stories

It was heavier than I had imagined, and it left little bits of…something…all over the front of me, as a lovely parting gift.

“There.” I said after I dropped it down and kicked it into place. A brand new doormat large enough for the double front doors of the house rental project I’m working on.

As per my instructions: No flowers, no bright colors, nothing cutesy, completely inoffensive.
Just a simple tan-colored mat made of choir with a thin border and the word WELCOME in black. Not even a dark sinister black. A hue of medium blackish. A happy black, if you will.

“Oh my Gawd, I love everything!” she squealed.
We were near the end of this hellacious project and one of the principles had just finished a self guided tour of the place.

With such a limited budget the transformation was nothing short of amazing.

You could say it was alchemy. I’d call it a miracle. Right up there with turning water into wine, straw into gold, Bruce into Caitlyn.

“Oh, except that. I don’t like that at all.” All the gushing had stopped dead.
I turned my head to see what she was pointing and glaring at. Her response was definitive and whatever it was — Had. To. Go.

It was the freakin’ doormat.

“I hate when they say welcome.” she pronounced. “Take it back and get a plain one. No WELCOME.” and with that she went back inside and the gushing resumed.

It never occurred to me that the word WELCOME on a front doormat could elicit such a strong reaction.

Interesting…

“You’re right…you’re right.” I replied, struggling to pick up the mat and carry it back to the truck, thinking of my own bright blue front door mat that says HELLO in friendly white cursive.

Feeling rejected, the ginormous WELCOME mat put up a struggle going back to the truck and I was out of breath.
“They should start a line of doormats that read GO AWAY or DON’T BOTHER ME or GET OUT OF HERE. Someone is missing out on a fortune.” I gasped.

I figured I was far enough away that she couldn’t hear me, but from inside I heard laughter. “I’d buy those.” I heard her say.

Huh.

You Are Not Welcome.

The insight hit me like a bolt of lightning.

Maybe you can tell a lot about a person by their front door mat.

Some people, this woman included, do not lay out the welcome mat.
Not ever.
Not to their home, their feelings, their story or their life.

They are private and guarded and I get it.
Obviously that is a land I do not inhabit — but I read her loud and clear.

From where she stands WELCOME in friendly black letters — is a dirty word.

It was right then that the entire project began to make sense.
All white, beige and taupe.
No color.
Nothing with any personality.
Key word: Utilitarian.

Nothing offends, nothing makes an impression — it is a blank slate.

You know what? She’s right. It’s a rental.
Don’t leave anything of yourself behind. No clues to who you might be or what you like.
A brightly colored pillow belies whimsy, a choice of art shows your taste.

Don’t give yourself away to strangers and for Godsakes — no Welcome mats.

Oh well, to each his own.
Carry on,
xox

Do you have an aversion to WELCOME mats? Are you that private and guarded? Talk to me.

I remember a photo shoot back in my acting days. I had saved enough money, and I was lucky enough to book the guy for commercial head shots.

You know head shots – they are close-up photos of your face taken from the shoulders up. Big smile, sad frown, head tilted, hand to chin for a curious expression—you get the idea. It gives all the powers-that-be an idea of your “range”.

“Oh look, she can smile AND be sad, what a range! She’s amaaaazing, bring her to me!”

This guy was only about five years older than I was at the time so, under thirty, and was probably born in Toledo Ohio, but he thought he was Francesco Scavullo (look him up), with the faux accent and orange tan.

“Gorgeous dahling…head up…beautiful…chin down…stunning!”

His approval washed over me like a warm wave of maple syrupy love.
I felt beautiful. Like a high-fashion glamazon at the top of her game, that is until…(screech of a needle across a vinyl record. What? You’re too young to know what that sounds like? Get off my blog!)

“Dahling” he was now eyeballing me up and down, no more camera, with one hand on his hip, another lifted to his chin, eyes squinted. I was still blinded by the flash so I’m sure I looked daft.

“Oh you know what I wish more than anything?” he asked, never waiting for me to answer.

“Oh, how I wish your legs were just four inches longer.”

What? You wish that more than anything? Really? More than world peace or a penis that was four inches longer? Are you sure? Do you want to rethink that statement? I think you misspoke.

And you do remember this is a head shot? At least that’s what I thought silently in my head.

“Um, you know that’s impossible, right?” I stammered, tears welling in my eyes, the blind and daffy smile now wiped completely from my face.

I started to feel like a troll. A two foot tall, horrendously ugly troll. One minute I’m Cindy Crawford,the next I’m looking for a bridge to guard.

I was a pleaser back then, and I wanted nothing more than to make him happy, AND I wanted the warm and gooey love wash to continue into perpetuity.

“Maybe I can stand differently, or put on a higher pair of heels?” I inquired awkwardly. Desperation was seeping in.

He kind of huffed a disappointed sigh, “No dahling” he cooed in his make-believe accent, “you’ll always be too short.”

For what? Too short for what? I’m 5’5”…
Professional basketball?
Picking fruit off the tops of trees?
Thigh-high boot modeling?

I knew right then that the fake little fucker was full of shit—but it still stung.

Not always the most well-intentioned people wanting the impossible from us.

I recently helped some extended family with a home design job.
I thought those days were over for me but they needed some help preparing a rental from scratch, I can do that sort of thing in my sleep, and I welcomed the distraction.

The thing was, the budget took a hit almost immediately. Cut by half. And it was…frugal to begin with.

An entire three bedroom house, from beds and mattresses, to the utensils, toothbrush holders, towels, sheets and all the kitchen stuff for ten thousand dollars.

You can cut corners when it’s your own home, but if you want to ask top dollar for a home in a high-end neighborhood, it requires certain things.

Like a decent coffee maker and a nice bar-b-que, comfortable patio furniture and three high-definition T.V.’s

I practically slept at Ikea, Target, and Homegoods. Sourcing and searching, driving, shopping, and returning.

My people are academics (which is why they needed help), and I could see the toll the stress of a home make-over was taking on them.

They hadn’t put together a house from scratch, well…ever. Just like most of us, when they started out they had a mix and match combination of wedding presents and hand-me-downs.

Here’s what I knew: I knew the task was impossible.
I knew we could get close, but in the end I knew we’d have to ask the purse string holders for more money.
I also knew that at that point we’d be in so deep — they couldn’t refuse. We’d have to finish.

Oh, did I fail to mention we had a deadline. Three weeks.
So everything had to be cash and carry. No special orders, no four-week turn arounds for the size or color we needed. Like I said IMPOSSIBLE task.

But you know what? They didn’t know that. At least not until I told them.
They had been feeling so incompetent, so shitty about their ability to stay in the budget—it was as if they had been asked to become four inches taller.

“Um, you guys know what we’ve been asked to do is an impossible task, right?” I interrupted another extremely tense phone conversation, grabbing the telephone and holding it close so the three of us could talk.

“Guys, you haven’t done this as much as I have.” I was trying to sound reassuring.“They gave us a completely unrealistic budget, which we will exceed…but not by much, and we should all be very proud of ourselves.”

Then I walked away with the phone in order to get through to the rocket scientist of the trio — the one who’s head was ready to explode from having to deal with family money, design by committee dynamics, and too many white paint color choices, (it really is absurd —there are over five hundred different shades of white).

“Listen,” I said in the calmest tone of voice I could muster. “Imagine being given an unsolvable math equation.”

“There are no unsolvable equations, Einstein said…”

I interrupted. “Humor me goddammit.” he went silent.

“The reason we can’t make this work isn’t because we’re stupid, or we suck — it’s because the problem is unsolvable — you absolutely cannot do what is required by the rental agency for that amount of money.
The. End.”

He was still quiet, I kept talking, hoping he hadn’t succumbed to a brain hemorrhage.

“We all have to chill out and keep going. We’re almost at the finish line. Besides, we can’t grow taller than we already are.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. Don’t you like knowing that? That the request is flawed — not you?”


“Sure, I guess… I mean, I figured if they told us ten thousand, it must be doable.”

“They might as well have said ten dollars.” I could hear him get that.

“Ohhhhhh, so you mean…”

“YES!” I screamed excitedly into the phone, “Exactly! So stop stressing!”

Not always the most well-intentioned people wanting the impossible from us = Stress, despair, unhappiness.

Figuring out they’re full of shit = PRICELESS.

Carry on my loves,
xox

Remember permission slips?

Those signed (or forged) whichever the case may be; pieces of paper that granted us access to off the grid childhood activities?
Weekend trips with Girl Scouts, grade school field trips to museums or the Observatory, Wednesday McDonald’s hamburger lunches in sixth grade?

Proudly, I had my dad’s signature down pat, the giant R of Roy with the straight tail of the Y, ending downward, no curling back up, no frills at all, very masculine, completely unlike my own girly sixth grade cursive; so occasionally, even though I had brought my delicious Spam with mustard on Wonder Bread sandwich in my Partridge Family lunch box for lunch that Wednesday, I’d permission slip myself a burger.

Forging (not to be confused with foraging) for food……hmmmmmm I’m sure there’s some deep hidden meaning in there.

Anyway…….
Brene Brown talks about writing HERSELF permission slips.

I LOVE that idea.

When she was on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday, she had one tucked inside the pocket of her jean jacket.

It read: I give you permission to be excited, goofy and uncool.
Just show up and be seen.

From what I observed she didn’t get too giggly or over stare, she had her occasional “Holy Shit, I’m sitting with Oprah” moments and they felt completely authentic and actually a bit brave.
She didn’t pretend “Oh hey, no big deal, I’m fine, I’m cool.”

As the story goes, after the show she heard that Maya Angelou was in another part of the building recording some audio poems. So instead of nonchalantly replying: “Oh, that’s nice” she abandoned cool once again and told Oprah how much she admired Dr Angelou.
After all, she still had the permission slip in her pocket; and as is often the case, the Universe rewards genuineness.
Oprah asked if she’d like to meet Dr. Angelou.

Hell yeah! (My words – just guessing)

Here are her feelings about the encounter in her own words:
“So grateful that I got to meet Dr. Angelou, look her in the eye, and tell her what her work means to me. When I told her that I love playing her reading of “I shall not be moved” for my students and children, she grabbed my hand and sang, “Like a tree planted by the river, I shall not be moved.” It was a sacred moment.”

Just imagine if she’d brushed off the mention of Maya Angelou with a Too Cool For School attitude, she would have missed that once in a lifetime moment.

How many wonderful, sacred, ridiculously epic moments do we circumvent due to our habit of playing it cool?

How many beautiful creations do we talk ourselves out of?

How many people do we meet and feel a connection with……and do nothing?

How many books are unwritten, paintings un painted, businesses un started and plans unhatched because we lack the courage?

Maybe all we need is PERMISSION.

I for one, have started her practice of the permission slip.

Here are some I’ve written lately:

I give myself permission to not always know what I’m doing.
I give myself permission to play more.
I give myself permission to suck while writing the book.
I give myself permission to be happy even though I don’t have a “job”
I give myself permission to not like everyone

If you Google BRENE BROWN PERMISSION SLIPS and look at images, there are hundreds of ideas if you have trouble getting started.

I’d LOVE it if you’d write at least one thing in the comments. Tell me, share, you’ll give other people the courage to do it and maybe give them a few ideas too.

Go ahead –
I give myself permission to__________________.

I give myself permission to adore you guys,
Xox

Today I heard the most beautiful Buddhist meditation/prayer for fear.

It is recited by Colleen Saidman Yee at the end of her yoga classes.
I just love it and I thought you would too.

Here are her words.

“It goes something like this: Sit down and notice where you hold your fear in your body.
Notice where it feels hard, and sit with it. In the middle of hardness is anger.

Go to the center of anger and you’ll usually come to sadness.
Stay with sadness until it turns to vulnerability.

Keep sitting with what comes up; the deeper you dig, the more tender you become.
Raw fear can open into the wide expanse of genuineness, compassion, gratitude, and expectancy in the present moment.

A tender heart appears naturally when you are able to stay present.

From your heart you can see the true pigment of the sky. You can see the vibrant yellow of a sunflower and the deep blue of your daughter’s eyes.

A tender heart doesn’t block out rain clouds, or tears, or dying sunflowers.
Allow beauty and sadness to touch you.
This is love, not fear.”

Isn’t that beautiful you guys?
Happy weekend,
xox

You can catch Colleen’s entire interview with Marie Forleo and hear her say the prayer on my Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/Theobserversvoice

Colleen’s new book:
Yoga for Life
A Journey to Inner Peace and Freedom

http://books.simonandschuster.com/Yoga-for-Life/Colleen-Saidman-Yee/9781476776781

GULLIBLE
gul·li·ble
adjective
Easily persuaded to believe something; credulous.

synonyms: credulous, naive, over trusting, over trustful, easily deceived, easily taken in, exploitable, dupable, impressionable, unsuspecting, unsuspicious, unwary, ingenuous, innocent, inexperienced, unworldly, green

I have a real problem with…bending the truth.

Never mind that, let’s call it what it is: lying.

I was slow to learn that deception can be so blatant. But I did…eventually.

Now you can deliver an untruth to me on a silver platter, but I’ll still call bullshit on it all day long. Why?
Um…because it’s a lie!

Here’s what I mean.

People that accept all the accolades and compliments because they look so goddamn great for their age — that have clearly had surgical help.
Pahleeeeez!

Mascara commercials where the actress is very obviously wearing false eyelashes.
Come on.

A twenty-eight year old, airbrushed within an inch of her life, pitching us fifty something’s wrinkle cream. “Gee, maybe I’ll look like that if I spend one hundred dollars for an ounce of this magical concoction made from the frothy uterine lining of a unicorn.”

What do you take me for, a fucking moron?
Just how gullible do you think I am?

What about vacation rental listings?

Cozy little cottage by the beach.

The pictures online look idyllic.
“You’re so lucky it’s still available”, the woman gushes over the phone. The word miracle is even used, and you know how that gets me going.

So I plunk down a hefty chunk of change and when I arrive at the destination I’m convinced Garmin is stoned.
“The destination is on your right.”

“Stop it Garmin, don’t fuck with me! I just drove six hours and I’ve gotta pee like a racehorse.”

I blink, then blink again, slowly sliding my sunglasses down my nose to get a clearer view. Then I roll down the window.
Still sucks.
EJECT — Out comes the CD. There is no soundtrack for moments like this.
I want to vomit.

There it is in front of me, all set for our Labor Day weekend pleasure.

An itty-bitty shit hole of a shack. Over a mile away from the beach. There aren’t even seagulls overhead or any traffic, that’s how far away my beach cottage is from actual sand and surf.

I fumble inside my beach bag which is doubling as my purse for the weekend. Lost inside is the printout from the agency, never taking my eyes off the disaster in front of me, I find it.

I’m in shock, it’s a train wreak — therefore it’s impossible to look away.

That’s when I realize that mid road trip, (probably about the time I was reaching for change at Foster Freeze), my sunscreen opened and has thoughtfully covered pretty much everything in my bag with its SPF 50.

Even so, I can still make out the address. 12 Gorgeous Vista Road.
It’s a match, but it ain’t gorgeous and it has no vista to speak of.

Fuck. Even the name of the street tells a lie.

It is smaller than my first single apartment, yet it says right on the page in front of me: sleeps six.
My mind leaps ahead a few hours. Fitting all of my friends inside that shack will be like stuffing a clown car.

What to do, what to do?
See, here’s the problem: who do I kill first?

The gullible one who drank the rental agency Kool-Aid (me), the crazy red-head at the agency who was so chirpy as she handed me the keys? (Sucker, that’s what it says on my form in her office — I’m sure of it — Sucker Bertolus.)

The pimply faced guy at the car rental agency who said it wasn’t far, (it was) and that it was in a great neighborhood (it isn’t)?

It’s clear to me now that they are all in cahoots.

Wait…was that a gunshot?

Window…up.

What about all those helpful friends who gave me the name of this agency and had such glowing vacation house stories?

They all get to live.
It was me. It was my fault.
I was over trusting and easily exploitable.

I should be in every advertising test group. I’m their target idiot audience.

I made a vow right then and there that I would never fall for that sort of LIE again. That I would pay the other half of the deposit after I saw the property, and that I would carry a separate smaller purse inside my beach bag.

Just like I wanted to believe that the last available house on a holiday weekend was Shangra-fucking-La, I want to believe that a mascara can give you the same lush lashes as two pairs of falsies, (I have a drawer full of both), and that applying an expensive miracle cream will erase fifty-seven years of laugh lines, (same drawer).

Am I gullible or have I been lied to? What do you think? Both?

How gullible are you guys? Stories please.

Carry on,
Xox

The house is still. It’s the middle of the night so…that’s appropriate.

The only sound I can hear is the soft whrrrrr of the refrigerator, which spends its nights keeping my kale and green drink ingredients cool and fresh.

Damn you stainless steel box of cold air! (yelled dramatically while waving a fist).

Rant Alert:
Why can’t my protein, vegetable laden juices taste like a chocolate malt?
WHHHYYYYYY??
Is that too much to ask?

I’m submitting a formal complaint right here and now. Things that are good for you have GOT to start tasting better…or else…

Anyway…
My refrigerator has undergone a recent renaissance.
It seems to follow my life’s trajectory. Right now it’s all cleanses, bitter greens and shit like that.

I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few options. It keeps me from cheating with fat infused deliciousness.

Like a fat deli sandwich. Or a patty melt.

As a matter of fact there is nothing delicious within a three-mile radius. I’d have to get in my car and drive to go get it, and my laziness overrules my cravings for gooey goodness every time.

That means technically, I’m not an addict, which gives me some solace.

What I am is: a vessel seeking clarity…with a bad attitude…in dire need of a cheeseburger.

For about two decades the freezer in my apartment contained two things: vodka and cigarettes (if you’re just a casual smoker, keeping cigs in the freezer keeps them fresh) not even an ice-cube dared show its face. Later, ground coffee replaced the cigarettes.

Quick story about how THAT happened.
Back in ’93 when I had my first “energy work” done, a friend came by the apartment to get the dirt. Remember, I had been violently ill for three days.

She was one of my gossip girls, so she knew about the cigcicles, and since she could tell my story was going be juicy and warrant a smoke, she walked over to the kitchen, which was just to the left of where I was sitting, and opened the freezer.

Suddenly, she jumped back, as if she’d seen a ghost, dramatically slamming the thing shut. I watched it all happen, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, with my head tilted sideways like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle.

My friend still standing in front of the closed freezer door replied, “A voice just said DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“Shit, I’d better go”

Man, the disembodied voices in my apartment in those days were bossy!

“Sit your ass down, I’ve got a story to tell.” I barked, taking a page out of their book.

And THAT was the end of my casual smoking.

I tried one occasionally in the years that followed but they made me feel awful, and when something stops being fun, I quit doing it. Think Jane Fonda Workouts.

So, back to the middle of the night as I tossed and turned and awfulized—mulling over all of life’s ginormous decisions.

I finally made the first one and that was to switch my brain from F*U mode to productive mode, remembering all the recent things I’ve heard and read on making life altering choices when you’re at a crossroads.

So, to save you the obsessing and the time and trouble, here is a list of the things you should ask yourself:

1) Will I regret not making this change? (Regrets are like walking around with a wet coat on. They are killjoys.)

2) Why exactly am I hesitant/ indecisive? Make a list. (The list that you make in the light of day will always be shorter than the phone book sized one you make at three AM…just sayin’).

3) What doors will close if I make this change? Do I care? (That one makes my butt clench. Here’s a great quote from Mark Nepo for the people pleasers among us: “I tried so hard to please that I never realized; No one was watching.”
Right!? Did the top of your head just blow off? Mine too)

4) Which choice will make the better story? (kinda like the movie viewing analogy from Saturday’s post.)

5) How does the choice or change FEEL? (that really should be number one. Check your kishke).

6) What’s the worst thing that can happen? (consult your three AM list, believe me, they’re ALL there).

7) Whats the BEST thing that can happen? (usually written on a Post It)

8) What would I tell my best friend to do? (sans snarkiness, jealousy, competitiveness and ego).

9) What’s the “next right thing” to do to stay free of ego? (In other words, check your motivation. Is it pure? Not really? THERE’S your answer.)

10) What choice or change would make me the proudest in five years? (That’s often the clincher for me. Can’t say I’m too proud of myself when I can’t be brave and I play it safe.)

There you have it. I hopes this helps. Clarity is key to making the best choices. That and chocolate.
Love you all,

Xox

“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

~Albert Einstein

When the past tries to repeat itself what do you do?

I hide in the closet behind all the clothes, facing the wall…

But seriously. When you see yourself; on your ass; sliding down that same old slippery slope—what’s your strategy?

I take out my contacts and pretend I can’t see the colossal shitstorm bearing down on me…
Like the ostrich and the toddler playing peek-a-boo, if I can’t see it—it didn’t happen.

Bad decisions. Lousy choices.

In men, jobs, tankini bathing suits, and those nachos drenched in the horrific orange plastic cheese at the movies.
Why do I always think “this time it’ll be different?”

Humanity at large; and women in general, possess the “benefit of the doubt” chip.

As a card carrying member of both of those groups you can rest assured that many, many, questionable, less than desirable people and situations have benefited from my doubts.

That is until a friend along the way reminded me of the quote above by Albert Einstein.

It was the polite way for her to deal me the insanity card.

For a few years my entire deck was filled with insanity and jokers. I gave everyone another chance
.
“That’s okay.” I’d reply out loud.
“Hurt me again” my heart echoed silently.

Until I had had enough.

He cheated and cried. Big alligator tears of remorse. Then he did it again.

Apparently he had a complete lack of impulse control. When his dick saw a pretty girl it chased her down and dragged him along with it. So sad really. Such a sacrifice.

“It’s just sex, it’s not love!” he pleaded.

Was that supposed to make me feel better?

I was all doubted out. I gave no more benefits.
Even though he had begged, once again, for my forgiveness, I packed all of his shit into my car; drove it an hour to his apartment; and because I could hear him just having loveless sex from the street— I left everything on the sidewalk under his window.

And that my friends was the road back to sanity.

Teeny tiny postscript…

I had a temporary lapse about six months later. Hey, it happens!

Our chemistry was still intact, hotter than hot; I needed to get laid, and there may have been some Margaritas involved.

He swore he had never stopped loving me.
“What about the others?” I inquired. He knew what I wanted to hear, so he obliged. “Baaaabeeee” he cooed, kissing my neck, “I haven’t been with anyone in months, I’m concentrating on work.”

The lie caused his pants to go up in flames, but I never even noticed.

He had broken that unwritten rule, you know the one—he had stopped playing fair. Everyone knows neck kissing is the Universal signal for: You are one minute away from insanity… And away I went…

“Oh My God! He did it to me AGAIN!”
My screams reverberated throughout the entire house. “I truely AM insane!”

After I finally composed myself it was time to come clean (pun intended).

“We have crabs” I shamefully informed my roommates as I burned the bath towels, stripped all the beds and threw away my favorite pair of jeans.

Several days, many hours of creepy itchiness, and three bottles of anti-lice medicine later I had learned my lesson for good.

The Universe will up its game if you don’t get the message the first thirty-five times.

“The guys a louse” it said, biting its tongue, trying its best not to say: I told you so.

Point taken.

You can close your mouths now and Carry on,
xox

“It’s as if she assumes everything will go right, and when it doesn’t – which, of course, is pretty often – she is surprised and affronted.”
― Christina Baker Kline

My flat-iron weighed in this morning.

Even though NO ONE asked its opinion, apparently it agrees with my decision to stop chemically straightening my hair.

I was born with naturally frizzy, wavy hair and as of this morning it thinks I should just make peace with it already!

Did I mention that although it has had to take on the almost Herculean task single-handedly, without the assistance of caustic chemicals, it doesn’t get a vote?

Anyway, in a blatant act of jackassery it decided to run cold. Ice cold. Half way through doing my hair.

Really? It wore out?
Airplanes fly, full of people and shit, day in and day out, back and forth and around the world for ten or twenty years. They don’t even get to take a breath.

The very thing; the only task it was born to do was to heat up and deliver to me stick straight hair.

I never asked it for shine or a softer texture. That would have been over reaching. It would have seemed ungrateful.

Nope, I only needed it to heat up to a surface temperature hot enough to grill a Panini, and thus straighten my hair—and as of this morning it could do neither. Fuck it.

Time of death: 08:25

First appearance of freaky looking helicopter hair: 08:26

What do you do when something or someone can’t live up to their promise?

I get MAD.

I want to throw things…and scream. I want to smash glass, stomp my feet, and let loose a long string of obscenities…then MAYBE, after I’m worn out—I negotiate.

That’s the time I initiate an uneasy détente.
That’s the place where there is pleading, cajoling, mixed with prayers and promises— and that’s just me.

“Please, if you just finish my hair, I’ll…I’ll…cure world hunger.”
Then invariably the talks break down and I’m frantically pushing buttons and kicking and breaking things again.

Have I mentioned I don’t handle disappointment well? How are you guys with that?

I count on things. I look forward to things.
Like hot water, hot coffee and a hot flat-iron.

I take those things for granted in the morning. Like the sun rise, morning breath, and pooping.

Why can’t they just deliver?
They have one fucking reason for being. To make me seem impossibly fresh, naturally beautiful, happy and ready for the day.

Pivoting. Turning on a dime. Going with the flow.

I like to think I’ve got that process in the bag.
Until the Universe fucks with my fat iron.

Or my coffee maker.

Or my water heater.

Can anyone say Mercury retrograde?

Hey, how’s your Monday?

Carry on (if you see me and my shitty hair today…just keep walking)
Seriously.

xox

“People in France have a phrase: “Spirit of the Stairway.” In French: esprit d’Escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer but it’s too late.
So you’re at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So, under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party . . .
As you start down the stairway, then – magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should’ve said. The perfect crippling put down. That’s the Spirit of the Stairway.”
― Chuck Palahniuk

I love this quote. I’ve lived this exact scenario.

My husband and his family are French and a French insult is like no other in the world. Much like fashion and food, they have elevated it to an art form.

What other culture has an entire phrase dedicated to it?

A French insult is subtle, cloaked in a back-handed compliment, and always accompanied by a smile. Well, a smirk really.
“That dress is very pretty…so much better than the one you wore the other night.”
Smirk, double cheek kiss and…scene.

Ouch.
It’s just that my take on this is a little bit different.
Although I’m the first person to utter bitch under my breath, I don’t waste my time searching for the crippling put down.
Listen, don’t get me wrong, I can eviscerate you verbally, I’m a writer.

It’s just that a put down or a jab seem… pedestrian—like the easy choice.

I’d rather be ironic and humorous.
It defuses the situation immediately. Magic comes to those that are funny, not insulted.

Besides, the French don’t know what to make of humor. Let’s face it— they wouldn’t recognize it if it bit them in the ass (now that’s funny)—they laugh at Jerry Lewis for godsakes!

If I get pissed, I get stupid. End of story.

You have to stay smart to be funny, and when the whole room laughs…no one remembers the insult. That’s magic!

“Thank you” leaning in, “I’m so comfortable—I’m not wearing any underwear.” Wink, double cheek kiss…and out.

You get the idea.

And don’t leave the party until you say your piece.

You can double back, there’s no statute of limitations on a party insult.

It doesn’t have to be “spirit of the stairway”. It can be “spirit of the driveway” or “spirit of the hallway.” “Spirit of the back patio” and “spirit of the powder room” work too.

Doesn’t matter. Let ‘em it have it.
With humor.

Carry on my crazy tribe,
xox

“If you build the guts to do something, anything, then you better save enough to face the consequences.”
― Criss Jami

Things that never happened because I didn’t have the guts.
The list is long. Like longer than Taylor Swift’s legs long.

How do I know for sure what could have happened?
I don’t. But my regret does.
I’m sure you know what I mean.

My regret is an artist who paints with broad strokes. Large, majestic scenery, filled with full-color landscapes of stories that never happened.

It also is a master in the art of persuasion.

Those stories look spectacular.
They seem amazing.
They are fucking fairy tales.

In these scenarios, my gutless self is replaced by another person. Someone who is risk averse; the acrobatic chance taker/failure dodger. For instance:

I’m a Broadway actress with a shelf crowded with Tony awards.

I’m a rock star, or the wife of a rock star (take your pick), who continues to tour and performs to sold-out crowds.

I’m a mother. Twin boys and a girl.

I’m an entrepreneur who shattered the glass ceiling and owns six companies that are all publicly traded.

I’m a seasoned lecturer and public speaker.

I’m someone who looks refreshed and rested, at least ten years younger (but whose wallet is twenty-five thousand dollars lighter.)

I’m the winner of Dancing With The Stars, The Voice, the Apprentice, and Jeopardy (the celebrity edition).

I’m a mentor on America’s Top Model after having my face grace more magazine covers than any other living human being.

I am resting on my laurels.

~OR HOW ABOUT~

I’m an aging hippie who lives off the land up in Oregon.

I’m an aging New Ager who lives off tips in Hawaii.

I’m the aging owner of a brothel somewhere tolerant of that sort of thing.

I’m busking on the corners of Santa Cruz.

I’m the ex-wife of seven men.

I’m someone who never married, looks thirty-five and owns dozens of Siamese cats.

I’m living in a Villa in Italy after cashing out, buying a one-way ticket, and hooking up with a guy named Paulo.

I have photo albums filled with pictures of me bungee jumping, sky diving and formula one racing, climbing Mt. Everest, Deep sea diving and waving my certificate that states I am the top of my class in NASA astronaut training school.

I’ve changed my name to Solange.

After surveying this list. The list that was supposed to summon that pit in my stomach. You know, the one that makes you feel bad about yourself and feeds regret?

Instead I had an epiphany.

What if those things didn’t happen not so much because of a guts deficit — but due to a keen sense of the obvious as far as knowing what I was capable of — an inkling of my life’s trajectory — a ginormous helping of common sense?

Ha! Take that regret!

P.S. I HAVE done many things in my life that required a shit-ton of guts, and so have YOU—but THAT my friends, is a list for another day.

Got any regrets?

Carry On,
xox