Damn, this always makes me feel better.
This goes for those of us that had it figured out early, took a right turn and are re-inventing ourselves in our fifties.
Success takes many paths and it is never a straight line.
You’re welcome.
Sending Monday love,
Xox
The difference between impossible and nearly impossible
Is as big as any difference we encounter.
All we need is ‘nearly‘ and we have completely transformed the problem–changing it from one to avoid to one to commit to.
Here’s the hard part: having the ability to see (and to announce) the ‘nearly‘ part.
Almost every breakthrough comes from someone who saw nearly when no one else did
~ Seth Godin
LOVE me some Seth. Makes ya think. Have a wonderful Sunday!
Sending love,
Xox
Dear America,
Home of these United States.
Happy Birthday, Girl.
I am eternally grateful, even after traveling the world, make that especially after traveling the world, to have won the cosmic lottery, by having had the good fortune to be born in your golden state.
I have traveled this country, sea to shining sea, mostly on the back of a motorcycle, and I’m here to testify that it really does have purple mountain’s majesty and amber waves of grain.
It is gorgeous.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the trash, graffiti and poverty through these rose-colored glasses, but by and large, this country is a heart swelling great source of pride for me.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
That last pursuit, the pursuit of happiness?
We are blessed that Thomas Jefferson had the wisdom and foresight to write that into The Declaration of Independence.
No other country in the world gives its citizens the RIGHT to happiness.
Who knows what that means, what happiness looks like?
To them it meant emancipation from British Rule.
Happiness means something different to everyone, but we are entitled to it thanks to that sacred declaration, and by God, we go for it.
The American people I’ve met all want the same things from life: Love and a good cup of coffee.
Americans are hard workers. Some of the hardest in the world – check the stats.
We love our pets
Damn, we love our kids.
We are an irrepressible bunch. We are gregarious, out going and LOUD.
We are innovative, curious, quick minded and clever.
We willingly give directions to people who look lost.
We don’t take NO for an answer.
We are MacGyvers, most of us are industrious enough to fix pretty much anything with gum, a paper clip and dental floss. It’s in the water.
The Americans I’ve met, will help a stranger in a heartbeat. They are generous and kind.
The United States is only as great as the sum of its parts; in reality it is only a landmass with man-made borders.
It is the people who make it great and make me grateful to have been born here.
(Italy was my first choice, I’m sure, but you can’t get an apartment or pay a bill without greasing someone’s palm AND it has no infrastructure.)
Travel outside the states and you’ll share my appreciation for :
Clean water
Indoor plumbing
Hot running water,
A toilet with Real toilet paper
Things that work as expected
Ice cubes
Cold anything really
Decent French fries
King size beds (not two beds pushed together)
Street signs that actually give you correct information.
7 eleven (the ability to buy tampons or Motrin or band aids at 2AM)
Personal space (other countries don’t have the same personal boundaries we do.)
We were standing in some line in Europe, (where they are big on lining up for things to which Americans would say “No fucking way”) when my husband looked over at me with the saddest mix of incredulity and humiliation. The old man behind him was standing so close that if he even so much as puckered his lips, he would have kissed the back of my husband’s neck.
It freaked him out and he’s French…. So, personal boundaries.
A relatively dependable police force and fire department.
A somewhat workable bureaucracy. (Just try to get your VAT tax back)
Real cabs that don’t have hoodlums for drivers
Soap
Pillows that are thicker than 1 inch.
CUSTOMER SERVICE.
I’m serious, these are things we take for granted that some other countries just haven’t figured out yet.
Happy Birthday America. I do love you. You don’t look a day over two hundred.
My birthday wish for you this day is a big fat cake with tons of candles, heaps of vanilla ice cream, and the most badass fireworks display ever, complete with marching bands and a fly over by the Blue Angels.
Too much? Nah, we’re Americans.
*Addendum: there are some things that other countries do that kick our ass.
My husband was riding in the middle of the Namibian desert last year and he had cell phone service – like four bars – four bars is unheard of in LA.
The electricity was dicey, but he was able to FaceTime me every night.
So, yeah, they’re killing it with cell phone service.
Want to wish her a Happy Birthday? Put it in comments below and I’ll forward them to her.
Much love,
Xox
I’ve recently started a liver detox.
All the cool kids are doing it, so when the bandwagon came by, I jumped on board.
It was actually circling, in my orbit for a couple of weeks with several people mentioning that they were currently doing it, or that I should try it; which makes me wonder if my liver was sending out silent signals to strangers that it needed rehab.
My liver has gone rogue.
My liver is fucking Sid Vicious.
I was warned that anger could “come up” as a result of detoxing the liver and Sid being the furious malcontent that he is, did not disappoint.
I have an edge
My mouth wants to start a war, leaving land mines of vitriol in its wake, dropping F Bombs from the sky.
My mouth, it’s safe to say, is going to get me in trouble.
I’ve been a complete ass to everyone – but I swear it’s the juice.
Here’s the skinny according to Chinese medicine:
Anger is associated with the liver.
By its nature, anger causes qi to rise, leading to a red face and red eyes, headaches, and dizziness. This matches the pattern of liver fire rising. Anger can also cause liver qi to “attack the spleen,” producing lack of appetite, indigestion, and diarrhea (often experienced by those people who argue at the dinner table or eat while driving).
In a more long-term view, suppressed anger or frustration often causes liver qi to become stagnant; this might result in depression or menstrual disorders.
*It is interesting to note that people who take herbs to release stagnant liver qi often experience bouts of anger as the stagnation is relieved. The anger passes as the condition clears. (Whew) Similarly, anger and irritability are often the determining factor in diagnosing liver qi stagnation.
Many people are relieved to know their rage has a physiologic basis. (relieved, really?)
It is essential to avoid drinking coffee when treating anger-related liver disorders, as coffee heats the liver and greatly intensifies the condition. (Well, that just pisses me off)
When I gave a shot glass of said juice to my husband, his hackles went up, and he shouted out to the kitchen in his best bad husband voice, “don’t give me that shit to drink EVER AGAIN”.
“Hey, take it easy pal.”
I’m telling you, it’s that juice.
So here’s the deal, it’s not one of those heavy-duty, doctor prescribed, Gwyneth Paltrow “conscious cleansing” detoxes.
It’s super simple.
I was told to mix together in a small glass:
pure unsweetened organic cranberry juice
2 tsp of Organic apple cider vinegar
Juice of half a lemon
Then bottoms up.
The bitterness and alkalinity help to balance the enzymes inside the…………
Sorry, give me a minute – – auto-correct just made me mad.
Everyone said I would feel great.
I would start to crave kale and exercise and I would hear angels singing.
Three days. Nothing.
I crave ice cream, movie marathons and yodeling.
Sid is being extremely uncooperative, as often happens with these detoxes. He’s acting like a punk.
My liver doesn’t want to get clean, it wants to play pool, do Jell-O shots and go to the track.
I’ll let you know how this thing progresses, maybe by next week I’ll be able to give it my ringing endorsement.
I’ll be a new woman. (Meh.)
Maybe you should try it and let me know how it goes with you?
FINE, then don’t. See if I care.
Sorry.
Damn that juice.
Attempting to send love,
Xox
At dinner Monday night, the conversation, fueled by my favorite Italian wine, one of my all time favorite couples, candlelight and a table on the patio, led in its meandering yet revealing way, to talk of Resistance.
You all know how I LOVE that subject.
I’m convinced that the the more I can shine a light on that creative cockroach, sending him back into the shadows, the better off the world will be.
The food was epically delicious; like accidental drooling level good, yet it was eclipsed by the conversation because I got to discuss Resistance with someone who’s creative genius I admire beyond words.
He paints and he is also a musical wonder.
He writes, plays multiple instruments, and is a highly sought after producer.
But beyond that, he is disarming, present, engaging and humble as hell, which makes me LOVE him and want to put him in my pocket for safe keeping.
We have a similar relationship with the Muse, and obviously his channel is clear.
He keeps on delivering great work from her, year after year.
Still, he has his struggles with the beast, Resistance – he was just unaware of its name.
If you can’t name your enemy, how can you defeat it?
So now you have it, my friend.
Remember, this isn’t just for artists and writers, we are ALL creating SOMETHING, and Resistance is an equal opportunity saboteur.
Here are a few things we touched on:
*RESISTANCE IS INSIDIOUS
“Resistance will tell you anything to keep you from doing your work. It will perjure, fabricate, falsify; seduce, bully, cajole. Resistance is protean. It will assume any form, if that’s what it takes to deceive you. It will reason with you like a lawyer or jam a nine-millimeter in your face like a stickup man. Resistance has no conscience. It will pledge anything to get a deal, then double-cross you as soon as your back is turned.
If you take Resistance at its word, you deserve everything you get. Resistance is always lying and always full of shit.”
That always lying and full of shit part; I’ve dated that guy.
All kidding aside, the implications of this seem daunting.
The level of commitment and fight, not to mention the sheer tonnage of alcohol and chocolate it will take to overcome; well, pick your poison and come sit by me, we have some serious strategy to employ.
This all makes me sick to my stomach because that fucker is in MY head.
It leads me to believe that it’s smarter than me, when it’s NOT. How could it be when it is using MY intellect – against me?
*RESISTANCE IS IMPLACABLE
Resistance is like the Alien or the Terminator or the shark in Jaws. It cannot be reasoned with. It understands nothing but power. It is an engine of destruction, programmed from the factory with one object only: to prevent us from doing our work. Resistance is implacable, intractable, indefatigable. Reduce it to a single cell and that cell will continue to attack.
This is Resistance’s nature. It’s all it knows.”
Resistance IS the Alien parasite that rides along with its host, fowling everything it encounters.
It’s an inside job; this ruining of our lives.
Much like the Alien/parasite, resistance doesn’t have the good sense to know it’s slowly and systematically killing its host.
Either that or it doesn’t care.
Both make me want to hurl, and then they make. me. angry.
Anger is good. It’s mobilizing. It short circuits victim hood
.
If Resistance lies within me, then, it is within my control.
Therein lies the Ah Ha.
MuuuuuHaaaaaaaa! (Diabolical laugh).
Control. Now you’re talkin’
If Resistance is the Alien inside, then I have no problem getting all Ripley on it.
“Get away from ME – you bitch!”
I’d love to hear your struggles with Resistance and the ways you’ve battled the Alien. Did you realize it was an inside job? Does that make you feel more empowered? Talk to me.
Your comments help the tribe.
Much love,
Xox
*All excerpts from Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” (My bible)
Today I met a couple of girlfriends for a leisurely late breakfast; I hesitate to use the word brunch because that word implies Mimosa’s and Bloody Mary’s, pots of hot coffee and the fact that it’s the weekend.
This was simply an egg, toast and tofu rice bowl breakfast, sans the alcohol.
In other words, a Monday.
We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, so there were lots of hugs, laughter, stories, and sharing of pictures on our phones.
One of my friends showed us a picture of the cute rainbow-colored, teeny-tiny little bikini that she’d just had the courage to purchase over the weekend. She is a stunning forty-year-old, who, in my humble opinion should be wearing her bikini to the Post Office and Trader Joes, but this was a big step for her.
No more modest little one piece for HER this summer.
She’s gonna rock a bikini, loud and proud. I applaud her for that.
Here’s what Nora Ephron had to say about that:
Anyhow, my friend had been noticing scores of, for lack of a better word, average women, with their lusciously voluminous bellies and boobies, and their jiggly thighs, walking up and down the beach with heads held high, like they were freaking Heidi Klum, and she thought: Hey, why the hell not?
Why not indeed!
I love what she said next. I think I’m going to embroider it on a pillow.
“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”
Bahahahaha!
After we all got done laughing our asses off, my other friend told us the story of her holiday a few years back, in Italy with her friend Luigi. They were in some steamy southern Italian city and decided to go to the local beach.
Because it was Italy and you can’t be held accountable for anything you say, eat or do there, she was also wearing a bikini. (Italy is where Vegas got their slogan, I think Marcus Aurelius said it first)
Somehow, she and Luigi found themselves together on a raft, (this part of the story gets murky. There must be one hell of a reason behind this because my friend is not a “share a raft” kinda gal). Anyhow, there they are, paddling around in the warm, deep blue, Mediterranean Sea.
Luigi suggests that they paddle (I’m still wondering about this), over to a small island nearby (what?), to visit a couple of his friends on the beach. As they approach, one of the women, as my friend tells it, literally unfolds herself, slowly moving from seated to standing on her towel.
“Luigi, Mio caro!” she exclaims, waving her hand in the air. She then slinks toward the shore to greet Luigi in a warm embrace. (Okay, now I get it.)
Luigi is 5’3″.
She is 6′ tall and shaped like a ripe pear, with large heaving breasts and curvaceous round hips—all the color of mahogany…oh, and she is topless.
My friend recounted how Luigi’s face was buried in this woman’s smoldering Italian cleavage for the duration of the embrace and no one even flinched. As a matter of fact, all the woman were older, voluptuous, tan and topless.
Mama Mia!
Not a body issue to be found.
In that moment my friend was thrilled she wasn’t all covered up in her chastity inducing, Grandma Moses one piece swimsuit.
OMG! That’s SO Italian! Actually that’s SO European. What’s OUR Yankee doodle problem?
If we’re over a certain age, or don’t have the bodies of super models, why can’t we have the courage to flaunt what God gave us and rock that bikini?
Didn’t the paparazzi capture this picture of Dame Helen Mirren looking fucking awesome in a red bikini a few years back? Isn’t she over sixty? Fuck! I worship her for that.
We don’t have to walk around, with boobs a flyin’ like those gutsy and gorgeous Italians, but some body confidence couldn’t hurt.
I say let’s all get over ourselves, and buy bikini’s, or a least something flattering that plays up our good assets.
Come on, Guys too.
Doesn’t have to be a speedo, but it can be trunks that hit above the calf.
Most guys I’ve met, even if they have a belly, have GREAT legs.
Flaunt um!
When we look back at pictures from twenty years ago, we were HOT and we thought otherwise at the time.
We’re never satisfied, so let’s love and embrace what we have.
I’m not certain I’ll be able to comply. I can’t be expected to hold in my stomach for more than half-hour increments, and if I eat more than one grape, it’s impossible altogether.
But….now I have my new motto:
“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”
Too much?
Xox
Faces always talk too much. One line and all their plans are revealed.”
― Floriano Martins
When I look at this face of mine, it appears hopeful, tired, lovely and worn — all at once.
Like my puppy gazing into a mirrored surface, I tend to get skittish and look past it.
I don’t recognize it as my own.
I’ve been attempting an exercise that Louise Hay wrote about recently.
Oh….that rascal—that pusher of buttons.
It’s darted in and out of my experience, like children playing tag. I’d hear or read about it and I would think: oh, I’ll have to try that.
Then day turns to night, weeks to months, years pass and my life cycles around in that magical way, weaving in and out of different jobs, friends, laughter and tears, and….Here it is again.
TAG. YOUR’E IT.
This time when I read it, I immediately walked into the bathroom and stood before the large mirror that hangs over my sink. No waffling, getting distracted or waiting for a better time.
Luckily I was at home.
That sort of determined resolve could have become uncomfortably embarrassing had I marched into a public restroom at a swanky bistro; or taken a dangerous turn if I had been compelled to stare into my car’s rearview mirror.
So there I stood, on my tiptoes.
My husband is 6’3″ and he built our bathroom to accommodate his height.
I get it.
In most mirrors he can only get a gander of some of his chin and neck. Extremely annoying, SO not helpful, and at our age your neck can be demoralizing.
I am 5’4″ on a day that gravity and my self esteem are being kind enough to let me hit that mark. So unless I’m on my tiptoes, which, after ten years at that sink, like a ballerina on point, has become my natural stance, I see only my eyes and forehead.
We really are a circus freak show of a couple.
Standing together, I fit neatly right under his armpit.
He is Paul Bunyon.
I am wee.
Sorry, I digress.
Okay…
Here is the exercise: you stand at a mirror, gazing deeply into your own eyes.
I know. I can feel your resistance. I recognize it because I felt it for years.
Get back to the mirror!
Don’t look away, which will be your first natural reaction because our mothers taught us not to stare.
For women, this is like putting a blank canvas in front of us, we want to get to work.
Just as we’ve done every morning since the day we were allowed to wear make up, we pluck, shuck, spackle and rouge.
Don’t. Put down the mascara. And those tweezers. Stare only into your eyes.
Now repeat three times: I love you, I love you, I love you.
Without laughing.
I broke into a huge smile and burst into a giant belly laugh during my first attempt.
I’m not sure why.
It just felt like Ashton Kutcher was going to come peeking around the corner with a camera crew and deliver the horrific news that I’d just been “punked”.
But let me tell you what happened instead. Over the last several weeks I’ve been brought to tears, watched my face morph in front of me, felt gratitude and finally love.
I’m falling in love with my own face The same, unaltered one I’ve worn for fifty-seven years.
In love with each line and imperfection of which I am exceedingly familiar. Tiny scars, the varying darts of color that inhabit my irises, and the way those eyes are starting to look back at me.
Full of empathy and understanding, pain and joy.
I’m becoming aquatinted with what inhabits the space behind the eyes, to something deeper still; The observer, my soul.
I suggest you give it a try, but like with me, if it takes a few years, your soul will understand, it’ll wait. It’s not going anywhere.
I love when you talk to me, tell me how this goes. Try it for a couple of weeks and write your results in the comments below.
When you share you really help other people.
Sending love,
Xox
“I walk these streets, a loaded six string on my back
I play for keeps, ‘cause I might not make it back
I been everywhere, and I’m standing tall
I’ve seen a million faces an I’ve rocked them all
I’m a cowboy on a steel horse I ride
I’m wanted dead or alive
I’m a cowboy, I got the night on my side
I’m wanted dead or alive
And I ride, dead or alive
I still drive, dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive”
(From the song Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi /Songwriters Jon Bon Jovi, Richard Sambora. Published by Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC)
Call me crazy, but it seldom, if ever, occurs to me that I could die on the back of our motorcycle.
Jon Bon Jovi wailed into my ears while the sexy, steel string guitar licks washed over me as I hunkered down into my husband’s back, attempting to escape the fire hose strength deluge that had just broken loose from the sky.
That song is always in heavy rotation on the endless loop of music that occupies my mind on these long rides. It’s our anthem. A clarion call from the open road.
I usually murder it, loudly sharing the harmonies with Richie Sambora. “Waaaahhhh teddddd” …but not that day.
The rain came at us in sheets, slicing gray from every direction.
Somehow, it was finding its way UNDER my helmet, making it nearly impossible for me to see a thing. Racing down the two-lane highway in northern Montana at 60 miles an hour wasn’t helping.
The storm had left us no choice.
We were half way through another three hundred mile day of a 4500-mile loop.
LA to Glacier Park and back.
That day we were trying to make it through the Blackfeet Indian Reservation to St Mary’s at the base of Glacier Park. About as far north you can go and still remain inside the US.
The rain had stayed away… so far, which is why we take our longer rides in September; the weather tends to be reliable. Little did we know that this was an early start to one of the wettest, snowiest, coldest winters on record. The “Polar Vortex” winter of 2013.
I heard the weather warnings on my way back to the bathroom at the rickety little joint where we had stopped for lunch. They crackled from the ancient portable radio that wore a coat hanger as a hat and was sitting on a chair in the bar. That sinister weather alert tone followed by the robotic voice that droned on and on, full of dire predictions.
Our guys got out the maps and basically informed us that we had no choice but we still took a vote—we’re democratic that way.
The vote said GO but go NOW!
The storm had used the morning to turn into a motherfucker.
Barreling across the plains, the ominous, dark, ground level clouds and distant thunder felt like a herd of stampeding black horses rolling in behind us, giving chase.
“It’s all the same, only the names have changed…”
In my imagination, as we rode the eight to twelve hours each day, WE were part of that wild herd.
A couple straddling the back of a wild stallion.
Cherokee, Apache, Navaho, Sioux, it didn’t matter. We were feral; mad with love and wanderlust, wildly riding the Great Plains bareback, looking for the next great adventure. Our deep brown skin glistening in the sun, our long black hair whipping in the hot Montana wind. That was the spirit of who we were then….and who we are now.
“I’m a cowboy on a steel horse I ride.”
The four of us were determined to outrun it. We were convinced we could.
I’m tellin’ ya, we’re badass.
Have I mentioned yet that I’m riding on the back of my husbands BMW 1200GS Adventurer, and we are accompanied by our trusty fellow riding couple, JT and Ginger? After meeting them in Spain in 2005, we have ridden the world with them.
I’ve been writing this blog since November 2012. Almost two years.
Up until this past September, it was NOT in my own voice.
I was too timid to come out of the shadows. A spiritual coward (my own label).
It was your run of the mill, generic, spiritual wisdom.
No humor. No personal stories and definitely NO F-bombs.
I know VERY few of you were readers back then. I know that because I had 23 followers, all friends, and family who were kind enough to hit follow after I sent them the I have a blog email.
Back to Montana and that freaking storm.
I wrote what happened next in Total Loss of Control (it’s in the archives).
We narrowly escaped being killed by a passing truck.
“Dead or alive”
But this post isn’t about that, it’s about what happened afterward.
Something did die that day. The part of me that wanted to remain in hiding.
When I checked in with the Muse that night to write the blog, I suggested like an idiot, that she might want to write about the harrowing experience of earlier that day.
You know, find the message in the mess. Here’s how the conversation went:
Me: Hey, you should really write about me almost dying today, that was pretty intense.
Muse: You write about it.
Me: Well, I don’t really write this stuff in my own voice. I just kind of download the wisdom and give it my best shot…but I think there could be some really good shit in that story.
Muse: It didn’t happen to me. I happened to YOU. YOU write about it.
How you felt, your thought process...
Me: Uh…yeah, here’s the thing..I don’t write.
Muse: Don’t interrupt me.
Me: Sorry.
And that’s when I started writing in my own voice, with my own personal stories and my “take” on things.
I even apologized in the first few posts.
“Oh hi, sorry, it’s just me here again”
Lame.
Timid.
Living small.
As far from courageous as you can get.
Shirking all responsibility.
Impersonal.
Total lack of vulnerability.
“I play for keeps, ‘cause I might not make it back
I been everywhere, and I’m standing tall
I’ve seen a million faces an I’ve rocked them all”
I can’t see your faces….but I know you’re there. I can feel you.
There’s so many of you now, and if I look at the analytics, you all started to read from September to today. When I started to write.
Changed my life.
Thank you. You keep me pure and true and courageous.
Much love and appreciation,
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 stupid stuff using a five-year old’s limited language. When she inhabits me to that degree, there’s no reasoning with me. Have you ever tried to reason with a pissed off five-year old?
Have you ever said 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. 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’s so her.
You ever nosedive and dial? Don’t lie. Tell me about your last brat attack!
Xox
