Why Everybody Must Die.

The hard part about growing up is that eventually, you have to kill Everybody. 

Before Everybody kills you. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love Everybody (even when I don’t like them much).  But things just aren’t working out between me and Everybody anymore.  It’s not Everybody’s fault. Because Everybody does exactly what They are supposed to do.  Everybody is perfect at being Everybody. 

And so are They.

Hence…..

Yup. They have to go too.

Too bad. So sad.  

But… worrying about what Everybody and They think can send a girl into a tailspin.

I hate when That happens.

Speaking of That…

Sometimes That gives me a lot of Sh!t.  

And so…

New Rule:

I’m not taking That Shit anymore!

And I want Everyone to respect my choices.

But, since Everyone does what Everybody says….

 Sorry Everyone.  I had to do it.  You refused to find a way to respect my decisions.

I tried to tell Them. I really did. But it was impossible for Them to understand. What mattered to Them was that I do it just like Them, see it just like Them, think just like Them, act just like Them.  

Can you guess what happens next?

I really really hate to see Them go.  I love Them too, as much as I love Everybody.  

Darn Them!  

So…

…what happens when you kill Everybody and Everyone and They, Them, and That (including That’s Shit)?

Well, at first, it feels like this:

Yeah, it kinda sucks like that. This ‘taking your power back’ stuff isn’t always easy.  But it’s what you need to do if you want to live life on your terms.

And then, slowly, you notice this new feeling.

The tightness is your chest begins to ease. You feel lighter.  Your other relationships improve.  The ones that really matter to you.

You might even start to feel…

Happy.  Free.  In charge of your own life. 

And then… here’s the really fun part….

You find a new Everybody.

And a new Everyone.

And a new Them, They, and That.  And the really cool part is, because you took your power back by slaying ‘you know’, the new people and things in your life will be just right for you.  

They will lift you up. Higher. And higher.

Oops, I almost forgot one.

You are going to love The New You. In fact, she’s why you got all those other icky people out of your life in the first place. You took your power back.

It starts with You.

And Me, of course.

It all about Me.

Your turn. 

Who’s your Everybody?

Is it time to take back your power? 

‘Anger Hell’ Really Pisses Me Off!!!

Anger is overrated.

Anger is what we do when we’re lazy about our feelings.  When we can’t be bothered to go deeper to figure out what’s really going on inside our heads.

And it’s often not at all about what it seems to be on the surface.

But…

If….

(and it’s a really big if)

…we can catch ourselves before the ‘ROARRRRR’….

And just get curious about what’s really going on… about what’s REALLY buggin’ you…

No. No. No. Don’t fall for that. That’s just a trick your mind is playing on you to save you the effort of digging deeper. Your mind wants to stay angry, because it can’t be bothered to do the heavy lifting required to figure this out.

But if you could just ask….

“What’s going on inside my head?” 

You might just find out something your mind has been working very hard to get you to ignore.  It wants you to look on the outside, to blame someone else, something else.

I know, I know, it’s so much easier to be mad at other people, even if you don’t even remember why you’re mad.  

But if you let it, your mind will keep you in Anger Hell.  Forever. 

And that just blows.

You know, the WORST Mother can get very lazy about what’s going on inside her head.

Because, sometimes, it can look like this…

“What’s all that SH!T doing inside my head??????????????????”… the WORST mother asks, trying really hard to get curious.

“WAIT!”… she says, suddenly full of curiosity. (She’s so good at becoming curious!)

“That looks like the inside of my closet” …she will often say, completely and utterly perplexed.

“And my car”… she adds, scratching her head.

“And my make-up drawer“… she moans, curiosity giving way to frustration.

“And my frig”… she says, raising her voice, as she teeters into a pissed off state.

“And my pantry”…she exclaims with vehemence and exasperation and a whole bunch of other emotions that rhyme with discombobulation.

Ruh. Roh.  

“And my life!!!” 

“$%#@”… she explodes. So much for curiosity. (I said she was good at getting curious… staying there is another matter.)

Bless her heart. She tries. 

But then….. eventually…

Ah-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Some relief.  A letting go.

Surrender.

And suddenly, a voice inside her head breaks through all the clutter and says…

Seize the AFGO… a.k.a. 

Another. Freakin’. Growth. Opportunity.

An opportunity to shift.

To get back to curious.

To get to know yourself.

To grow up.

Seize it, dammit.

Because anger is not a very sophisticated emotion. Especially when it’s used defensively.

And it’s often just a cover up.  A catch-all emotion.  For when you can’t be bothered to get to know yourself.

Or to find out what’s really buggin’ you.

Take the time to FEEL what’s behind the anger.

Because it’s not about the dog.

Or the kids.

Or the husband.

It’s about the sh!t you say to yourself that is not very nice.  

It’s always about you.  It’s about how you hurt you.

Isn’t that perfect? 

Isn’t that such a relief?

Lose the anger.

Make friends with yourself.

Seize the AFGO.

And never settle for anger again.

——

*Today’s post was brought to you by the emotions anger, frustration and all the ones that rhyme with discombobulation. 

 

‘Real’ Mothers NEVER Yell or Stomp or Spit. Do they?

FUN FACT:  The sound of shrimp chewing on food, as detected by underwater nuclear submarine microphones from a distance of 300 feet, is minus 80 decibels (dB). 

That’s pretty quiet. 

The loudest possible sound ever is 194 decibels (dB). 

If you’re wondering what in the world could ever be that loud, let me give you a hint. 

Yeah, that would be me. 

Yelling.

And when you consider that a jet taking off clocks in at 140 dB, and an ear drum literally breaks in half at 160 dB, I guess it could be said that I have a pretty badass bellow. 

Not that I’m bragging or anything. 

Let’s just call it boasting.

HOWEVER…..

Apparently, real moms never ever ever never ever yell. 

Instead, they always say things like: “Honey, could you please please please not put dog food in your sister’s cereal?” and “Sweetheart, could you pretty please use your magic words when you ask for your fifth helping of that sixteen layer cake I baked especially for you to show you how much I love and care for you, further proof of which can be evidenced by my unwillingness to even consider putting my needs anywhere near first?”

Oh, how I wish I could hear my kids brag about what a good ol’ yeller I am.  I mean, how many other mothers can knock it out of the park at almost 200 dB? 

Besides yelling, I’m also really good at stomping.

I am not kidding.

I am really REALLY good at it. 

Check this: I can do 283 stomps per minute.  With my eyes closed. 

In a green dress. 

On a Wednesday.

Notice how I focus on my strengths?

I mean, what good would it do for me to tell you all about my sixteen-layer cake baking inabilities. 

Guaranteed, you would not be impressed.  And then you might start to judge me.  You might say something like, “Can you believe how incapable she is at baking multi-layered cakes? What kind of mom is she?”

And that would make you look bad.

And I wouldn’t want that. 

‘Cause we moms gottsta stick together. 

No. 

No.

NO.

I was saying stick, as in stick together, not spit together.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t spit. It’s just that spitting is not my forté. It comes out as a drool all the way down my neck and onto my…

But yelling and stomping are most definitely my forté.  

Among so many other wonderful things. 

Isn’t imperfection grand? 

Note: Today’s post is best served with my 80/20 Rule for Moms.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT:  I am looking for TEN volunteer moms/guinea pigs to test market a new program I am developing based on my theory/undeniable proof that motherhood sucks.  I need moms who are committed to:

1.  Attending a one hour class on Tuesday, April 12th at 9 am Pacific/12 noon Eastern time.

2.  Willing to be honest about their feelings about motherhood (i.e. it can really suck bad! but only sometimes)

3.  Willing to have some fun (i.e. laugh your asses off)

4.  That’s it!

5.  Pass it on. 

For more information go here!

To sign up, please email me at: Lin@LinEleoff.com

——-

*Today’s AFGO moment was brought to you by the (real) green dress, a 194 dB yell and only 137 stomps.  No spitting. I just can’t do it right!

**AFGO = Another F*ing Growth Opportunity.  Have you had one lately?  

Motherhood Sucks. And then you DON’T die.

Yeah, you heard me.

MOTHERHOOD SUCKS!

With a capital M-O-T-H-E-R-H-O-O-D-S-U-C-K-S

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why are moms so afraid to admit this?  Oh, that’s right, I know….

BECAUSE REAL MOMS LOVE EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF BEING A MOTHER.

EVERY.

SINGLE.

WAKING.

MOMENT.

So, does that mean there is something wrong with ME?

I am mother. Hear me grrrrr.

And whine.

And complain.

And admit that sometimes I SUCK! at being a mother.

Because motherhood does suck.

It brings out the worst in me.

I feel resentful.

I cry.  I kick.  I  scream.

And then…

I feel bad. I feel guilty. I feel like I broke The Cardinal Rules.

Some would say it’s because our identities are so tied to motherhood that if we break the rules, even for a moment, we will have failed.  Our children. Our selves. The entire Milky Way galaxy.

But that’s just not true.  In fact, not only is it not true, it’s a big fat lie.

Let me say that again.

It’s a big fat lie.

Very big.  And very very fat.

Why?  Because motherhood can suck AND we can love it just as much.

Maybe even more.

Because with acceptance comes…

Peace. Comfort. Joy

“Motherhood sucks,” said with resentment, anger, and disappointment, only leads to more resentment, anger, and disappointment.

“Motherhood sucks,” said with compassion and acceptance, feels so much better.

When we can truly accept that, at times, motherhood really does suck, and that’s okay, then we are likely to take action that exudes love, kindness and compassion.

And once we embrace the thought that motherhood sucks, it really sucks, we can then accept that sometimes, we just plain suck at being a mom.

Oh well.

No biggie.

And that is why I took it upon myself to re-write the unwritten Cardinal Rules of motherhood.

Motherhood does suck. Go on, admit it. Tell your friends. Tell your fellow moms. Especially tell your fellow moms.

Say it, dammit.  Say it out loud. Don’t be afraid. Your fear is keeping you from having more of when it doesn’t suck.

Oh, did I not mention that motherhood doesn’t suck?

Except when it does.

Fine Print:

This AFGO* moment was brought to you by the words suck, Suck, and SUCK.

*AFGO = Another F***ing Growth Opportunity.  Have you had one lately?

I AM the Age of Aquarius

I am celebrating a birthday this month and I do mean the entire month because I am so worth four and a half weeks of celebration. If not more.

This year it’s the Big. Four. Oh. 

Again.

Since I distinctly recall not having had much of a birthday celebration the year I actually turned  FortywithacapitalF,  I thought I’d do a re-do this year. It’s only fair.

And complicated.

That’s because not-so-technically speaking, I’m much younger than Forty, since I started counting backwards when it came to my birthday several years ago (as in… many), in order to be better aligned with the moon when it’s in the seventh house and Jupiter has aligned with Mars and all that.

Did you know that your age changes according to which planet you’re from?

For example, if I were from Mars, instead of that being only a rumor, I would be approximately 23 years old in Martian years.  And if I were from Mercury,  I would be 182 years old, give or take a few light years. 

Do they sell Oil of Olay on Mercury?

No?

I.

Am.

Not.

From.

Mars. 

Men are from Mars.

And did you know there’s a silent knuckle sandwich in the expression on my face?

And they’re the nostrils of a 19-year-old, thank you very much.

Of course, Forty is just another word for “holy crap, where did Thirty go?” 

Newsflash:   Forty is not the new thirty.

Sure, today’s 40-year-old woman may ‘look’ better than my grandmother did at 40, according to People magazine’s standards, but my grandmother would’ve looked just as good as Christie Brinkley if she had had Chuck Norris as her personal trainer.

Okay, maybe not quite as good as Christie, but at least as good as Madeleine Albright.

She had pretty good legs, my grandma’, except for those cankles.

Times have definitely changed since the day when Forty meant:

over-the-hill,

moth-eaten,

decrepit,

one-foot-in-the-grave.

 Come to think of it, back then, Forty was… the new DEAD! 

I recall once, when I was going through my terrible twenties (when I had the knee caps of a 12-year-old), I referred to a 45-year-old woman as middle-aged. 

I wish I were lying.

No joke, she took a running dive straight at me and pinned me to the floor, threatening to re-arrange my 20-year-old face. I tried to tell her that, technically speaking, forty-five was actually past middle age, when you consider that the average lifespan for a woman was approximately two times dead, but because her knee was crushing my sternum I could only give her the international sign for surrender.  

Number One, my twenty-something baby girl, knows more at her age than I did when I was Thirty, let alone Forty. She is over-the-top smart, emotionally intelligent, mature, and extremely self-confident. I’d tell you how pretty she is but I know how you hate to hear a mother brag. 

Hey!

Forty isn’t the new twenty, but maybe…

…twenty is the new Forty. 

How deep and profound is that?

Maybe I really am from Mars.

Ummm…

More cake please!

This AFGO* moment was brought to you by the planets Mercury, Mars and Jupiter.

*AFGO = Another F***ing Growth Opportunity. Have you had one lately?

 

 

Today’s class is about sh!t. Sorry.

Have you ever tried to help someone who didn’t want your help?

I mean, they make it seem like they want your help, but they really don’t.

They want your ears. 

I have made this mistake over and over and over and ov…… 

Why? 

Because I think I’m being asked for advice. 

And I give it with reckless abandon. 

The thing about advice is, we tell ourselves we’re giving it because we want to help the other person, but that’s just one big fatass lie.  We are serving ourselves when we give someone else advice. We want to make things better for them so that we don’t have to feel their pain.  Our pain. Any pain. We want everything and everybody to be fine. Fine. FINE!

Why? 

WHY?

WHY?

Because we have a hard time compartmentalizing shit. 

There’s your shit.

There’s what you think about your shit.

There’s other people’s shit. 

Then there are all the thoughts you have about other people’s shit.

Oh, and don’t forget, there’s God’s shit.  He has a right to his own shit, too.  Stop messin’ with God’s shit.  He’s pretty much got his together. 

Sorry my peeps, but it had to be done. 

I gotsta make my point!

How am I doin’?

If you’re still with me, yayyyy!  

For that I am now going to give you some candy advice… (I’ve already given you tons of candy!)

Leave now if you don’t want my advice, otherwise, here goes…

Whenever someone comes to you with their “problems,” try to resist the urge to jump in with your advice on how to solve everything for them.  Instead, notice what happens to you when you start to listen. 

Do you get all wiggly and swirly inside?

AHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

See what I mean? 

That wiggly swirly stuff is all about YOU, my friend! It’s all about how you are thinking about what the other person is telling you.  Are you judging? Are you fearful? Do you think they’re crazy?  Do you feel like poking their eyes out?

And what kind of advice are you going to give them when you’re being judgmental, or fearful, or both? 

I’m guessing it’s going to be pretty shitty advice.

Let’s just keep layin’ that shit on. 

On the other hand, if you can listen with an open mind and heart, without judgment, without fear, you might actually be able to help them, just by listening. That’s it.  That’s all.

Why?

Because some people just want you to lend them an ear so they can talk about their shit. The end.  And you have the option of listening, or not.  If you’re going to listen, then clean up your own thinking first.  Go to that place in your head where birds sing and there’s candy everywhere! 

If you can’t do that, then, for your own sake, you need to walk away and repeat the phrase:

“It’s not my shit.”

“It’s not my shit.”

“It’s not my shit.”

Now, take my advice, dammit!

How to REALLY Win an Argument. Without Bloodshed!

So.

The other day….

I had a fight, argument, tiff, altercation, disagreement, point of contention with another kife loach.  It went something like this…

Anonymous Kife Loach:  Oops.  Was it something I said?

Me:     Well, now that you mention it…

AKL:     Can I tell you where I’m coming from?

Me:      Arent’ all men from Mars? Sorry. That was rude. Um, sure, go ahead.

AKL:     Well, my intention was blah blah blah

Me:      Yeah, but, I was thinking blah blah blah

AKL:      Well, not necessarily, because what I meant was blah blah blah

Me:      Oh. Okay.  Well, just so you know, I don’t need to be right here…

AKL:      No, I don’t need to be right…

Me:      I said it first…

AKL:      Fine.

Me:       Double fine.

AKL:       Friends?

Me:        Will you be my newest BFF?  I’ve started a collection.

Honestly, it kinda went like that.  In five minutes we fixed it.  Why?  Because our agenda was TO FIX IT. That’s it. No blaming. No trying to convince the other person to change.  Only the desire to Fix It.  Without tears.  Without bloodshed.  Without a chocolate mess.

Winning an argument is not only over-rated, it’s downright damaging.  And if you’re in a relationship that matters to you, winning is the worst thing that could happen, to either of you.  Because if one wins, the other one loses,  and over time, that can suck the life and love out of a friendship, a marriage, a family. 

That’s gotsta stop peepo. 

Today.

So, here’s the plan:

This week I’d like you to raise a point of contention with someone you really care about. EXPECT that it may start off ugly. 

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

Now, commit these words and phrases to memory and repeat as often as  necessary:

“We disagree but let’s try not to be ‘right‘; instead, let’s try to understand each other and fix this.”

“First things first:  I love (like; respect; adore) you.” 

“Yeah.  I do.  And I hate to see you so upset.  Do you think we could try to do this another way.  Really.  I love you. You love me. Let’s try to fix this while remembering we love each other.”

“I’m someone you love, too. Remember?”

“Yes.      You.        Do.        C’mon….”

“C’mon-nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn….”

“I love you. I love you. I love you” 

Really.

It’s that simple.  If you stay in a place of genuine caring for the other person, and if they truly care for you, they will come around.  It may take some time and practice, because old habits die so freakin’ hard, but if you stand your (peaceful) ground, eventually, they’ll come around.

And then (only then) can you begin to talk about the problem.

Or not.

In fact, consider not saying another word.  Consider it fixed.

But, if more needs to be said, remember, it’s about both parties ‘winning’.

This takes practice, lots of practice, but it works.

And don’t forget, a day without an AFGO, is like a day without lip gloss.  

 

CARPE AFGO!

Why I Decided Not To Kill Laverne, Again!

Things have been pretty quiet around here lately. Shirley‘s been away on vacay somewhere.  And Laverne? Well, I thought Laverne was gone for good.

Big mistake.

Laverne, my inner dictator, always tries to be the boss of me, bless her twisted little heart. Unlike Shirley, she rules with an iron fist.  She uses words like “should” and “have to” and “supposed to.“

She’s a virtual lunatic. And she’s green.

Ugh!

What’s crazy is that I don’t even know Laverne’s there until it becomes painfully obvious.

To everyone.

But me.

I have actually tried to kill Laverne on many occasions.  And just when I think she’s gone for good…

… she keeps coming back.

Like zits on a teenager’s face.

The thing about Laverne is, she really and truly believes she’s helping me. She refuses to die, not because she likes to torment me, but because she’s afraid for me.  She believes my survival depends on her.

In a warped, mangled, creepy, green alien sort of way.

Well, that sh!t’s got to stop.

Here’s how.

First of all, I’m going to give up my murderous tactics. Hell, the girl just won’t die so I might as well throw that towel in and save myself some  brain cells.

Next – and this is going to freak her out — I’m going to invite her to come back whenever she feels like dropping by to check up on me.

Yes, Laverne, drop by and stay awhile.

In fact, I insist.

Because I understand that you’re just trying to look out for me.  That you’re doing the best you can with what you know and that some day, when you know better, you’ll do better. You’ll relax.  But guess what? I know better, and I want to prove to you that I can manage without your scare tactics and threats and limes and coconuts.

When you start with the should’s and have to’s and supposed to’s I’m not going to listen.  I’ll hear you but I won’t be listening.  There’s a big difference.

Because I want to look after me… and you.  It must be hard work worrying about me all the time, trying to get me to do the stuff you think I should do.  Even though we’re one and the same, we’re really not.

I’ve been watching you and you really do not bring out the best in me.  I know you mean well, but… um… you suck at being me!

So, I’m ready to go it alone, and I invite you to stick around and watch me. You may want to interject from time to time but I’m just going to have to shush you whenever you start acting up. But it will be a loving shush. I promise I won’t try to kill you anymore.

A simple thank you would’ve been nice.

Now, go sit in the corner, put your feet up, and stay awhile.

And shush!

I got your back.

Laverne?

Laverne!

LAVERNE!!!!!

This post was brought to you by the Save Laverne Society.

Total membership: 1

And dwindling fast.

——-

Why I oughta….

I drive a big fat car.

It’s soooooo big that it actually makes my butt look small.  In fact, it makes everything look small. 

 

Some people might even say my car is messy.  And this brings me to…

MY AFGO MOMENT OF THE MONTH…

My car isn’t just a car. I spend a good part of my day life in my car.  It’s my home away from home.  It’s my office on wheels.  It also doubles as…

… a gym (I do modified crunches at every red light);    

… a bank machine (I must have at least a million dollars in coins scattered all over the floor);   

… a spare closet (there’s a complete change of clothes, including socks, underwear, and accessories, for myself and the kids,  just in case; for example, when Thing Four called me yesterday because she forgot her gym shorts and matching earrings, no problemo);  

… a kitchen pantry with crackers, peanut butter, corn chips, salsa, broccoli, and marshmallows;

… a make-up counter (just like the one at Nordstrom’s);  

… and, you probably won’t believe this, but I even have a Crock Pot in my car. It’s the coolest thing ever. . I won’t mind if you copy me.  In the morning, when I drive the kids to school, I throw stuff into the pot, and 6 or 7 hours later, when I pick them up from school, voilà, dinner is ready! 

Am I a genius, or what?

Why then, just as I am basking in my own personal bliss, loving my big fat messy car and everything that’s in it, despite the mess, would anyone feel compelled to give me their opinion of my car?    

On a good day, I just smile. 

Sometimes with great difficulty. 

And on other days, I hate to admit, I have been known to behave rather badly.

These days, however, I am able to recognize when I have been triggered emotionally, and regard it as just ‘Another Freakin’ Growth Opportunity’… a chance for me to check in with myself to see why I’m reacting to someone whose best intention can only be to hijack my good feelings. Because she feels like …. crap.  Why else do mean-spirited people do what they do?  And besides, who am I to judge?

In other words, it’s not my shit. 

What a relief!

*AFGO = Another Freaking Growth Opportunity

Have you had yours lately?