I rue the day I decided to become a business owner. The location was flawed, the timing was wrong, and ultimately it crashed and burned.

Well, not really, it drowned in a flood; but it died just the same, and it took a piece of me with it.

Being that it had been such a huge desire of mine to open that store; giving into that desire and making it happen just seemed like the natural course of events. But as I surveyed the aftermath and the giant face plant that my ego had barely survived; I started to have desire’s remorse. And not just about the store – I had it about a LOT of things.

Why had I married David at such a young age? We fucked up a perfectly good friendship taking it to that level. Divorce was inevitable.

Why had I pursued acting until thirty?
I’d be SO much farther along in life if I’d only just been quicker to read the writing on the wall.
Shit, I’d probably be Secretary of State right now.

Why had I died my hair red for the best ten years of my life?
Best years physically speaking being my thirties.
My body was bangin’, my boob were perky, the pimples were waning and the wrinkles hadn’t shown up yet.
We all know that all the smart, rich guys marry thirty something blondes in LA. The artsy, fartsy, unemployed, musicians and bohemians are the ones that go for the red heads.
I rest my case. 
Shit, I’d probably be Mark Cuban’s first ex wife by now. 

These were a few of the many desires that had lead me astray – or so I thought.

Now, looking back, I have the benefit of time. I’ve matured (somewhat) which helps me to come from a different perspective.
I agree with Steve. (married to a blonde)
I feel I can call him Steve; given that I know someone that works at Apple, I’ve spent a small fortune on his products, and the only book he had on his iPad, “The Autobiography of A Yogi,” currently lives on my nightstand.

This has been my enlightened conclusion:
I cannot recommend Desire’s regret. It no longer makes any sense. All of those desires have carried me to exactly where I stand today, and YOU too.

I tried marriage; I was able to commit, for a whole seven years and that says something about me, AND it didn’t suck enough to discourage me from trying again, this time with the right guy, for the right reasons.

I quit acting when I was good and ready. No one could have persuaded me to throw in the towel until I was good and God damn ready, and when I was, I worked just as hard on my new career, as a jeweler, and it actually made for a nice life.

I look back on the ten years of red hair as a blessing. I met some incredibly interesting men, not settling on the usual suspects; and when I was ready to finally settle down, I went back to blonde and naturally attracted the man of my dreams.

So there you have it. As I look back and connect my numerous desire filled dots, my remorse ebbs, and I can actually thank each and every one of them.

How about you?
Xox

Whatcha think? Exhilarating or terrifying?

xox

And there she stood, hands braced on either side of the bathroom sink, gazing at her reflection in the mirror, feeling…smug satisfaction. She looked goooood.

She’d totally nailed it. The evening, the party, a good hair day—and her introduction to HIM.

She smiled at the thought and that’s when it suddenly became clear to her—crystal clear.

As close as she claimed to be, as much history as they had shared, after all of their years together – she was NO friend of hers—because there, in the mirror, staring back at her, was the biggest piece of spinach – lodged between her two front teeth. It was a piece of greenery so large, it could be seen from space, and she had let her circulate, and smile, and flirt without alerting her to this fact.

That’s right, she was not a friend; because friends don’t let their friends talk to HIM with spinach in their teeth.

Ladies, am I right?

You Have A Good Saturday!
Xox

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”
~ My Mom~

She’d usually lob that nugget of wisdom behind her, into the backseat of the car, where my brother and sister and I were calling each other “doodie heads” or something worse.

That directive felt like a HUGE challenge to me, since everything bugged me and I could never keep my mouth shut. It may as well have been a vow of silence, which I tried once – and thought I would rather die.

We weren’t allowed to “tattle” either, and it was our “go to” pastime as children.
She just would not have any of it.
“I don’t care – work it out.” She’d snort, exasperated, after hearing hours of “he did this” and “she said that.”

If we weren’t bleeding and could still walk upright, her complaint department was closed.

“Tell your troubles to Jesus” was an old favorite.
It would leave her mouth the minute she sensed a sour face walking in her direction. She wouldn’t even turn her head your way.
That one was Kryptonite; nothing could turn a disgruntled Catholic kid around faster than a suggestion of a bitch session with the Almighty. Too much like confession.
Plus, I knew even then, that Jesus would just laugh.

“Methinks thou doth protest too much” Is from William Shakespeare’s Hamlet – and my mom.

Us kids could get very dramatic, and I was, by far, the worst of the bunch.
My mom nicknamed me Desdemona, who is a character from Othello, ( yeah she’s clearly THAT mom) because of my histrionics. I could bring the crowd to its feet over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich, or tangled hair.

“Children are to be seen and not heard.” 
That was saved for those occasions when we had adult company at the house. It was the sixties and everyone said that to their kids, so I’ll give her a pass.
Of course it never applied to me.
I’d politely meet a complete stranger, and then ask them if they’d like to hear a special song I’d prepared for that evening.
Precocious? Ya think?!

But her best words of wisdom, the ones I’ve taken with me into adulthood, into the world of internet haters, are these:
“Consider the source (honey).”

She’d just calmly shake her head and tisk a few tisks, clearly signifying the completely misguided nature of the comment that had made me cry, by someone who had NO business ruining my day.

“Well that just doesn’t sound like a smart boy” or “their mother lets them stay up past midnight” or “they don’t wear shoes.”
I’d weigh that against the insult – and immediately feel better.

I still do to this day.

Well played mom.

Dog kisses,
Worn thin and soft t-shirts
Hot tea
Birthday cards
Foot massages

Xox

How did it get so late so soon? 
It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?
~ Dr Suess

I could smell the pan burning, but it didn’t make any sense, I’d only put the veggies in the steamer five minutes before.
Must be something burning on the bottom of the pan was the conclusion my brilliant critical thinking had brought me to.

I was in the middle of writing a fiction piece that’s been keeping me glued to my seat, basically taking dictation, curious to find out what happens next.

The smell got stronger, to the point that I was forced to check it out, and not a moment too soon. The bottom of the pan was about to burn through! That’s impossible I thought, but much to my surprise it had not been the five minutes I was sure had passed (and I’m really good at estimating time – ask anyone) – it had been forty.
Oops.

That was the second time this week that I’d lost time while writing.

On Tuesday I’d actually lost a huge chunk – an hour and a half – I’d actually missed an appointment.
If you’d have asked me right then, under oath, how long I’d been writing I would have sworn “fifteen minutes.”

So the time warp phenomena has decided to pay me a return visit. I love that. You know I love me some good phenomena.
It’s been over twenty years since I’ve lost time.
I started to loose forty five minutes of time when I’d meditate, on a regular basis. Back then it used to freak me out, now, besides having to make excuses and put out fires, I think it’s cool.

Note to self: Don’t cook when you write.
I’ll have to show this to my husband, since I write all the time – it’s a virtual get out of jail free card.

Isn’t time fascinating? It really is just an illusion.
You get a glimpse of that when we change the clocks backwards in the fall and forward in the spring.
Time is so completely malleable, it morphs according to our state of mind.
 
Doesn’t time draaaaag on when it’s the day before you leave for vacation?
How about when you’re doing something you despise, like taxes or waiting in line at the DMV?

Doesn’t it seem to move at light speed when you’re having fun? The perfect meal? Falling in love? Moments spent when you’re in bliss? “Oh, it’s over already?”

Then there’s the flow or the zone – a place of no time.

Elite athletes report a loss of time during peak performance, when they’re in the flow. So do artists and musicians – even writers. It’s also called being in the zone.

This zone has been described as a state of timelessness; a distorted sense of time; feeling so focused on the present that you lose track of time passing.

According to studies, what you are experiencing in that moment of flow, is a state of complete immersion in an activity.
It has been described as being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one. Your whole being is involved, and you’re using your skills to the utmost.

My husband experiences it while riding motorcycles – and surfing the web.

When do you get in the flow and lose time? What activity causes that to happen for you?
I’d love to hear your experiences in the comments below.

Xox

BRAT
noun.
a child, especially an annoying, spoiled, or impolite child (usually used in contempt or irritation).

Today I had a brat attack. It is only second in its savagery to a terrorist attack.
It’s like a five-year old terrorist has taken over my emotions, behavior and mouth.
Then I blew up; all. over. my. husband.

Do you ever do that? No, I’m sure I’m the only one…..

My brat inspired tantrum, albeit short, was ugly.
I wanted to stomp my feet, throw myself on the floor and pull at my hair……but I was driving…..and talking on the phone. My five-year old annoying, impolite child, said stuff. Stupid stuff using a five-year old’s limited language.

When she inhabits me to that degree, there’s no reasoning with her. Have you ever tried to reason with a pissed off five-year old?

Have you ever said stupid stuff like that? No…..I’m sure you haven’t.

Anyway…
I’m inclined to blame it on the “energy”, or solar flares, but I think the sun’s been pretty quiet, so I suppose I have to take responsibility.

I have no excuse except frustration at a situation and my own bad behavior in handling it.

Do you do that? No? Hmmmmmmm…guess it’s just me…

My inner brat doesn’t rear her wild haired little head too often in my life. I do try to embrace her ( like a human straightjacket ) when she does and I’d never want her to go away for good.

She lets me know when I’ve exceeded my limit. When things have gone too far.

She is the barometer of how high my stress, shame or frustration level has gotten.

When she howls; I listen. If I resort to her terrorist tactics…there’s a problem. Either it’s something real and I’m too tired or cranky to deal.
Or, my perception has been hijacked by my ego, and I need to just get over myself.
Then other times; she’s just plain being a bitch.

Can you relate? No? Really??

I texted my husband a mea culpa as soon as I parked. Then I laughed at the absurdity of the attack.

He’s met my brat; she doesn’t scare him. Once, when they scuffled, he threatened to call my mother and rat her out.

Today’s visit was short-lived and I got the message.

Note to self: Don’t save important things until the last-minute and learn to accept help, otherwise it’s a set up for frustration. And don’t nosedive and dial.

The call was unnecessary and self indulgent…oh, that is sooooo her.

You ever nosedive and dial? Don’t lie. Tell me about your last brat attack!

Xox

This is from the blog of Pam Grout – and it’s a great weekend reminder, we’ve ALL had the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day! Read about her experience. Take it away Pam!

“Refuse to accept apparent delay and detour as anything other than the perfect path.” —U.S. Andersen

“Despite rumors to the contrary, I still feel like unflavored gelatin from time to time. I had one of those days this Tuesday. I was in Grand Haven, Michigan recording the audio version of my book, Living Big, at a fancy-schmancy studio owned by Amazon.com.

My flight had been delayed so I got in late the night before, I had to show up bright and early, I had a headache and the producer was quick to point out my glaring inability to pronounce such words as Dostoyevsky and joie de vivre.

Now, I know good and well that the only thing wrong in this situation was my attitude and my grumpy thoughts, but like a squid, I kept squirting out that woe-is-me ink that puts up a smoke screen between me and my highest intention, which is unceasing joy.

Finally, after leaving the studio and being unable to even muster the energy to walk very far along the gorgeous Lake Michigan beaches (I didn’t even leave my normal beach affirmation.), I returned to my hotel room and went to bed.

I woke up the next day feeling bright and sunny and was even grateful for the horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day.

Here’s why it was the best thing to ever happen to me:

1. It made me achingly aware of how far I’ve come. Being disgruntled used to be way of life for me. Going back there for a little peek confirmed to me that it’s not much fun. And it made me appreciate even more that my life is now heading in a new direction.

2. I was able to be kind to myself in spite of it all. Okay, so I had a less than stellar day. So what? I used my magic words (“It’s okay!”) and shrugged it off as the perfect unfoldment and realization (see point 1) that I’m on the right path.

3.Lastly, I finally learned how to pronounce my favorite word: Joie de vivre, a French word that pretty much describes my life now that I’ve officially broken up with discontent and grumpiness.”

Pam Grout is the author of 17 books including E-Squared: 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality and the just-released sequel, E-Cubed, 9 More Experiments that Prove Mirth, Magic and Merriment is your Full-Time Gig.

Happy Saturday!
xox

I LOVE when the Universe sends me a love note that says just the right thing at just the right time, don’t you?

This one was so good I had to share it.

So, be impeccable with your thoughts and words, your dreams and desires, because it’s ALL cueing up behind the scenes.

“Janet, do you know what happens in time and space just before something really incredible happens? Something mind-blowing? Just before a really HUGE dream comes true?

All the best,
The Universe”

Sign up to get your own Notes From The Universe:
tut.com

xox