Shovel, Kill, Toss. It’s Seven Fifteen. It’s Been THAT Kind Of Morning. [With Audio]

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Holy Cow.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

There’s some weird energy out there and it’s been difficult to keep an even keel.
I feel the huge need for ice cream and donuts and pasta carbonara; that’s my sign that some shit’s about to hit the fan.

I kept it together yesterday. I made a salad for dinner even thought I wanted to carb load.
Uh oh. Rough water ahead.

Watched something on HBO last night that I shouldn’t have, I know how non-existent my tolerance for violence and especially violence against animals is, so I kept having to leave the room – but I could still hear it.

BTW, I’m no critic, but the show, although highly acclaimed, sucks balls. So fucking dark, no redeeming qualities or message, just gloom and doom and twisted violence.
What’s wrong with you people?
‘Nuf said. “Hey, horrible, horribly popular show, you will not be adding me as a viewer.”

So it should come as no surprise that I had nightmares.
The one I had right before I woke up, heart pounding, sweating and feeling defiled, was that someone; a team consisting of a sinister fat man and a middle aged woman from that fucking show, had my boxer shark puppy. (Cue sinister music)
Once I discovered her after she’d been missing for awhile, they would not release her to me.
They were holding her for ransom for the sum of $300,000-!
He, the fat man, actually informed me of that figure with a straight face.
I knew I didn’t have that in my wallet, so I started beating them both with my red, five inch stiletto heels (you know, the ones you run around looking for your missing puppy in.)
I grabbed the dog while they were defending themselves against my very brave and surprisingly effective shoe assault, and ran from the scene, scream crying and barefoot.

Then I woke up, winded from running and still in fear’s grip.
Whew. That was a close one.

I know enough about dream interpretation to know that what matters most is how it made you feel. I felt anxious and afraid for my eight month old puppy, who I’m madly in love with, but tests my patience every day.
But, it was just a dream and I needed my coffee – bad.

Mistake number one: coffee won over meditation. 
It’s always a fight and I can tell you how my day will go, by which one wins.

I needed a reset. I should have meditated the fear away while it was weak.

Los Angeles has switched weather with Mumbai the past few days, so we have been opening up the house, all the doors and windows in the morning for some fresh, cool-ish, non air conditioned air. The dogs love it. They run around out back through the sprinklers while it’s still cool, doing their doggy business, while we have our coffee, faces buried in our iPads.

This morning I noticed that it had been awhile since I had been slimed or my feet stepped on with muddy paws by the puppy. When I listened….too quiet.
Just like a toddler, that is NOT a silence you want to hear.
I stuck my head out in time to see her playing rambunctiously with a dying mouse on the lawn. It was just barely breathing, not a bite mark on it, it had clearly been poisoned.

I screamed for her to stop and screamed RAPHAEL at the top of my lungs.
That is his signal to come quick with a shovel because some form of wildlife has breeched the perimeter and it’s not okay.
Although most would call where we live the burbs, it is teeming with squirrels and possum, raccoons, skunk, coyote, mice and tree rats. I have no idea why, but they often pick our property on which to make their earthly transition – to die.
I love it and I hate it.
They must know the big guy lives here and won’t let them suffer.

It’s barely seven o’clock and poor man has to finish off a dying mouse.
Thank God for him.
I could NEVER.

The older dog is……indifferent.
The puppy? She’s in a frenzy and since I’ve now shut all the doors, she’s looking for a place to make a break for it. I close the gate to the grass, leaving them just the small poop area.
We agree that someone is poisoning the rats and mice, which is sad I suppose and was really just a matter of time (there are SO many this summer and they’ve been very conspicuous and vocal at night) and we don’t want her looking for bodies in the bushes, woodpile, etc.

No sooner do we finish that conversation and he walks back into the house; I spot her doing the one sided game of catch with another dying mouse in. the. poop. area.

RAPHAEL!

Shovel, kill, toss. Its seven fifteen. It’s been that kind of morning.

So did the fear of her safety manifest this threat to her safety?

I did call the vet; he said she’d have to ingest the poisoned rat to become poisoned herself.
Whew.

What the hell? When I dream of travel or food or sex with an A-list movie star (you know who you are) they NEVER appear in my real life, damn it.

FEAR is a POWERFUL emotion. Let’s just be clear about that.
If you stay stuck in its grip, shit will go down.

I hightailed it to the gym with chanting in my earbuds and shifted the energy.
Then I drove back to Shangri-La.

Do you ever let your dreams color your whole day? How do you break their spell?
Tell me, I’d love to hear about it. I clearly need the help ;-)

You’d rather listen? Okay!

https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/shovel-kill-toss-its-seven

Love from Wild Kingdom,
Xox


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Waiter, There’s A Fly In My Soup

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On those days when you’re finding fault with EVERYTHING – the sky isn’t the right Tiffany Box shade of blue and the air conditioning is blowing too cold; how do you get yourself out of it?
Do you, at some point realize your ridiculousness and slap yourself across the face to snap out of it?
Or do you marinate in the fact that you’re so contrary that if George Clooney sat down beside you, you’d tell him he needed a haircut and an Altoid?

I know you know when you’re being an ass – because I know it when I am.

We wake up every day and there are two sides of the bed on which to get up.
The sunny side or the dark side; the right side or the wrong side.

The question I’m asking is this: if, by some cruel twist of circumstances and hormones, you put your feet on the floor when you wake up in the land of EVERYTHING’S WRONG, do you indulge and make those around you miserable, or do you do your damnedest to climb out?

I’ve done both. I DO both. Guilty as a charged in the court of Nit Pick.

These dark days do not come natural to me, but when I’m under their spell – watch out – and know that I DO know what an asshat I’m being, I just can’t help myself right. this. minute.
So sorry.

The kitchen looks the same as it did two days ago when I was feeling so grateful.
The bright summer sunshine lighting up the couple of places that have chipped white paint make it look charming and cozy. Our coffee maker broke, we replaced it, no harm no foul ( thank you Amazon). The wine stains on the wood countertops were just faded purple reminders of a really fun party last summer.
Today, (wrong side of the bed day) I’m seriously entertaining throwing a grenade behind me and shutting the door, giving us the opportunity for a fresh start.

You’re welcome Honey, what can I say, I’m a giver.

Don’t tell me I’m acting like an ass when I am, because that’s like taking a hose of lighter fluid and spraying it on a fire.

I KNOW I AM. IM WORKING IT OUT.

But I will deny it….with my dying breath I will tell you I’m “fine.”
I’m sorry if your feelings and our kitchen have become collateral damage. If you want to survive this:
Don’t make eye contact and DON’T try to hug me. I have a fork in my hand.

The best strategy in the past has been to isolate myself for awhile.  Take a lovely walk outside in nature (I can’t today, with the heat index and the humidity, it feels like Thailand.)

Meditation is a good way to snap back into a loving place along with exercise. Neither of those have worked, so I’m still marinating.

Hormones, I’m blaming hormones. 
I remember feeling this out of sorts during puberty, but the Good Lord had the common sense to deal me that hand when I wasn’t old enough to marry, operate heavy machinery or carry a firearm.
Whatever shall I do now?

The trick for me is listening to my own words as they spill uncensored from my lips.
If they make even me cringe, I need to make a correction.
I need to shut up and realize I’m acting like an ass.
Is that what you do?

Try it.
Just listen to yourself. Step up and out of your body as you berate the waiter or the lady at Ralph’s or your husband.
If every other word is a critique or fuck, chances are you’re having THAT kind of day.
Sometimes, what I hear ME say is so vile, it makes me laugh, which then breaks the spell.

If that doesn’t work?
Do everyone, including yourself a favor.
Be quiet, go to bed early, and before you go to sleep, say a little prayer for a better disposition tomorrow.

Love you anyway,
Xox


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The Taxi Cab Analogy or How You Know You’re Ready For A Partner

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I wailed woefully at the top of my lungs and launched into a violent series of rapid fire kicks to the defenseless cabinetry that had the misfortune of being in line with my right foot.

Huge crocodile tears fell from my eyes into the batter, adding more salt than the recipe called for.

With one fluid motion fueled by rage and befitting a segment of one of those dumbass reality shows where the woman have major public meltdowns, I swept my right forearm along the cutting board which held the two bundt cake pans; their recently mixed, liquid contents coating the entire kitchen in one swipe; like a chocolate-chip Jackson Pollack masterpiece.

Fraidy and Teddy, my two Siamese cats who were the ever present, blue eyed witnesses to the hijinks that was my life, had been watching the whole debacle from the other side of the kitchen, atop the microwave. As they jumped down to sample the brown goodness that literally dripped from every surface, I shooed them away, remembering chocolate is bad for animals, and bemoaning that fact because I needed the help.
I had a long night of clean up ahead of me.

All the while the catalyst for the onslaught of my melt down with judo moves, the melancholy, molasses voice of Karen Carpenter played on speakers from the den nearby.

“I am dreaming tonight of a place I love
Even more than I usually do
And although I know it’s a long road back
I promise you

I’ll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree

Christmas Eve will find you
Where the love light gleams

I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

If only in my dreams”

If you know me at all, you know that the day after Thanksgiving, the Christmas music goes into heavy rotation – and I start baking.

Always have – always will.

It usually makes me stupid happy.
That year, 1999, it mad me sad, with a side of mad.

It had all started when I bought my house the previous April. I should have felt such a sense of accomplishment for having the courage to put my whole life in storage, save my ass off and find the perfect little house to purchase 

On. My. Own.

Just me, and my two cats.
But THAT ended up being the problem.
Huh, didn’t see THAT coming.

The day I moved in, when the last friend and family member said their goodbyes, and I stood amid the contents of my life stacked around me, along with all the empty pizza boxes; I had never felt so ALONE.

Wasn’t this a milestone you were supposed to share with that special someone?

Wasn’t there supposed to be that moment where you realize you’ve done something monumental, and you and your guy dance in candlelight with your nauseatingly cute matching pajamas (him, just the bottoms, you, just the tops) to music from a portable radio?
Then don’t you drink champagne from paper cups, toasting your good fortune, christening the house by making love on a mattress on the floor surrounded by boxes, books, bicycles and skis, while your cats have the good manners to look away?

Hey, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I wanted that.

All of the sudden at forty one, after being divorced for fifteen years, I wanted a significant other, a partner, a mate, a beloved.

I wanted a (gasp) husband with whom to share my life.

I’d often wished, late at night, for a shoulder to cry on when things were going down the toilet, but this was different, I wanted someone with which to share my – joy.
My accomplishments, the good things in life.

Oh great.

That was a completely unexpected side effect that must have been written in the small print the came with the mountains of paperwork that made up my mortgage and homeowners insurance.

Damn it, it shocked me.

My house echoed back it’s emptiness to me.
It was just me and the cats.
No matter what I did cosmetically it didn’t feel like a home.
.
Backyard lawns are there to run on, screen doors are made to be slammed, big kitchens should be hot and messy with sticky floors and the constant smell of something burning.

My friends referred to my house as “the museum.”
No noise, no chaos, no dirt. Nothing out of place.
Ugh. I didn’t want to live in no freaking museum – I wanted a home.

One week that June I went to Vegas for an annual jewelry trade show. I got a call about 9pm one night from one of my neighbors, the husband half of the lovely couple next door with two kids.
Steve was yelling into the phone over a loud siren. It was my house alarm, which had been going off for fifteen minutes.
It sounded like someone had escaped from Alcatraz.
Did I have a hide a key and code for him to go in and disarm it?
Another male voice yelled loudly in the background, “Maybe we can call her husband, do you have his number?” It was the police who had been sent by the alarm company.

“She doesn’t have a husband – she has cats.”

Steve’s voice suddenly sounded hugely amplified, as if he was yelling through a megaphone, announcing my sad predicament to everyone in earshot.
The alarm had gone silent.

Thanks Steve. I don’t think they heard you in Malibu.

I wanted to die. Kill me now. I’m the cat lady of Studio City.

This sudden urge to marry is not a strictly female affliction. I know several men who have succumbed. It is the taxi cab analogy. Men are like taxi cabs, roaming the dark streets of the big city, light off, ignoring a real fare, looking for action.

Then suddenly one day, their light goes on. Just like that.

These rogue cabs are ready to go legit. A man’s light has to go on, then he’ll settle down, until then….good luck.
Once a man’s light goes on, he usually marries the next girl he meets.

It’s all timing.

That was me. Suddenly, my light was on.

I wanted a husband and whatever that meant at that age.

I yearned for complicated, noisy and messy. No more order and no more museum. So hearing that song about love and home and Christmas had sent this Spinster Auntie (as I jokingly referred to myself) over the edge.

Isnt life crazy? Just when you think you have things all figured out…..

Sometimes you don’t know until you know.
Oh brother, we’re back to that again.

But it’s true, some seemingly innocent accomplishment, tragedy or happenstance can suddenly become the catalyst for change in your life. It happens quite by surprise, when you’re not even looking.

It’s all about timing.
BAM!
Your light goes on and changes EVERYTHING.

Tell me about the time that this has happened to you because I KNOW it has!
I’d love to hear your stories too!

Love you,
Xox


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Keep It Simple

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Keep it simple – Happy Sunday!
Love you


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When War is No Longer Needed [Repost]

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* I wrote this last year and it felt like a good time for a re-post. Please take a minute to send love and light to the places around the world where there is fear and conflict.
Remember, it is always better energetically to be “for” something than “against” it. So – be Pro Peace as opposed to Anti War.
Love to you all

War, huh yeah
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing, oh hoh, oh
War huh yeah
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing, say it again y’all
War, huh good God
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing, listen to me
Songwriters
Strong, Barrett / Whitfield, Norman J.
Published by
Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing

When war is no longer needed
to settle a score.
No more banging of the drum,
or pounding on the chest.

When a father’s grievances, 
his rage and fear,
hold no weight with his son,
for it is not his fight.

When mothers take a stand
and say “No more!”
“You may not have my son”
to fight your senseless war!”

When the land of the earth,
under the feet of these men,
will not tolerate division,
then they will understand.

There will be no support,
moral or financial,
That aide in such endeavors that kill,
in the name of God,
or his brothers.

THAT will be true freedom,
not the one that binds.
Not the one that wants to take and own, 
and imprison,
but another kind.

This freedom does not say
“this is yours and this is mine”
It shares all its diversity,
the sum of the whole being 
greater than its parts.

This day will come,
in the not so distant future.
The energy of the people will support it.
For it will be the greatest legacy
to leave your children.


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LOVE Anyway

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Dear Ones, 
Have you ever loved someone so deeply you thought you might die?

That you would become immersed, completely consumed and drown in the depths of that feeling of connection?

Have you loved so intensely that it made your toes curl, your hair go straight, your skin glow, your fingernails grow, your personality improve, and your temper take a hiatus?

Did you get thinner and more beautiful just because that love permeated every cell of your being? (Also because you were so lovesick you couldn’t eat.)

Did you love so completely that you had the superpowers of infinite selflessness, the need for virtually no sleep, and constant adorable-ness?

Did that love make you a better person?
Could you tell a better story? Remember the end of jokes? Cook the perfect omelet? Remember birthdays? Balance your checkbook? Say please and thank you? Sleep without drooling? Laugh when things were funny, cry when they were sad?

Were you able to be unfiltered, unguarded and uncensored because of that love?

Did the sex render your face more open, your eyes more loving and your skin softer?
It does that you know.

When you loved so intensely – wasn’t the world a better place?
You didn’t care about lines and traffic, they just gave you more time to get lost in thoughts of your beloved.

When that love intoxicated you, wasn’t everyone beautiful?

Didn’t that homeless guy and the lady on the bus stop want to make you weep because suddenly you had new eyes that were able to see their soul?
Love does that.

When that love ended, did you regret you had ever felt it?

Why?

Love, love, 
Xox

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Anticipation [ With Audio]

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Anticipation, Anticpation
Is making me late.
Is keeping me waiting.
~Music and lyrics by Carly Simon

In a little over four weeks I will be embarking on an exciting adventure.
It feels life changing.

Hello, I don’t know if you’ve met me?
I am the Queen of Instant Gratifiction so the anticipation is KILLING me!

To some people anticipation is delicious, something to be spread on little toast points and relished.

My husband is such a person. He will create little pockets of anticipation whenever he can.
Weekend rides with his buddies, his Memorial trip every year with his brother.
I see him light up when he’s asked about it, or texting the details. He enjoys EVERY SINGLE SECOND of the wait.
It makes me laugh and roll my eyes, but I do envy him his simple pleasures.

Me? Not so much.

Anticipation is torture for me. I’m THAT girl. Spontaneity is MY middle name.

“Come on , let’s not draw this thing out, show me the surprise, or tell me the secret. Get on with it.”

Byron Katie says that anticipation is where fear and terror live, not reality.
I usually don’t disagree with her, but from what I’ve observed at my house, that is not the case.
Expectation – I believe that about expectations. I’ve met fear and terror there.

I think anticipation is a lost art and it’s making me sad.
It needs to make a comeback.

I’m not sure I can lead the parade on this, but from living with The Grand Marshall, I gotta tell ya, anticipation kicks instant gratification’s ass every time.

What’s wrong with us? (Notice how I’ve lumped you in with Team Janet)

Why can’t the wait be great?

We want something, we buy it. We don’t save fifty bucks a month living on the excitement of the dream for a year.
Not anymore.
Shit. Amazon now has same day delivery; they must have read all my emails complaining about the overnight wait. Same day was MADE for people like me.

My husband. He’ll wait. He’ll look forward ALL WEEK to the Thursday delivery.

I want to be in his camp, I’m just not wired that way.

I do remember getting VERY excited when I was about nine and the one telephone we had in the house would ring. My dad would announce: Janet, it’s for you, and my heart would start racing. Who was it? Was it a boy? Thirty seconds of excruciating anticipation. Maybe that’s the cause for me. The point of origin for this particular neurosis?

HE, on the other hand, was raised in France.

They wait to see a doctor, the entire country waits until August to go on vacation, they even wait until after work in the evening to buy bread for dinner.

As he will patiently re-explain to me at least once a month:the feeling of looking forward to something is magical and must be savored.

Like a fine wine or stinky cheese, it get richer and more complex over time. As each detail of the anticipated event unfolds, the feeling mounts; until, as I have witnessed with him, it culminates in a night before Christmas kind of giddy, sleepless euphoria – wearing a silly grin.

It’s impossible for me to maintain such a high level of excitement.

I’ll explode, my face will get stuck like that, and I need my sleep.

“Are we there yet?”

I DO get excited, but it’s my nature to wait until the very last minute.
I just want the event, vacation, surprise, whatever to start, I don’t make a big magilla out of the lead up time. I don’t mark off days on the calendar to remind me how much glorious waiting time I have left.

But I just may this time.
I see how the other half lives and it looks…….fun.

I too want to wear a silly grin and become giddy as the days draw closer.

Let’s see how this goes, reviving this lost art of anticipation, shall we?

Are you in my camp or his? Do you relish the wait?
I’d love to hear your stories of anticipation my dear ones, they’ll help me!
Thanks!

Sending love….in a minute…..wait for it.
Xox

Wanna listen instead?
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/anticipation

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Try This Empathy Exercise

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Go first

Before you’re asked.

Before she asks for the memo, before the customer asks for a refund, before your co-worker asks for help.

Volunteer.

Offer.

Imagine what the other person needs, an exercise in empathy that might become a habit.
~Seth Godin

Practice this exercise liberally and often. It’s not that difficult really.
It sets you apart from the pack, it will get you noticed, it will make all the difference and the habit will just make you feel damn good.

Imagine the needs of others. 

Much love,
Xox


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Let Them Spin Off Before They Puke

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Oh Dear Hearts,

If you are currently on this journey, just know that I am there with you.

While I observe from afar the culling of those around me daily, it has occurred to me that my “circle” is a living thing.

It is alive with its own thoughts and opinions and if we are lucky, it reinvents itself several times during our lives.
I do say this with great caution, because it doesn’t feel like luck – at the time.

Don’t kill the messenger please.

The vision I had one day of my “circle” is that it’s one of those spinning playground circle things. You know the one.
A bunch of us hold on while three or four rascals spin the thing faster and faster until you either puke or get spun off.

In recent months my circle has been spinning very fast, and people have seemed to have fallen away.
I checked for puke and there was none; fortunately they left before they lost their lunch.
That’s good, because now that’s it’s begun to slow down and new people are jumping aboard, I don’t want to make a bad impression.

Just as it did when I finished school, changed jobs, and got married, my circle is refining and reinventing itself. Some in my “circle” have been with me all along, taking the ride, while others have decided to move on.

I bid adieu to those riders. We all had a great ride.
No sadness – only gratitude. Only love.

I can see the new riders lining up to jump on, breathing new life, wisdom and great value into my “circle.”

You can’t control your “circle” and it’s antics.
At least that has alluded me so far and you know what?
Thank God.
My “circle” has no issues. It’s just waiting for the best participants.
It picks the BEST people.

Take heart, I’m riding this with you my loves,
Xox

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Why Different Isn’t Wrong

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The other day in line at my version of The Happiest Place on Earth, Target or Tar-Jeh as I like to refer to it, I overheard a couple of women in front of me scrutinizing the cashier.
“My God, will you look at those fingernails, they’re so long! And that color!”
Her friend stopped unloading her cart onto the conveyor belt long enough to lean forward to get a better look.
“Oh yeah” She replied, “How does she do anything?

It seemed to me she was doing her job just fine.

“And that blue – bleck, all the kids are wearing that. I just don’t get it. It’s hideous.”
I was hoping that Tracy couldn’t hear them, even though they were making no effort to lower their voices, speaking with a kind of rude, audacity, as if they were in some foreign country and assuming Tracy didn’t speak English.
Once they had finished verbally annihilating Tracy, they went to town on the lady in the line next to us. 

“Oh jeeeeeez, she’s too old to be wearing shorts. Not with legs like that. She should get that vein stripping surgery Miki had done, then maybe she could wear those things, but only in her own backyard.”
“Looks like a freakin’ roadmap, disgusting. My eyes can’t un-see that” her friend chimed in, throwing gum and a Snickers on the belt.

I was behind them, and I was terrified. I became a swivel head, looking around with the intention of changing lines.
God no, don’t do that, you’ll just give them a perfect shot of your ass in yoga pants as you walk away. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them that nugget for their nastiness. Better I just stay put, duck down or become invisible…….
I was certain I was to become the next victim of the Target Fashion Police.

Do you know people like that? That judge anything that’s different than THEIR “normal” as…….wrong.

Hey ladies, with your overdone Botox and fake designer handbags, (sorry, but you asked for it) it’s not wrong – it’s just different.

I once took a friend to a group meditation that I attended once a month. She was interested in starting a practice, and I’d known these people for over ten years. A previous friend I had taken, described this group as an old, cozy pair of slippers – warm and welcoming. I thought so too.

Meditation was great. My friend seemed to genuinely like the people, chatting and laughing afterwords while sipping her alkaline water. 
On the way home in the car, I was in for a rude awakening.

“Ernest guy, what’s his story?” she asked.
I knew who she meant, one of the men IS very ernest in his social interactions.
“Oh I don’t know, I’ve known him forever, he can be kind of intense – but he’s sweet, really.”
“Well, he creeped me out. Then that Birkenstock, ferret faced lady, she’s something else.”

“Hey! These are my friends, sort of….anyway…they’re sweet and harmless and they seemed to really like you.”
I was trying to keep my cool, but I wanted to punch her in the throat. OMMMMMM back to a loving place.

“Yeah, well, they’re not my people, too granola, woo woo, Patchouli, for me. But I did like the meditation.”

Too bad sister, because I’m never taking you again. I thought silently, not wanting to start a car-fight.

I had heard this friend level a judgement on everyone around her in ten seconds flat, but they were usually strangers, not people I knew. (I could only imagine what kind of animal MY face resembled.) Seems anyone who didn’t fit in some little box she had envisioned as “correct” – was wrong.
They were ferret faced, creepy, granola eating (so what) freaks.

“The guy on the corner waiting at the light looks like a pedophile.”
“Look at that girl’s eyeliner, who did her make-up? A raccoon?”

I know this seems like a duh, but I’m going there anyway. Obviously SHE had some self esteem issues or she wouldn’t be looking around with such a cruel eye and sharp tongue.

After I ditched that judgy friend, I still couldn’t escape it, I started to notice it everywhere.

Two guys at Starbucks sneering judgmentally at one of those complicated coffee orders shouted out at the pick up counter. You know the one: grande, half caf, sugar free, one pump, vanilla latte with extra foam.

So what! Why is my order any of your business and why is it somehow wrong?

Variety makes the world go around. I personally relish it.
It makes life and people watching supremely entertaining.

Because it is so glaringly obvious to me now, I promise not to make you wrong.

Be your badass selves.
Fly your freak flags.
Wear your blue nail polish, pierce, tattoo, grey out your hair, Kelly Osbourne.
I LOVE IT. 
DiFFERENT inspires me. It gives me ideas, things I would have never have thought of.

As far as I ever contemplate pushing the envelope, someone has been there, done that, SO last Tuesday.

Start paying attention, see if you can catch yourself or someone around you judging different as wrong.
It’s okay if someone loves pickled herring or sleeps until noon or sings the wrong lyrics to every song (that’s actually endearing).

What do you think? Clue me in. Tell me about it in the comments!

Love you, my different little tribe,
Xox

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