guidance

When people say “I’m looking for my soulmate” I cringe and light a candle.

Love your friend, not your soulmate,
Xox
.

The hubby just returned a couple of weeks ago from an arduous off road motorcycle journey through the back country of British Columbia. It was brutal. He returned with a banged up bike, a couple of cracked ribs – and some great stories.

As he sat in a much needed bath, soaking in Epsom salt, he regaled me with tales of breathtaking scenery, ferry adventures, muddy, rutted roads, his epic falls (this is the guy who doesn’t fall) and all the laughs shared around the campfire at the end of each day with wine and great grub. I know most of this tribe, they are smart and funny and major badasses.
Unfortunately, no one was able to avoid dropping their big, heavy, overloaded bike.

But here’s the first rule of off road adventure riding: you just don’t talk about falling, about going down. And you NEVER name names.

Zip it.

A couple of motorcycle journalists went along, to chronicle the ride for their various publications.

When the first article came out, as I read it, I couldn’t text my husband fast enough:
How much does it cost to have someone killed? This guy has broken the first rule!

I was joking, of course (sort of) but there it was, in print, the jerk mentioned the rough terrain, and my husband BY NAME, saying he had fallen twice.

“Of course he did” hubster replied over dinner that night.
“We got into it a couple of times. He’s a young, insecure know-it-all, and after awhile, when I heard him throwing inaccurate stories around about people I know, places I’ve been and courses I’ve taken, well, I corrected his facts and he didn’t like it. Hence,(he says hence in conversations – I swear) he felt the need to try to embarrass me. No biggie, we all know what went down. The fact is EVERYONE fell – parts of it were reduced to a mud pit.”
He was laughing and cringing; holding his left side.

Another journalist’s article came out last week and it was well written and more importantly, humorous and accurate.

Then, a couple of days ago, the first guy published a second piece. 

It has now become his Hero’s Journey, with his bike the heaviest, (it wasn’t) his struggle the hardest, due to riding on street tires (they weren’t) and his proud claim that he was the only one who had the skills and wherewithal not to fall (WTF?)

Dude, it was already a really good story, you didn’t have to lie about it.

All the guys from the trip are emailing each other privately to vent, they’re too gentlemanly to publicly humiliate him by leaving comments on his website.

We all know why he did it. Insecurity, inferiority, blah, blah, blah…I don’t care.

Why do people lie? Especially when you have twelve other people out there that know the truth?
Now he’s just writing fiction. It’s the tale of “The Boy That Cried Hey, Have You Heard How Awesome I Am?”

Somebody really smart (I can’t remember who) said that most non-fiction is really fiction, because it come from the writer’s perspective. Hmmm…

I can’t stand lying.
When I write I do not lie. I may embellish (I didn’t really kick my Christmas tree until it begged for mercy, I stopped when it asked me politely the first time). But I write humor. Although, when I write about real people and real situations, I’m SO careful to depict them truthfully.

My stories aren’t written as vanity pieces, to make me sound good; on the contrary, most are cautionary tales of all my fuck-ups.

As I sat and stewed about this guy, I remembered some words of wisdom from my therapist, back in the day. She was a very beautiful and wise woman. Imagine Yoda and Oprah in the body of Candice Bergen.

1) “Janet, the biggest mistake you make in life, is thinking everyone feels and thinks JUST – LIKE – YOU. I can assure you, THEY DO NOT.”
That little nugget has saved me a lifetime of misery. My internal rules, dialogues, morals, and views on life are mine and mine alone. If I want others to know them, I have to communicate them.

Which brings me to:
2) “Janet, you’ve gotta cut people some slack, they’re not mind readers.”
This one needs no explanation.
Although, the guys do have a kind of Jedi mind meld about their rules of the road. They are un-discussed, yet understood – apparently with the exception of a certain Pinocchio.

3) I truly believe – with all my heart – that liar’s pants – should actually CATCH ON FIRE. 

There. I vented. I feel so much better.

Have you heard or caught someone in an epic lie? Something that made them sound awesome, while trashing everyone else? Share please.

Big, group hug,
Xox

This is a good one for today. Have a soulful, serene, Sunday!
Xox

I love these as a litmus test.
We should be able to stand behind one of those one-way mirrors that they have in police stations and episodes of Law and Order, and put that “special someone who we’re thinking of committing to, through these circumstances.

They don’t have to pass all three – how about two out of three? I’m not a total ass.

I’ve seen men walk with a CLOSED umbrella over their heads. Like its emasculating to try to stay dry. “Real men get wet.” Sorry guys, that’s a fail.
Kinda like not turning on the windshield wipers until you can barely see – so as not to scratch the glass. (One guy’s excuse, as we narrowly missed hitting a pedestrian) Fail.

I once traveled overseas with a guy who had purchased brand new expensive Hartmann luggage.
The whole matching set. They were so new and beautiful they screamed STEAL ME.
Alas, the garment bag didn’t show up for 24 hours.
He didn’t need ANYTHING in that bag that day; it was 2am when we landed. He had his toiletries and two other suitcases of stuff, yet he pitched a fit that came close to starting an International incident, in a room that had one naked little lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and a clerk who I’m positive spoke not one word of English. He just kept nodding, handing us coffee, and paperwork to fill out. Mountains and mountains of paperwork.

Well played airport luggage guy. I didn’t sleep for two days from all the strong coffee, but I found out who I was dealing with the minute I landed on foreign soil.
Fail.

Now, I can snark away at the previous failures because it is I who fail the tangled Christmas light test. EVERY FRICKIN’ YEAR.

I will swear under oath, on my mother’s life, that I put them away neatly wrapped into a tight circle with the ends plugged into each other, yet, when I take them down from the attic every year, they look as if they have been stolen by honey badgers to make a nest, or used to light the Eiffel Tower or to start a yarn ball; and then thrown back in the box as the biggest, tangled mess that ever existed.
Lights are missing; some are broken.
How is that even possible? They obviously live a life from January to December; that I know nothing about.

AND they NEVER light the second year. What’s up with that?

The box guarantees: will light up even if lights are missing.
It’s a mortal sin to lie at Christmas – Christmas Light Company. Don’t BS a Catholic.

Impossibly tangled with only half the strand lit up. I can feel my blood pressure spike.

Now it’s a thing. They do it to mock me.

But I’ve created my own solution:
I have two imaginary twin sons that help me decorate for Christmas, since my husband is related to the Grinch and stays as far way as possible on tree trimming day.
Timmy and Tommy.
They are gay and they are fabulous. They wear Christmas sweater vests and make Martha Stewart look like a hack.
We make cider and put on the carols and then I make them take the lights out of the box. I see them trying to hide the tangled mess from me, behind their backs. I’ve kicked my Christmas tree until it begged for mercy – out of frustration.
Two hours to untangle the fucking lights and then they don’t light? Do you blame me?

So the past few years I’ve just gotten drunk on egg nog or spiked cider, sung my Karen Carpenter carols and let my imaginary boys do it all for me.

So now you know. I have a wicked temper, a vivid imagination and I need to get a life.

Hey, I said two out of three, remember?
Maybe my husband isn’t the Grinch. Maybe he’s just smart.

What are your two out of three?

xox

I really love Kate Northrup. She is a fresh, new voice in the “Spiritual Self Improvement” genre.
I’ve been a devotee of her mom, Dr. Christiane Northrup for years. Her books about navigating menopause have talked me down off the ledge many, many times. More times than I’d like to admit.
I discovered my beloved naturopath, Dr Holly Lucille, through her website, back in the day.

I found this article of Kate’s particularly insightful and we’ve been discussing it in the Wednesday Woman’s Group for two weeks, and again today in my writing Mastermind session.

So here’s the question: What’s the payoff for staying stuck?

When days, months, years or even decades go by, and you haven’t accomplished what you say is your heart’s desire…could you have an even deeper, more subconscious desire that overrides all that?

For instance, you may be able to trace the fact that you never get the time or opportunity to travel, which you say you’re dying to do, back to an even deeper desire for routine and normalcy, the VERY THINGS travel shoots to hell. So those deeper, ingrained desires will cancel out the travel – every time. Get it?

Here, take a minute to read Kate’s article, and start to become aware and make the changes you need to get unstuck.

Happy Friday!

xox

http://www.katenorthrup.com/what-are-you-getting-out-of-staying-right-where-you-are/

http://drhollylucille.com

http://www.drnorthrup.com

“There’s one more thing.”
I was tugging gingerly at a piece of loose thread on my sweater, knowing that at any second the whole thing could unravel and I’d be literally as naked as I was feeling in that moment.

He turned to face me, looking at me intently, actively listening for what was coming next.

We were at that stage of dating where you start to lay the groundwork for the impending relationship. In your forties, this terrain can be peppered with land mines. I was hoping this mine would not blow my face off.

“I have a guy… he’s really an ex boyfriend” I saw something flash across his face, fear? confusion? I continued.
“He’s very special to me, and not like your thinking – well, anyway…we still talk and it would seem weird not to; he’s important in my life. We’re just friends now and…”

“You want me to meet him?”
It was like a brick to the forehead, I felt a little dizzy – I wasn’t expecting that response.
“Um, yeah, sure, that could be nice, sure…you can meet him.” The sweater was unraveling.

That actually sounded like it would be up there with the most awkward night of my life, but I didn’t want to sound deceptive or crazy: ‘Oh hey, there’s this guy who’s very important to me, but I want you to immediately forget I’ve mentioned him and NO, the two of  you will NEVER be in the same room together with me, because – well, just because. (Because I would spontaneously combust from the yuck of it all.)

“I also have a woman from my past that I still see occasionally – as a friend” he said, “like you and your friend.” Did I hear sarcasm?

Nope, he went on to explain that he truly did have a “special someone” from his past.
“I think it would be great if you two met, I think you’d like her.” I sensed some relief on his part, and as he got up to refill our wine glasses; I did, I saw relief wash over his face.

Our respective cats were now suddenly out of their bags.

Well, weren’t we something?
In a land somewhere beyond enlightened; trotting out our old flames like that, a couple of weeks into a new relationship.

The thing is, by the time you reach your late thirties, early forties, hopefully, you have a few ex’s that you can still stand the sight of. Where things have become…civil. Not horrible ex spouses who violate restraining orders – people you can actually stomach.
BECAUSE…
Sometimes break ups go well.
They are loving and mutual and…bullshit – sometimes after a couple of years, you can talk to the person without going to your dark place. Without circling the drain.
They’ve managed to make the huge leap from significant other, to sex buddy, to pal.

You did used to be in love, after all.

He explained her to me, this “special” woman who was now out in the open, virtually standing in my living room.
They’d known each other for years. It had been significant. They had been lovers, lived together, broken up, tried again, failed, not spoken, gone on to other relationships, and then recently reconnected – as friends.
“She’s a part of me; like family. You’ll love her.” And I did.
She is like family, and I learned volumes about him by meeting her.
She is smart and funny and I see why he still holds her in such high regard. I do too.
I may even have a bit of a girl crush – she’s THAT good.

My “special” guy was substantially younger than me. I had shoes that were older.

He was new to the horrors of dating in LA and had never been hurt in a relationship, so he had the MOST open heart of any human being I’d ever met. It used to scare the shit out of me. But I adapted.
He taught me how to love. Really.

Not open and free like him; my heart was a dried up raisin from dating more years than he’d been alive; but better than I had up until that point.
I now had a reconstituted raisin/heart with which to love my new man, and I gave the young one ALL the credit. I suppose that’s why I wanted to tell my new love about him; the fact that we would have never stood a chance, had he not come first.

When they met, they embraced. Then all three of us did. We had a lot in common.
I loved both of them, and they loved me. I burst into sentimental tears; not into flames as I had feared.

Our relationship went on to get serious. We’ve now been married thirteen years, and although we’ve spent time together with our “special” people, as life would have it, everyone moves on, and we see them less and less.

They were never a threat, as some of our friends had feared; they’d had their time and it had passed, but we gave them the credit they deserved.

In the court of popular opinion it is either incredibly brave or ridiculously stupid of us to include these people inside our new relationships. What do you think?

Hey Loves,
It must be Wisdom Wednesday or Humpday Happiness or something to that effect because…Here’s more of my man – Jason Silva.
Better than a shot of espresso.
You’re Welcome.
xox

Myths and archetypes. They have always fascinated me.

The Hero’s Journey.

Liz Gilbert and Oprah talked this week on Super Soul Sunday, about the calling that everyone (yes everyone) gets to embark on their own Hero’s journey, and how women have no female role models to emulate.

Through the ages, the Hero’s have all been men; leaving us women home, waiting, keeping the home fires burning, and having the babies; so you can imagine, that leaves us no female hero’s for us to follow..
Think Luke Skywalker, Odysseus, Harry Potter.

I feel that less and less. the older I get. I know brave, dynamic woman who are on their own Hero’s Journey. I know I’m in the midst of mine. You could say I’m a late bloomer.
I stayed in REFUSAL OF THE CALL for twenty years, lost in the game, so I have a lot of catching up to do.
I’d say I’m in the thick of it right now, TESTS, ALLIES AND ENEMIES (see list below.)
I’d better get cracking’

I think that we are starting to see heroic female role models on the bigger stage; I’m thinking Malala Yousafzai in real life, and Katniss Everdeen in literature and on the big screen.

Inside popular culture, we can document our paths for the girls and women who follow, so that we leave a legacy behind for them: The Heroine’s Journey.

The Hero’s Journey Outline
The Hero’s Journey is a pattern of narrative identified by the American scholar Joseph Campbell that appears in drama, storytelling, myth, religious ritual, and psychological development. It describes the typical adventure of the archetype known as The Hero, the person who goes out and achieves great deeds on behalf of the group, tribe, or civilization.

Its stages are:
1. THE ORDINARY WORLD. The hero, uneasy, uncomfortable or unaware, is introduced sympathetically so the audience can identify with the situation or dilemma. The hero is shown against a background of environment, heredity, and personal history. Some kind of polarity in the hero’s life is pulling in different directions and causing stress.

1. THE CALL TO ADVENTURE. Something shakes up the situation, either from external pressures or from something rising up from deep within, so the hero must face the beginnings of change.

2. REFUSAL OF THE CALL. The hero feels the fear of the unknown and tries to turn away from the adventure, however briefly. Alternately, another character may express the uncertainty and danger ahead.

3. MEETING WITH THE MENTOR. The hero comes across a seasoned traveler of the worlds who gives him or her training, equipment, or advice that will help on the journey. Or the hero reaches within to a source of courage and wisdom.

4. CROSSING THE THRESHOLD. At the end of Act One, the hero commits to leaving the Ordinary World and entering a new region or condition with unfamiliar rules and values.

5. TESTS, ALLIES AND ENEMIES. The hero is tested and sorts out allegiances in the Special World.

6. APPROACH. The hero and newfound allies prepare for the major challenge in the Special world.

7. THE ORDEAL. Near the middle of the story, the hero enters a central space in the Special World and confronts death or faces his or her greatest fear. Out of the moment of death comes a new life.

8. THE REWARD. The hero takes possession of the treasure won by facing death. There may be celebration, but there is also danger of losing the treasure again.

9. THE ROAD BACK. About three-fourths of the way through the story, the hero is driven to complete the adventure, leaving the Special World to be sure the treasure is brought home. Often a chase scene signals the urgency and danger of the mission.

10. THE RESURRECTION. At the climax, the hero is severely tested once more on the threshold of home. He or she is purified by a last sacrifice, another moment of death and rebirth, but on a higher and more complete level. By the hero’s action, the polarities that were in conflict at the beginning are finally resolved.

11. RETURN WITH THE ELIXIR. The hero returns home or continues the journey, bearing some element of the treasure that has the power to transform the world as the hero has been transformed.

What do you think? Does this resonate? Ladies, where are you in your journey, right now?

xox

When my inner Miranda comes out, asking the hard lawyer questions, being all judgy and playing the perpetual devil’s advocate – I want to kick her ass.

Seems she’s my inner cynical adult. She doesn’t believe in love or magic or happy endings.
I didn’t cast her in that role, yet, there she is – big shoulder padded business suits, short, choppy red hair and all. She snuck in there around the millennia…and stayed.
“Well, what does that mean? You’ve GOT to be kidding me. What are you going to do about that? When are you going to take care of that?” she asks, with no hint of inner sweetness, just lawyerly cross examination, tinged with disdain.

My inner Judge and confidence executioner is Miranda Hobbes from Sex And The City.

While single and in my late thirties, early forties, I never missed Sex And The City.
I could totally relate to the friendship between the four girls, and the similarities between their life and mine.
New York, LA, it didn’t matter. Dating was dating; and several episodes felt so familiar, I had a sneaking suspicion that my apartment was bugged, my phone conversations were taped, and there was a mole in my circle.

The parallels were uncanny.

For about five years I spent almost every weekend either at a wedding, IN a wedding or at a bridal or baby shower, just like the girls.

I was tragically single – no kids. Shoes, dating, shopping and eating at the latest, greatest restaurants were my hobbies. I spent every dime I made until my accountants had a literal intervention with me, and made me buy a house. Like Carrie.

I may have had my sexually promiscuous moments (okay, years) but it was all to avoid true intimacy, like Samantha.

I didn’t feel so bad when Miranda fell hard for Steve and then ended it because – well – he was just a big hearted, underachieving, bartender, and not so ironically at the time I had just endured a break up with a handsome, unemployed actor – with a heart of gold.

And I too had divorced a perfectly lovely man with mother issues, just like Charlotte.

I would say, at that time, I was a composite of all the girls.

For two years I even had a Mr. Big.
He lived in New York. Tall, dark, handsome and mysterious, with the big job, the driver and the arrogant attitude. He found me interesting and a challenge; I thought he was always pulling a fast one. He and his life didn’t seem for real.

Just like Carrie’s Big, he called me kiddo or kid, which I hated, because I wasn’t a kid, it felt condescending as hell, and I was convinced he’d just forgotten my name.
So many cites, so many women.

Sometimes we were pals, sometimes we were lovers.
It was all very confusing. We’d bicker incessantly and one of us would end it about once a month. Then, after about two weeks, a first class plane ticket, an Hermes scarf or something from Tiffany’s would arrive via FedEx, or he’d call me from the airplane (which was a huge deal back then) or wish me good night with Italian church bells ringing in the background.
These romantic gestures were enough to open the lines of communication, and the next thing I knew, he’d schedule me into his life for a weekend, or I’d fly to New York for great make-up sex.
We finally stopped trying to make it something it wasn’t – a relationship; and within six months, it all just faded away.
A friend of mine who lives in New York reports that he’s still single and quite the player.

So years later, Mr. Big on SATC would make me squirm – too similar – hey, maybe my Big’s phone was bugged.

But I digress. Back to Miranda.
I caught a SATC marathon the other day, as a guilty pleasure, while I was under the weather, and Miranda was really annoying me. I always found her to be a perfectionist, a hard ass and difficult to please and… Shit – Miranda, my least favorite character, I now realize, SHE is the shitty voice inside my head.
Doesn’t that just figure? She’s a perfect fit for the embodiment of the critical me.
Makes sense since that was the role she played so well in the series.

I’m going to contact Critical Casting and see if I can change things, switch it up a bit. Miranda is someone from a life so long ago; I think I can give my inner bitch a more current persona; like lets say…Chelsea Handler?

Who personifies your inner critic? Whose the voice of your inner bitch? Is it time for an update? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below!

xox

One is interesting – Both are true.
Have a great Sunday everyone!

Xox