guidance

This is a reprise of one of the more popular posts from earlier this year.
Have a wickedly great Saturday!
xoxJ

I have a slogan for when things get messed up: Wait for the turnaround.
~Debbie Harry~lead singer of the punk rock band Blondie
(If you don’t know that – shame on you)

I’ve always been a “fix it” kinda gal.

If you present me with a problem or a mess, I’m gonna brainstorm it until I find a solution.

I’m going to fight it and wrestle it to the ground, I rarely take NO for an answer, and everything is figuraoutable.

I’d like to think I’m a lot like Debbie Harry…in more ways than one.
Truth is, I have waited for the turnaround…after I have exhausted every other option known to man – and then some.

Then I wised up.

I bet that wasn’t her slogan at 25 or even 35.
That’s the kind of wisdom you gain with maturity; the end result of many, many, many, mess ups.

Fifty – I’m going to guess that she came to that epiphany after fifty.
It’s around that age that you realize that there can even BE a turnaround.
That there will ALWAYS be a turnaround.

After fifty THIS you know for sure: You have to pick yourself up off the bathroom floor to be ready for the turnaround.

You have to make it until the sun comes up, because in the deep, suffocating blackness of 3am, you can’t even imagine a turnaround.

That you have to get sober to start the turnaround.

That tears make your eyes that much more capable of seeing the turnaround.

That sometimes you have to be alone, inside the silence, to listen for the turnaround.

That your wounded heart, with its bandages and skid marks, has to open enough to let the love in.
That love – is hidden in the turnaround.

Note to self:Look away.
The turnaround doesn’t reside anywhere near the mess, so if you stay digging around in that pile of shit, it will allude you.

You can’t stalk the turnaround, you can’t cajole it. You can’t bargain with it, or coerce it into place. AND……you certainly can’t rush it.

Believe me, I’ve tried.

When things are messed up. When they are epically trashed. There WILL be a turnaround. History has proven it.
It comes in its own time. It can take years or days or even just hours. Look at every disaster, natural and man made. Things appear bleak, all hope is lost, but eventually the dust settles and in rides…….the turnaround. Remember 9/11?
We were in shock, then despair, then pissed off, then….wait for it…we emerged stronger and more united than ever.
Humongous, miraculous, turnaround.

You gotta love Debbie Harry. Gorgeous, Sexy, smart, 70’s-80’s rock star icon and a guru after 50. Just like me. 😉
I bet she never thought she’d be quoted in a spiritual blog. There’s a first time for everything…even for you; Debbie Harry.

Tell me about a big turnaround in your life. I’d love to hear about it.

Xox

“Well, what will you do for money?” The fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes were huge, and the fear inside them was palpable.

“Nooooo, honey, you’re a jeweler, that’s what you do.” It was not a statement, it was a directive.

“What? Why? Now? You’re in your fifties.” Said by someone whose recent anthem had been: Fifty is the new Thirty.

Turncoat.

Those are just a few of the reactions I’ve gotten when I’ve been asked ‘So, what are you up to?’ And I reply “I’m a writer.”

I’ve said it before and it’s worth repeating. A lot, no, make that most – most people who ask you how you are and what you’re up to – they don’t really want to know.

It’s the amuse bouche of conversation – obligatory and unnecessary.

Which leads me to two important revelations ( bigger than insights, more important to remember than observations) that I’ve had about who I told about the writing in the very beginning; and I think they can apply to anything precious that you’re considering doing in your life.

NUMBER ONE:
Don’t tell just anyone everything. THAT can be considered an act of self sabotage.
That was a hard one for me because I’m about as opaque as Saran Wrap, but you’ve really got to be careful here.
How well do you know the person in front of you?
Are they safe? Meaning, do they have your best interests at heart – or an agenda?
I’ve had more amazing responses and feedback from strangers – on airplanes – than I have from the people close to me.
Probably because they aren’t invested in my old identity.
One guy recently responded “oh wow, that’s great; you look like a writer.” Whatever that meant. It felt like a compliment, but I’m thinking he got a look at my writer’s flat ass.

Advise in a nutshell – take a minute, and size up the asker.

Don’t divulge your new passion/ plans/ career choice/ to anyone who wouldn’t understand, may laugh, or potentially invalidate you – and you may get burned by a friend.
Just don’t get burned twice by the same flame. 

NUMBER TWO:
We’ve talked about this in our Wednesday night group because I’ve found this to be true WITHOUT FAIL.
Whatever insecurities and doubts I’ve had about any new venture I’ve undertaken (and this includes relationships) I’ve always been able to count on them to be mirrored back to me by some assbite naysayer.

So those responses at the top of the page?
Of courses those were my trifecta – of – terror.
Fear of the loss of income, abandoning my long-standing career, and starting something new at my age; lobbed back across the lunch table for me to justify…to myself really.

Because here’s what happens: when you have the mirror held up and it pisses you off, and your hackles go up; all your College Debate Team skills kick in, and you’re able to come up with graphs and evidence and flow charts, to prove to them – AND YOURSELF – why this is the best idea ever!

So how can you be mad? They did you a favor. I’m aware that I’ve played the naysayer role in other peoples’s dramas many times.

Now, I hardly get any blowback, because I worked out all the confidence kinks early on and I’m better at owning it.

I’m kinda a writer like someone in their eighth month is kinda pregnant.

Just be advised; if it keeps happening, your doubts are bigger than you think – or you may need new friends.

Remember: Don’t get burned by the same flame twice.
(I swear, we should all embroider that on a pillow)

As always, I so appreciate you reading and your comments below.
When have you had your insecurities mirrored back at you? Have you gotten burned by revealing too much to the wrong person? Was it a friend? Or family?

Thanks loves,
Xox

Sally: He just met her… She’s supposed to be his transitional person, she’s not supposed to be the ONE. All this time, I thought he didn’t want to get married. But, the truth is, he didn’t want to marry me. He didn’t love me.
Harry: If you could take him back now, would you?
Sally: No. But why didn’t he want to marry me? What’s the matter with me?
~From “When Harry Met Sally”

We ALL have him/her. That “one that got away.”
Even if we were the ones that broke it off, when that someone moves on – we suffer.
“That could’ve been me” we whine into our wine.

Saying they wanted to marry you or that they weren’t the marrying kind and then GETTING MARRIED. For some, this person is extremely high-profile – I can’t even imagine how that must feel. Seeing that person captured by the paparazzi, on the cover of every magazine, having the audacity to go off and be happy…with someone else. Ugh.

It’s bad enough when you just hear it from a friend or spot the happy couple at the Farmer’s Market; as you duck behind the organic apples, in order to avoid eye contact, because you still have bed head and you’re wearing your baggy sweats, and they look like they’ve just jumped off the pages of the J Crew catalogue.

A mutual friend posted something a couple of weeks ago about one of my former boyfriends.
He was no George Clooney, but he was a large liver. Large liver’s are those guys/gals that are highly successful in high-profile professions, have money to burn and style to spare.

Seems one of his country homes was published in a prominent shelter magazine, so I stupidly went to take a look.
Do you ever google yourself or people from your past?
I never have, but I did, and I can tell you – BIG mistake.

This guy is living the dream. Beautiful wife, kids, homes all over the world, tons of money.
Part of me thought, ‘Hey, that could’ve been me’ then, as I read further, the rest of me slapped some sense into me, ‘Hey, that would NEVER be you. You still have nothing in common.’
Shit. That part has an epic memory and is always right.

We met on a blind date. Fixed up by a mutual friend.
By the third date, he was professing his love. Every time he told me he loved me I’d smile and say: “well, thanks, but you don’t really know me yet.”
I was at least that self-aware; something he didn’t appreciate.

He was nouveau riche, meaning, he had gone from making fifty grand a year to well over a million – overnight.
It became his idea of fun to spend the entire day on Sunday, trying to spend all of his money. He already had a house, a boat and a couple of cars, so, hey, why not.

We did have tons of fun and laughed our heads off. Did I mention he was funny?

Oh yeah, he was handsome, smart and funny.
He had an amazing job and was the hottest new wunderkind in his profession.

And you could tell – he was wife shopping.

It felt to me like he was taking a walk on the wild side by dating me. He liked the waspy prom queen types; I was way too bohemian at the time; all blonde hair dyed red, vintage clothes, new age, alternative music – me.

The truth was – we were completely incompatible.

He had a boat – I got seasick. I was Yoshi Yamamoto, he was Chanel.
He made fun of my bleeding heart liberalism, my altruistic nature, the spiritual books I devoured and all my flea market finds; not in a mean way, but enough to keep me off-balance.

We didn’t have a thing in common besides the great sex and our senses of humor, and I was seriously considering overlooking that…for the lifestyle.

By the end of the first month together he launched the relationship into anxiety overdrive by asking me to go on a uber luxurious trip to Paris and the South of France with him for three weeks. I only had a week’s paid vacation time left, so he offered to pay my rent.
He’d also paid for my move to the city, to be closer to him. It was all making me extremely uncomfortable. He thought my squirming was cute.

One Sunday he took me shopping in Beverly Hills in that Pretty Womanish way: walking in, sizing up the joint, acting like a big shot, asking for champagne and pointing to the most expensive things in the store; while calling all the shop girls “sweetheart.”

It wasn’t sexy, or charming, like the movie. It was mortifying, and I had my first of many anxiety attacks in the dressing room, gasping for breath, watching through the curtain as the shop girls rolled their eyes at him.

Since he had Saturday and Sunday off, he immediately started to voice his disapproval of me working on Saturdays.
I was a jeweler, Saturday was non-negotiable. Hey, I was a shop girl…sweetheart.

He let me know he didn’t care for my roommate. He also disliked my friends and family, virtually isolating me from my old life. We only spent time with his friends, at his work events, on his boat or at his house.

His large life kicked my sweet little life’s ass .

Then the whispering started.
“He’s going to ask you to marry him in Paris” his friends whispered, giving me a head’s up…and a stomach ache.

Shouldn’t I have been elated? He looked amazing on paper, the anomaly every girl I knew was looking for; a wealthy, smart, thirty-something guy – who wanted to get married!

I sat in the bathroom staring at the bidet (wondering how it worked) that first night in Monaco, shaking like a leaf, experiencing another anxiety attack. I was thousands of miles from home, on his dime. All I had on me was the three hundred dollars in my wallet and a credit card with a fifteen-hundred-dollar limit. He was the only person I knew there, and not even THAT well.
ALSO
He had Henry Higgins’d me until I barely recognized myself.
I was acting like the biggest fakity-fak- fake, with the fancy clothes and the $500 bikini’s he’d purchased for me, smiling my big, white, toothy smile on the arm of this guy I barely knew, who I wasn’t sure I loved and was supposed to become engaged to.
For me, the fairy tale was unraveling.

The trip went…okay— long story.
Suffice it to say we did not get engaged. I told you, we weren’t compatible.
Yet, when things cooled off and he stopped calling and coming around – I was shocked and hurt. He was able to dismiss me as quickly as he fell for me. I kept asking myself, what had I done wrong? Why didn’t he love me anymore? It’s hard when the spotlight of someone’s affection shifts away from you when you have to return to your sweet little life, garment bags of gowns hanging sadly in the closet. I’m sure George’s former paramours can relate.

I hope they had fun and I hope they learned the lessons I learned:
1) When someone professes their undying love for you just days into a relationship – It isn’t real. I knew it, my anxiety was my indicator.
(My current husband used the appropriate vocabulary; he said he didn’t want to take me home after a date because he was infatuated with me, and that made me swoon.)

2) If your person isolates you, never wanting to spend time with your friends and family – run. He’s leading you away from all the people who take you by the arm and talk sense into you when you’re acting like an ass and a fake and making horrible decisions.
That would end up being a litmus test for future men. I would marinate them in my friends and my life and if they balked…I’d end it.

3) Really get to know someone before you leave the continent on their dime.
It’s all so romantic, but it’s a huge imbalance of power and you’ll feel it in your gut.
Don’t let the champagne override that, your gut is always right.

4) If it’s the lifestyle you miss – provide it for yourself. I realized I LOVED Europe and made it a priority to travel abroad as often as I could. On my own dime.

So, when you’re feeling that little pit in your stomach, thinking: ‘that could’ve been me’, you have to ask yourself: ‘Really? Could you have gone the distance with that person? Did you feel like the best version of yourself when you were with them?’

I believe not. Because I believe we’re always where we’re supposed to be, in every moment.

Deep down, Stacy Keibler knew things would never last. She obviously wanted to get married, which she did less than a year after the breakup with George, and now she has a child.
But when he got engaged I’m sure she thought for a second ‘that could’ve been me.’ We all did.
But, I know, just like me, she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.

xox

When they ask you to holster your cell phone for the night; do you get a little panicky?

Or belligerent? I saw it all!

As we walked into the party on Saturday night, we were asked politely, NOT to post pictures or video of the venue or the festivities on social media.
You could almost hear the OR ELSE that was implied.
It pushed people’s buttons, you could tell. They weren’t asking you not to take the call from the babysitter, they just wanted to keep things special, without the whole shebang showing up on Instagram.

The main idea behind it was that they wanted everyone to be in the present moment; a skill we ALL seemed to have left back in the early 2000’s, you know, when we looked around and people watched.
We can’t seem to experience ANY event without documenting it. Guilty as charged.

I kinda liked being asked not to. It gave me permission and a certain freedom to just be IN. THE. MOMENT.

In the frenzy of all the going’s on, I was a present observer, taking it all in through…gasp…my eyes.
Plus, I could see where I was walking and make eye contact with all the other party participants. Imagine that.

We are like junkies, I am, I know that, and I pale by comparison to the twenty and thirty somethings. So I pocketed my phone.

Even through the entertainment. Fleetwood Mac. I lost my shit, because, well because it was Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, right there in all their…Nicks and Buckingham badassery. May I just say right here: Stevie Nicks is a rockstar beast. Sexy. Transcendent. She held everyone in the palm of her hand – at 66 years old. That makes me so happy on so many levels.
I digress.
My husband took some pictures, hell, everyone had their phone’s out, but I haven’t see one shot on the internet and I’ll keep my promise as well.
And I have to say, not having my phone held up to my face, trying to get the best shot, left me free to enjoy every moment of the evening.

So, thank you event planners and hosts of this weekend’s extravaganza. Thank you for saving me from being behind a fisheye, and allowing me to see the whole picture.

Hey – When was the last time you just watched something awesome without taking your phone out to document it? I’d love to hear about it. It is weird huh?

Big Love,
xox

More from Jason Silva, as he gets excited (so what else is new) about the growing acceptance of virtual reality devices.
Sounds cool right?

And that last sentence, where he goes on a riff and then says “think about it”, I watched it three times, I still don’t understand it.
Anyone?!

Love ya! Enjoy your Sunday!
Xox

“There’s been a fire in a radar facility causing the shutdown of O’Hare and Midway airports” the newscaster reported on the news early Friday morning.

“Raphael!” I yelled down the hall, smelling the coffee he was busy brewing to give us the morning jolt we needed, “you’ve gotta see this.”

I was soaking wet after just getting out of the shower, it was 5am and we were scheduled for a 9am flight to Chicago.

The weatherman was making a stupid joke with the helicopter reporter.
‘Get back to that O’Hare fire’ I said aloud to the TV, but they ignored me and cut to traffic.

We checked our flight status online and made sure we’d get the texts of any updates, and continued to get ready.
Since everything with United Airlines looked okay, we braved the 405 freeway and headed toward the airport. It would take us a fat hour with traffic.
Can I just take a minute to marvel with you, at the amount of traffic that’s already on the road at 6:30am?
Gridlock.

I gotta say, Carmagedddon was totally worth it – God bless the diamond lane.

We left the car in Lot C, took the shuttle to the terminal and the morning was going so smoothly at that point, I’d forgotten about the Chicago debacle.

As we entered Terminal 7, a smiling United Airlines representative met us at the door.
“Good morning, can I direct you anywhere? Where are you headed?”

“Chicago” we both said at the same time. (Jinx, he owes me a coke)

She dropped her smile, “Oh, those flights are all cancelled, you might as well go home.”

Raphael took out his phone “but I haven’t gotten any texts about that, I’ve been checking the status.”
Just then, on cue, a text came in: Delayed until ten, it said.

That was news to the rep. “The board has all flights to the Midwest cancelled…”
The three of us were now all looking at the Departure board, Cancelled had turned to Delayed – it was news to her.
“The situation is obviously very fluid” she sputtered, getting on her walkie talkie looking thing.
As we went around her, toward security, I suggested she might want to stop telling people to go home, yet, that’s what I heard her doing as we wheeled away.

Observation #1
Some people just can’t operate “off book” and highly fluid situations throw them for a loop. Even though the board had changed, no one had verbally informed her yet, so she was sticking to her story.

I wonder how many people turned around and went home when she met them at the door?

Which brings me to Observation #2.
Don’t be a lemming.
Lemmings don’t think for themselves, they will literally follow the leader off a cliff. Assess a situation, ask around, determine the best course of action – FOR YOU. When people meet you at the door and tell you to go home…
Just don’t be a lemming.

We breezed through security, (although they did pull me aside to be swiped down and frisked; as the clear security threat that I am) and went to our gate.
DELAYED – 10 am DEPARTURE.
People were milling around in various stages of discombobulation.

Observation # 3
People don’t like change. In general and especially while traveling. I’ve always found change inevitable while traveling, and some of the biggest detours have provided the best experiences.

We left all the screaming and crying and gnashing of teeth behind, and went to sit and eat a civilized breakfast since we had an additional hour to kill.

As we ate, I could see the the BREAKING NEWS ticker on CNN talking about the fire in Chicago. Over seven hundred flights had been cancelled.
We were in good spirits. The trip to Chicago was for a big party. It wasn’t the end of the world if we didn’t get there.

Right then and there we decided to take it out of United Airline’s hands and leave it up to the Universe.
We high five’d it. It felt like a relief.

We received a text as we finished our coffee, it read: your flight has been cancelled, we have re-booked you on a flight to Houston and then a transfer to Chicago. You will arrive at 10 am TOMORROW.

Yeah, no way.

The customer service line was three hundred people long. I’m not kidding.

Again, it was NOT a happy place.
Another frazzled United rep with a computer thingy was going down the line, asking people where they were headed and apparently trying to re-route them.

“Chicago? Yeah, you’re not going to get there today” she gingerly informed the couple ahead of us.
They were upset. Chicago was home, and they just wanted to get home.
“We got a text that we’ve been re-booked through Houston” my husband interjected while the rep was looking at her shoes, feeling helpless.

“Oh, well, I guess just go to the kiosk and enter your confirmation number and you should be able to check on that.”
So we did.

Observation #4

Sometimes the Universe sends angels. They can appear as a harried Airline representative – and a kiosk.

At the kiosk, after entering the thirteen letters and numbers that had confirmed our now cancelled flight, up popped our names and the Houston/Chicago re-route.
It appeared in that moment that it was going to take us over 24 hrs to get to the Windy City.

Then it appeared; down on the bottom left hand side of the screen, an unobtrusive little button: OTHER OPTIONS

I pressed it and a miracle occurred.
LAX – CHICAGO O’HARE – 11am – arrival – 4:45pm

We looked at each other; I pressed CONTINUE

PICK SEATS 
What?! There were seats on a flight that left today? In an hour and a half?

Everyone was telling us to go home, or circumnavigate the globe to end up in Chi-town.
It looked like there were about twelve seats available. Really? That didn’t seem feasible.
We picked two in the exit row (with the extra leg room for my six foot three big handsome) crossed our fingers, toes and eyes and hit CONTINUE

The kiosk did a little dance and then spit out two perfectly miraculous boarding passes – just like that.

We were literally right next to three hundred really aggravated people, in line being told they had no options.

We couldn’t believe our good fortune until we were sitting in our seats, taxiing down the runway. Then we toasted with Ginger Ale.

Observation #5
You can jump on the bad news, why me, aggravation bandwagon, take NO for an answer, and go home; OR you can give the F’d up situation to something more powerful than the airlines, not even break a sweat, and wait for the miracles to occur. We choose the latter.

I’m writing this in my seat on a very full flight (so other people obviously got the Universal memo) and I’m feeling very blessed and NOT *overclamoured.

*one of my new friends from our flight, Derek, made up this word about the mood in the airport today; we loved it so much he’s entering into the Urban Dictionary. Look for it 😉

When have you felt overclamoured and turned it around? Did you get a miracle?

Sending Chicago Love,
Xox

That evening’s Chicago sunset

(Rare photo of my Muse)

Prayer To The Muse
Give the act to me.
Purged of hope and ego,
Fix your attention on the soul.
Act and do for me.”

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012.

The Muse and I were sitting around the other day chatting, as we do. She with an air of gin, tonic and attitude; and me, always in awe of her beauty and general badassery.

I was questioning her about all aspects of the writing process, publishing in particular. She is VERY knowledgable.

She is the Muse, after all.

As the conversation zig and zagged over the various ways to get published, she shook her head. “There’s no excuse these days, for an author not to get their work out in the world to be read.”

“So all of us, the writers of the world, together with our Muses, we just write what we love, and send it, like our precious baby, out into the world?” I asked.
“What intention should we give it as we send it on its way? To touch people? To help people? To make money? To be a best seller?”

I couldn’t tell by the way she slowly turned to face me, with a kind of half smirk, whether her answer was going to be kind, or I was gonna get a smack down.

She started to laugh.
The Muse has a laugh like the throaty purr of a Maserati. Deep and sexy.
I’m guessing it’s the result of age, too many late nights, strong drinks and cigarettes; but if she asks – you didn’t hear that from me.

“I only write best sellers, my darling” she purred with her usual lack of humility.

“That’s all I’m capable of. I only paint masterpieces. I only write musical compositions that bring grown men to tears. It’s all I know how to do.”

Now I was shaking my head, but she continued.

“As the Muse, I am Divine Inspiration at the highest level, sending my masterpiece through you, the vessel.”

Now I was leaning in; listening intently, she could sense my interest, so she took a long drag on her cigarette to keep me in suspense.

“I’m incapable of writing a boring book or a piece of shit movie.”
She threw her head back, smoke billowing from her nostrils.
“That’s YOUR contribution.” She was laughing again.

“The clearer the vessel, the clearer the translation of my work. If you start to question it, or edit it, or doubt it, well, darling, you’re being an idiot.”
I laughed.

“If you can’t recognize a masterpiece when you see it or read it, or you somehow think you can do it better,” she shifted in her chair, “you’ll compromise the material.
It will become mediocre….or suck altogether.”

That was a big AhHa for me.

What she was saying was this: that no matter what your talent, no matter what ideas you have, we are ALL, every one of us, capable of greatness; it’s wholly dependent on the clarity of our connection to the Muse. No one is more talented, they are just better connected.
Steve Jobs, I’m going to venture to guess, kept his nose out of her business.

He just let it flow.

I get it. I get it!

“Our relationship is very complicated, my darling. Everyday I’m taking a chance that you will trust me enough to write my words the way I say them or paint my vision, using the colors I choose. I hear your prayer and I get ready to work. All you have to do is trust and stay clear of fear, doubt, and judgement.”

“Oh is THAT all.” I replied, sarcastically.

“My job as the Muse is to pick the correct vessel.”
She got to her feet for emphasis, turned and winked.
“It is how all the great works of humanity; of architecture, and the arts have been created. I believe it to be a good system.”

So do I.
I’d be an idiot to disagree with the Muse.

Xox

(Photo of Picasso and his Muse. “THE MUSE AND THE MASTER”)

You can always tell what your friends think of you, by the people they set you up with.
~J Bertolus

“Oh, and he’s sooooo good with ALL of my dogs, even my crazy new rescue…”
She leaned across the jewelry counter, handing me his card, her giant diamond ring blinding me.

At that point she’d been waxing poetic about this guy for a good fifteen minutes.

Tina was the young, hot wife of a regular watch client of ours. He was a significantly older businessman, she was an attorney, (which never ceased to amaze me, because she looked like Malibu Barbie…seriously) he was richer than Trump – she was Georgia Peach sweet – and they seemed genuinely crazy about each other.

I was turning over every rock in my search for a husband at that stage of my life, and I’d decided, in a flash of desperate spontaneity, to ask her if she knew anyone.

Looking at her, I was sure men threw themselves her way on an hourly basis, and I was right.
She had a stack of cards that could choke a horse in the secret pocket of her bright blue Birkin bag, and when she pulled this guy’s out of the pile, it had his personal cell phone number handwritten on the back.

“He’s an excellent vet, he really is, and a beautiful human being. Honey, call that number” she said, tapping the back of the card with a long crimson fingernail, “that’s where he can be most easily reached.”

“Oh…I’m sure of THAT.” I snarkily replied, turning the card over in my hand. “For a dog emergency, right?”

“Of course. He said anytime, day or night. Isn’t that darling? He’s so devoted…”

I searched her face for any trace of…well, I don’t know; was she for real?
Could she really be THAT naive?
Yes – yes she could.

A handsome, single, forty year old veterinarian; in my neighborhood; that didn’t suck, right?

I gave her MY card, I wanted him to call ME.
I was getting good at blind dating – blind calling? Not so much.

After another five minutes of extolling his virtues, I stopped her by fibbing; telling her I had an appointment coming in, and immediately called the Vatican to petition for his sainthood.

Then I promptly forgot about this Saint Francis of Assisi – and Studio City.

As I remember it, he called, and we set up a time to meet the following Friday night, at the bar of a local Mexican restaurant.

I was usually dressed nice enough for work to be able to go straight out for drinks or a blind date. Nothing too fancy, but waaaay nicer than what I wear now.
If I was dating now – forget about it. I’d have to spackle, and put on pants.
Have I said too much?

The bar was LOUD and filled with every assorted type on a Friday night in the middle of summer.
There were tourists, with their Universal Studios t-shirts, young businessmen in suits, and sports guys, glued to the game on the TV above the bar.
She’d said he was dark haired and handsome, so I just looked past the ferret faced blonde guys.

“Janet?” a man’s voice asked from behind me, so I spun around.
There was my vet – in board shorts, flip flops and a faded surf shop t-shirt.
I had seen him in my preliminary scan of the bar and mistaken him for…something – not a guy meeting a blind date.
Had I made a mistake? Were we meeting to go grunion hunting?

“Oh hi.” I tried not to look as disappointed as I felt. I don’t think I succeeded.

“This place was a terrible idea (mine) it’s too loud and crowded, let’s go someplace else.” He said walking several steps in front of me toward the door.

Maybe he was disappointed as well.
I wasn’t Tina, not even on a good day.
Maybe he thought all her friends looked like they hung out in her Barbie Dreamhouse.
Yet, he certainly hadn’t dressed to impress.
I was hungry, disappointed and stumped. And I wanted to run.

“Were do you think we should go?” he was asking me as we stood outside on the sidewalk.
I wasn’t exactly batting a thousand, since I’d picked the loud, crowded place, and he wasn’t really dressed for anything nicer than Denny’s.

We walked for a few awkward blocks on Ventura Boulevard and settled on CPK – for a blind date – in LA. This was NOT going well.

Just as I’d suspected, it was filled with families and screaming kids at that hour, but I was done giving this date one more minute of thought, since it appeared HE was already phoning it in.

Wine!! I need wine!, was all that was going through my head as we sat down at a booth that was so dirty it sticky/slimed my silk blouse.

After the booze came, we started to make small talk, mostly him, (and if you know me at all, you know it’s rare when I’m quiet) as I chug-a-lugged my merlot.

He loved the animals and being a vet, and he lived up the hill – Nice.
Then suddenly, like a brick to the forehead, “I went to veterinary school in the Philippines, I really LOVE Philippine woman, they’re my type” he said to the curly-haired blonde, stuck to the table across from him.
He had a lascivious look on his face.

How rude was he going to get? His lack of blind date decorum was shocking. Didn’t he know the rules? Didn’t he know he was blowing it? Did he even care?

“Well, of course you do” – I’d had it.
“Isn’t that where the people who can’t get into veterinary school in the states go?”
I sniped.

Okay I know, low blow.

I grabbed a passing waiter’s sleeve as he walked by, “Check” I hissed, almost yanking his arm off.
Board short guy barely noticed; he was still staring off into space, grinning, dreaming of the women in the Philippines.

He grabbed the check and insisted on paying, even though I had my $20 out and ready.
What a gentleman.
He pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and snapped-snapped it in my face, to pay the $18 tab, like the flip-flop wearing, high rolling, big shot that he was.

I couldn’t have been more UNDERWHELMED.
I’m sorry to sound like an ass, but I was a jeweler, I counted hundred-dollar bills all day long, so much so, that they’d begun to resemble Monopoly money to me. (But that’s a whole other story.)

He then took several minutes to arrange the change in his wallet according to the bill denomination. I bolted.

“Uh, thanks so much, I’ve really got a run, I have an early….thing” I was literally speed walking to my car, with the vet trying to keep up, flying out of his flip-flops.

“Let’s do this again” he was behind me, out of breath.

That stopped me in my tracks.
“Your kidding right? This did not go well, we have nothing in common and we have absolutely NO chemistry.”
I let him down easy. Hey! That was easy, believe me.

“Oh, okay.” I heard in the distance. I was running now, with the safe haven of my car in sight.

I felt like I was going to need a Silkwood shower to wash off the yuck of that night and what the hell was Tina thinking?

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the person beside me honking and trying to get my attention.
It was the vet. In a brand spanking new, red Corvette, giving me that same hundred-dollar smile and a thumbs up.

So, the moral of this story is: be really careful when putting out the blind dating feelers. You should ONLY ask the people who know you and love you. And you’ll be able to tell who they are by the people they fix you up with.

PS: Tina was shocked when I told her the vet and I were not a match. He told her I was “out of his league.” What?!

Ladies? Weigh in pretty please.
Xox

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me.
I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons.
I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities.
In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement.
Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals.
And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

This quote has been making the rounds recently, attributed to Meryl Streep.
The problem is, this quote is actually from the pen of Portuguese self-help author/life coach José Micard Teixeira – not a woman, and not an elder, but a younger man who is suddenly becoming the “not Streep” Internet celebrity of the month.

It makes no difference to me, I’ve got no patience for that stuff.
I just love the quote.
Happy Wisdom Wednesday!

Xox

You must never allow something that happened to you to become a morbidly treasured heirloom that you carry, show people, put back in its black velvet pouch and then tuck back into your jacket where you can keep it close to your heart.”
~Augusten Burroughs

Same topic. Wounded-ness. Forgiveness. Healing.
Seems to be in the air these days.
Everyone’s got an axe to grind.

What if one day you took that pouch out of your jacket pocket and diamonds spilled out instead?

How could you tell your sad little story when all you held in your hands were…diamonds? Not your morbid heirlooms, just beautiful crystals forged under pressure from the blackest of coal.

What if your heart had transmuted your sad stories into diamonds through the alchemy of forgiveness?

What if we all refused to enable each other’s wounds?
Because we were so dazzled by the diamonds we found there, in our pockets. We could finally see our stories transformed into the gems they really are.

THAT is the power of forgiveness my loves.
Let’s all make diamonds…

Xox

What are you going to take out of the black velvet pouch and turn into a diamond today? Tell me about it?