serious.

At the next stop—just as promised—the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up—but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way to the river.

We live in a hard world, my friends.
Sometimes it’s extra difficult to be a human being. Sometimes you have a bad day. Sometimes you have a bad day that lasts for several years. You struggle and fail. You lose jobs, money, friends, faith, and love. You witness horrible events unfolding in the news, and you become fearful and withdrawn. There are times when everything seems cloaked in darkness. You long for the light but don’t know where to find it.

But what if you are the light? What if you’re the very agent of illumination that a dark situation begs for?

That’s what this bus driver taught me—that anyone can be the light, at any moment. This guy wasn’t some big power player. He wasn’t a spiritual leader. He wasn’t some media-savvy “influencer.” He was a bus driver—one of society’s most invisible workers. But he possessed real power, and he used it beautifully for our benefit.

When life feels especially grim, or when I feel particularly powerless in the face of the world’s troubles, I think of this man and ask myself, What can I do, right now, to be the light? Of course, I can’t personally end all wars, or solve global warming, or transform vexing people into entirely different creatures. I definitely can’t control traffic. But I do have some influence on everyone I brush up against, even if we never speak or learn each other’s name. How we behave matters because within human society everything is contagious—sadness and anger, yes, but also patience and generosity. Which means we all have more influence than we realize.

No matter who you are, or where you are, or how mundane or tough your situation may seem, I believe you can illuminate your world. In fact, I believe this is the only way the world will ever be illuminated—one bright act of grace at a time, all the way to the river.

Elizabeth Gilbert is the author of, most recently, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear (Riverhead).

Read more: http://www.oprah.com/inspiration/Elizabeth-Gilbert-May-2016-O-Magazine#ixzz46OWzc4wR

“Josephine caught my eye and gave me a signal we’d used for years to indicate that one of us had to leave. The signal was mouthing the words “I have to leave” and pointing at the door.”
~Lemony Snicket

I saw this quote the other day and it got me to thinking…I’m freakin’ Josephine.

When stuck at a painfully boring event, like the college graduation of the son of your husband’s boss, any party that starts with the word THEME, most New Year’s Eves, or any occasion where there is no alcohol served, how do you signal that you’ve had enough?

What charades do you employ to make your escape without seeming like a complete and total ass?

Do you discuss it with your companion ahead of time?
Do you have hand gestures?
Safe Words?

Back in the day a certain boyfriend and I employed the simple gun-to-the-head technique which consisted of basically putting the point of your index finger to your temple and pulling the imaginary trigger. If the food was particularly ghastly, which was often the case since we were all under thirty (think melted Velveeta cheese), we added a dramatic flair with eye rolls to heaven.
If we just couldn’t stand to breathe the smoke filled air for even one more minute, the trigger pull was accompanied by sound effects.

I would pass him at the makeshift bar set up in the bathtub (or at the keg), point the finger at my head.
Boom!
He’d get the message and within five minutes we were on our way to In-N-Out.

Over the years, my sister and I have taken this to another level.

We’ve become Bad Party Mercenaries.

When we catch each other’s eye at some bullshit obligatory event that we both tried to get out of—but couldn’t—we reach into our purses for the imaginary grenade we brought with us—pull the pin out with our teeth (you know, like you do), and throw it toward the biggest blowhard in the room, saving those around him from one more minute of torture.

I suppose it’s a humanitarian act. We should both get a medal.

When shit gets real and it looks like the madness will never end, we also have an imaginary bazooka which we’ve been known to pull out of thin air, put up on our shoulder, pull the two hand grips down and  back and BLOW THE PLACE DOWN.

BOOM! (Our cheeks blow up like a blowfish because bigger weapons need better sound effects).

Then we burst out laughing with snorts and guffaws and make a run for the cheese dip.

Every event has an implied “It’s safe to leave and not look like an idiot” marker.

You’re not supposed to leave a bridal shower until she’s opened all the presents and is sporting the “gift bow hat.” (Insert dramatic eye roll here.)

It is considered bad taste to leave a graduation until they hand out the diplomas.
The thing is they leave that task until the very end and it can take many, many hours in the hot sun waiting for your friend’s kid, R. Ziskin to walk up to the stage and shake hands.

Truth be told, I’ve thrown many a grenade before he ever throws his cap in the air.

At weddings, you’re supposed to wait until after they cut the cake.
I have been known to risk ridicule and leave prior to the cake cut because the band sucked, the bride and groom were drunk and the cake was white on white. (What? Why?)

These days I mostly sneak out (with snacks in my pockets), after saying my goodbyes to the hosts. (My husband makes me).

So, tell me. Do you guys adhere to all of the party etiquettes? Are you the last to leave…or the first?
What’s your silent signal?

I won’t be mad if you want to steal our bazooka idea. (It’s an acquired skill. We’re thinking of doing a YouTube tutorial).

Carry on,
xox

“So, he said I have a really cute vagina…”

I just about dropped the carton of eggs I was pulling out of the fridge for our breakfast but made the save. The half-smoked cigarette I was balancing between my lips wasn’t as lucky, falling onto the kitchen linoleum, just barely missing my bare feet—as my mouth hung agape.

My roommate chattered on as I stomped out the hot ash that was skittering about with my heavily callused heel.

“One of the prettiest he’s ever seen.”

“Wait. Who said that? Michael? Your boyfriend?” I asked as if I really wanted to know.

Moments earlier I had innocently asked how her visit to the Gynecologist had gone the previous day. She’d had a couple of wonky pap smear results and, well, now here she was, off talking about all the compliments her vagina was getting—and I was confused.

She did have the attention span of a spider monkey so this wasn’t new, but the subject matter was. We weren’t in the habit of sharing super intimate, sex-related pillow talk.

“No, silly, Dr. SoandSo”, she laughed, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she snuffed out her cigarette in the Philodendron on the kitchen table.

We had a habit of smoking while cooking. Only while cooking. It nauseates me even now. All of it. Even this conversation. Especially this conversation.

I whipped around, setting the egg carton down hard in front of her. Egg snot ran from several of the perforations onto the vintage 1950’s Formica diner table we sat around in the kitchen.

She jumped, startled, as I yelled into her face.  “What the fuck?! Are you telling me you’re Gynecologist said that to you?!”

She looked at me as if my head had spun around (which it had, but just once), her big, brown saucer eyes filled with fear.

“Uh, yeah, he was just…um…it wasn’t…uh…”

“Please tell me he at least removed his hand before he said that!” I asked,  again not really wanting to know the answer. I’m not even sure why that mattered, it’s just that the thought of her doctor wrist-deep inside of her, cooing that bullshit while she’s on her back with her legs in the stirrups made me want to puke—and call the police.

“That is sexual harassment!” I screamed louder than I intended.
”He’s a professional! He should NEVER say that sort of thing to you! Everyone knows gynecologists are only allowed to talk about the weather when they’re down there—below the equator!”

She looked bewildered.

“Honey”, I pulled up a chair and sat straight in front of her, lowering my voice into a calmer, more soothing register as I realized she had no idea what he’d done.

It was a compliment. About her lady parts. From a man.

UGH.

“You have to report him. He’s a bad guy, and not a good doctor. That wasn’t a compliment. It was HIGHLY inappropriate.”

When she finally got it, she looked ashamed.

“If you don’t—I will!”

Sexual harassment in the workplace, from people in positions of power, and I think, in general, is SUCH a subjective topic and to this day—I’m not sure why.

It’s been my observation that most men just don’t get the intricacies.
The boundaries are blurred to the point that unless it comes down to an actual physical assault—it can slide under the radar like it did for my twenty-seven-year-old roommate.

It is often covert—cloaked in a compliment, delivered by someone in authority, wrapped inside of a joke or said straight up to your face with a wink—and if you so much as bat an eyelash—you’re overreacting.

Clearly, the situation was “misconstrued”.

I loathe that word. Misconstrued.
Lots of slimy people get away with highly questionable shit by hiding behind that word.

Here’s the thing, I don’t misconstrue anything. My gut construes everything you said correctly. Your innuendo? It was interpreted exactly how you meant it. There was no mistake made.

Except for you thinking I wouldn’t say anything.

I worked in a male-dominated business for almost twenty years.
And I grew up with a brother and worked my way through school on the night crew of a supermarket as one of only two girls.
I know men. I love men, and I know male humor.
I get it. I can even appreciate it. It can be bawdy and blue and I’m a real broad—one of the guys—so I’m often right there in it AND I can let a lot of shit slide.

But there’s a line. A boundary that should never be crossed, and you know when it has been by the pit in your stomach.

My male boss was always the epitome of appropriate behavior. He never made a misstep.
But one day in the midst of an all-male jewelry buy (or a shark feeding-frenzy, take your pick), the free-range testosterone in the room took control of one of my boss’ partners and best friends. As he went to leave, he hugged me goodbye for a little bit too long, and the hug was just a little bit too tight and there it was—his semi-erect “little friend” pressed up against my thigh.

It was no accident. There were a couple of dry-humps. I kid you not.

Reflexively and forcefully, I pushed him away with both hands looking him straight in the eye—horrified.

He winked, and yelled something back at the guys about his jeans being too tight, and made a quick getaway.

I could barely catch my breath. I was shaking and red in the face. Immediately, I grabbed my boss by the arm, yanking him out of earshot of the others.

As a woman in a man’s world, you walk a tightrope—you want to be a “good sport”, “one of the guys”, yet still be treated with respect.

“THAT man!”, I whisper/yelled, “You had better keep your FRIEND away from me—he is NEVER to lay a hand on me again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? If he does—I will quit and then I will sue him all the way to hell and back!”

He shook his head and shrugged, confused. “O…kay…”, he stammered still staring at my panting, red face.

“He pressed his dick against my leg!” I whispered forcefully, staring him down, trying to make him understand. He immediately looked down at his feet, embarrassed. “Okay”, he replied, wishing he were invisible as he slowly turned and walked back to his buddies.

I think, rather I KNOW, that he thought I was overreacting. That I had misconstrued his friend’s natural affection for lechery.

I tried not to gag every time I had to see that man again, which was often since he was a part of my boss’ inner circle. But nothing even remotely resembling sexual innuendo or impropriety happened again. I don’t know if my boss had a talk with the guys or if they had just decided on their own to behave themselves.

All of them except for that one man.
In the space of ten years, with a wife and two kids to support, he settled three workplace sexual harassment cases (that I know of ), out of court.

If I remember correctly, I think it was when my boss told me about the second one that his face registered some sort of understanding and an unspoken apology for having doubted me.

That would have to be enough.

Talk to me.

Carry on,
xox

“We are Starstuff and we remember what we forgot”
~Carl Sagen

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W.B. Yeats

Marinate in those two thoughts today you guys and make your Sunday a great one!

Carry on,

xox

I just wanted to give you guys, my trusted tribe of loyal followers, a head’s up regarding my upcoming music video.

What’s that?
You haven’t heard about it? Have you been living under a rock?

Okay.(Giant, exasperated exhale)

So, I was going to videotape one of my epic karaoke go-arounds.
Preferably the one happening at my friend’s upcoming karaoke wedding reception.
What? I know!
Except the stupid LIVE kareoke band doesn’t play Total Eclipse of the Heart OR Living on a Prayer.
So, I scrapped that plan.

But I am going to be on an episode of Orange is the New Black.
After I write myself a part.
Which isn’t completely out of the question, and my favorite color is orange and I wear mostly all black, so…
Let’s see..
The Huffington Post did pick up and publish this essay I wrote about feeling like an alien stowaway inside of my own family, growing up a black sheep, and suffering through a wedding attended by a bunch of mean strangers disguised as family.

If it sounds familiar maybe we grew up in the same family OR you read it here on the blog earlier this week. Read it again, Jim, I know you, and you don’t have a photographic memory!

I’d love it if you’d take a look, comment, like or share.

And this concludes the self-promotion part of this Saturday, but I can’t promise you anything regarding the shamelessness.

Sorry, it’s the weekend.

Carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/a-stowaway-a-black-sheep-_b_9696654.html