I Speak Horse

I spent last week in California learning to speak horse.

Yes.  Horse.  As in– Secretariat, Black Beauty, Barbaro, My Little Pony.

I figured it would be fairly simple, since I had already studied several languages. And I was quite certain I wouldn’t have to learn how to conjugate any verbs, especially the much dreaded past-perfect subjunctive, which is a real bugger to learn, unlike the pluperfect subjunctive,  or le plus-que-parfait du subjonctif (as it’s called in French), a compound tense that used to make me giggle with glee.

Okay, so I just pulled a Pinocchio.

The truth is I hated the plus-que-parfait du subjonctif.  It gave me hives, stunted my growth, and became the root cause of my peanut butter cup addiction.

However….

There are no verbs to conjugate when you speak horse. Hence, it is nonverbal communication.

Get it?

Ahem….

So then, how exactly do you talk to a horse?

It’s all about energy, baby.  It’s about establishing trust and leadership by first clearing your head and heart of any crappy energy that’s accumulated inside of you.  While the mere mortals in your life may choose to deal with, and/or learn to tolerate your low (read: negative) energy, horses will staunchly put their hooves down when in the presence of shitty energy.  If a horse doesn’t respond to you, you pretty much know you’ve got some inner work to do.

You can see this play out on the OWN Network‘s  Finding Sarah.  It’s about the  former Duchess of York, Sarah Ferguson, trying to get her life back on track.  In a recent episode, Sarah was coached by the greatest life coach ever to walk upright on this planet, Martha Beck, and the amazing horse whisperer, Koelle Simpson. Martha and Koelle were trying to teach Fergie how to align herself and her leadership energy in order to get the horse to join up with her.  The process is designed to heal both the human and the horse.

However, since horses are highly sensitive to the energy vibes around them, you simply cannot fake your way into getting a horse to trust you.  A horse knows when you’re faking. Trust me.

That’s why, try as she did, Sarah had a hard time communicating to the horse what she wanted it to do. As a result the horse kept switching directions. The more flustered Sarah became, the more unpredictably the horse behaved.  It wasn’t until Sarah dropped all the negative thoughts and emotions swirling through her head (as evidenced by her body language), that she was able to lead the horse.

And so it was with me, when I got into the pen/ring/stall/corral/bedroom with a horse. I had no clue what I was doing, and neither Martha nor Koelle offered up any advice. They just wanted to see if I had any horse sense at all.

I thought I did fairly well.

Wayyyyyyyyyyy better than Fergie.

Ok, so my energy needed a little tweaking.

Eventually Martha and Koelle explained how one’s energy can move mountains, let alone horses, if we’d just give it a chance.

Kinda like how Lao Tzu says to do without doing.

Kinda like how we ought to be parenting our kids. Or bossing our employees.

Or spousing our spouses.

If things aren’t going right for you in your life, it’s not because of what They are doing, it’s because your energy is out of whack, Jack.

Let me put it to you this way:

If your child, or spouse, were a horse, and you were lazing around in your negative energy, this is what he or she would say to you, nonverbally of course, because horses don’t conjugate verbs. Silly.

We always tend to want to blame other people’s behavior for our own misery.  Just like we might want to blame the horse for not co-operating.

Neigh. Neigh. Neigh.

The moral of the story is this: learning to speak another language can be difficult at times depending on the language because some languages do a lot of verb conjugation which really really sucks believe me I’ve studied a few languages in my day and arghhhhh it can drive you crazy but if you ever try to speak horse you’ll find it’s not like that at all because it’s nonverbal hence there are no verbs to conugate and all you have to do basically is feel the love baby feel the love and because from that place it’s all perfect energy and the horse will follow you everwhere it’s really cool no shit  you should try it.

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Mayday! Mayday! Next meeting of The Worst Club is set for next Tuesday, August 2nd, 1 pm Eastern.  You should come. Or the Ninja-bots will stalk you forever. Not a good thing.

The Things I (Don’t) Do For My Kids

This morning I awoke with a spring in my step.

Literally.

There was an actual spring–one of those little thingys you find inside a ballpoint pen to make the pen click in and out–lodged in my foot.

Owwww.

As I tried to catch myself from falling head-first into the laundry basket, I recalled being taught that the best way to fall was to relax the body, tuck the head in, and roll.

All I remember next is that I was in the kitchen, happily making breakfast for my gaggle of girls and a teenage boy who wouldn’t be out of bed until closer to
dinner time.

Teenagers are so adorable when they’re asleep.

As is my ritual during the lazy months of summer, I went outside to snip some  roses from the lovely rose garden which I tend to daily.

Lovingly, I carried them into the kitchen and placed them in the crystal bud vases on each (yes, each) of my cherub’s four place mats, right next to the linen napkins I had folded into various shapes; a dolphin, a hummingbird, a daffodil…

…and a Pamela Anderson-shaped napkin for my hormone-powered son. I actually needed two napkins for Pamela, bless her giant boobs heart.

I hope my darling boy appreciates my thoughtfulness.

Next I took out the flaky, home-made croissants (made by me, in my home) I had warmed in the oven. I placed four cute little jars of preserves at each (once again, that was each) place setting–apricot, strawberry, peach, and marmalade.

I like my children to have options.

When I’m serving croissants (as opposed to brioches, or crepes, or my out-of-this-world home-made waffles), I prefer to use our special little crystal side-dishes. That’s so my sweet munchkins can see through their plates to those placemats I mentioned above–each one hand-made, by me, in a collage of pictures chronicling their childhood adventures.

There’s that time we went whale riding in Honolulu…

And white-water rafting in Alaska; and of course there’s the time we were all sipping hot cocoa atop the Swiss Alps after an arduous day of skiing….

Ah, the memories.

As we all sit down happily to eat the delicious breakfast, my darling babies compliment me on my culinary skills and we all giggle as we reminisce about our  globe-trotting experiences and brainstorm ideas about how we’ll spend  yet another glorious summer day together.

Maybe we should go rock climbing… but surely not before going to the museum for a daily dose of the arts.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder,  shaking me.

What the….???

Mom, why are you on the floor? Why are you bleeding?

Um. Let me see. I woke up with a spring in my step and I must’ve tripped and hit my head. I think I fainted. I must’ve been dreaming.

Whatever, Mom! Can we puh-lease have something to eat?

What do you think this is, a restaurant? Go grab some frozen waffles and throw them in the toaster. And don’t forget to use the paper
plates!

Because I don’t do dishes.

And whale-riding is for sissies.

 

 

The Things I Do For You!

I’m gonna go all rogue here and say something a mother should never admit.

Never!

It’s just bad form.

It goes against the rules of mommyquette.

But, since I am your leader, I shall proceed.

First I need to put on my disguise.

No one must ever know I said this.

Oy… the things I do for you.

Promise you won’t blow my cover?

Wouldn’t want anyone gettin’ all up in my grill for tellin’ it like it is.

Ok, here goes.

Hmmmmmmm?

What’s that?

Louder, you say?

Okayyyy….

Huh?

I’m slurring my words?

Fine.

But please understand this is hard for me to say out loud.

And remember…

…be nice!

Here goes…

See?

I knew it!

I should’ve worn the bigger glasses!

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

You judged me. You really judged me.

And I thought you loved me.

I hope you feel really bad about this.

Because you made an assumption about me.

Aha! I caught you.

I bribe my kids is just another way of saying I use cajoling, rewards, stickers and the occasional junk bond or t bill to get the behavior I demand desire.

It’s all manipulation to me.

We just don’t like to call it that.

It’s the word that got you, right?

I get it.

We often get baited by the words.

And when we fall for the bait, we jump in and start to judge.  Or get angry. Or defend.

Or kick someone in the shins.

In other words, we lose.

Don’t fall for words.

They are just words.

Soooooooooooooooooooooooooo….

I bet you thought this post was about bribery.

Hahahahahaha. 

I disguised this post about word-bait by using bribery as a disguise.

Me so clever.

Ok, that makes no sense. I’ll give you that.

But do you see what I’m saying my little chicas?

Don’t fall for the word-bait.

And no, I did not tell you what to do.

I told you what not to do.

Besides, I am your leader.

Kinda like the Queen Mother, only I have a bigger crown.

And I let common folk hug me whenever they want.

You still love me. I can tell.

 

My Story Sucks. And I’m Sticking To It.

My lovely and dear one-legged friend Kataronica loves a man who does not love her.  Or… he doesn’t love her the way she wants to be loved.

This makes her very sad.

It’s not the first time this has happened to her.  In fact, she says it’s a pattern she’s become used to.

Kataronic is very sad that this jerk guy won’t love her back. But instead of thinking that there must be something wrong with him if he doesn’t love her, she makes it all about her.

All of it.

She says it’s because there’s something terribly and horribly wrong. With her.

She is unlovable.

Kataronica believes this with every fiber of her being.

She. Is. Unlovable.  Full stop.

So I asked Katty why she believed this and she said it’s because her mother never loved her, never wanted her.

As a little girl she latched on to the (hugely mistaken) belief that the reason her mother didn’t love or want her was because of something that was wrong with Kataronica, not her mother. And ever since then, Kataronica has placed a huge importance on how other people feel about her, especially the men in her life.

And just about all of them have proven Kataronica’s theory to be completely true: that she is unlovable, unwanted.

Unworthy.

Hmmm.  I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.

And, let me tell you, it’s pretty much impossible to talk her out of it.  I’ve given her a huge list of reasons that prove she is lovable.

If you met Kataronica I just know you would think this: she’s so lovely, and kind-hearted and fun to be with.

And you would try so hard to convince her that she is all those things.

And it would be futile.

Because as long as she has the core belief that she is unwanted and therefore unlovable, no one will ever ever never ever never ever ever never ever! convince her otherwise.

Unless…

She decides she’s ready to let go of her security blanket, which is pretty much what her old story is for her. Here’s why…

Kataronica’s story is incredibly familiar to her.  In a weird and crazy way, it’s even comfortable.  It serves a purpose.  Re-writing her old story means Kataronica would have to give up her old way of thinking about herself in relationship to everyone else in the world. She would have to give up her little-girl beliefs for ones that make sense from a grown woman perspective.

In fact, if grown-up Kataronica were to magically come face to face with little-girl Kataronica, I’m guessing she would fall in love with her young self, instantly.  She would see the innocent child’s flawed thinking. She could then come to the realization that her mother had her own shit shirtsleeves and she was incapable of wanting and loving a child… any child.

In other words, how her mother felt or didn’t feel has nothing to do with Kataronica.

Yes.  Well….

The really cool thing is, Kataronica says she may be ready to grow up, in the most powerful sense of the word(s).  She’s finally become weary of her story. She’s starting to think that it may be a load of, well, shirtsleeves.

There’s been a chink in the armor that protects her story.  She senses there is another way.  She’s starting to challenge her own thinking.

She’s starting to re-write her story. Starting with…

Maybe I am enough, just the way I am.  

And this is how Katty makes room for grown-up men to start showing up in her life.

And don’t we all just LOVE grown-up men.

—————————————————

June Cleaver Must Die Too!

Remember when I was telling you how Everyone must die, along with Everybody, Them, and They?

I forgot one.

June Cleaver. 

You may have heard that Junie C was TV’s icon of a mother in the fifties.

Well, she turned out to be the mother of Them all.  Pun intentionally intended

That’s why June Cleaver is soooooooooooo goin’ down!

I’m in the midst of plotting her death with my co-conspirator Patty Lennon.  Wanna help?  Of course you do.

Yes, you must come with me on this (mostly) excellent adventure of intrigue, espionage, and murder.

Oh, excuse me… you want an explanation for this murderous plot before you commit?

Fine.

Here it is:

June Cleaver became known as America’s Mom on the popular television sitcom Leave It To Beaver. However, the dirty little secret, which I’m totally making up, is that when the television cameras stopped rolling, little-miss-perfect mother Junebug would throw herself on a couch, pull out a candy bar, and start yelling at The Beav to put a sock in it.

She had such a potty mouth, June Cleaver did.

Hmmmm… bet you didn’t know that scintillating little tidbit  did you?

Still don’t believe me?

Well, I’ve got the photoshopped pictures to prove it!

Need more ‘splainin’?

Okay… you asked for it:

June Cleaver, with her pretty and perfectly coiffed hair, tiny waist, and sensible shoes, made moms all over America start second-guessing themselves. IT’S ALL HER FAULT that mothers started to question their own sanity and began looking over their shoulders to see what all the other moms were doing.

AND… they began to lower themselves further and further down the family totem pole.

As in: all the way down to the bottom.

Is this starting to make sense? Are you beginning to see why Junie-Two-Shoes has got to go? Then get out your cleaver (hahaha), um, poison sword (mine is disguised as a tube of lip gloss, natch) because that chick is going down.

Hard.

And fast.

Who knew plotting a murder would be so much fun!?

I know what you’re thinking:

She (as in, moi) used to be such a nice girl. She was always baking (burnt) cookies and giving out (stale) candy. She was always trying to help people.  She was such a quiet neighbor. Now look what’s happened to her.

She must’a snapped.

Okay, so I’ve snapped.

But just a little.

Can’t a girl get a break?  It’s not like I’ve killed before.

Wait, yes I have.  But They deserved it.

And so does JC.  Oh my goodness, I just noticed those initials. Yikes!

Seriously now…

June Cleaver is a lie.

She penetrated America’s collective psyche and burned a hole in it with the messed up message that women were less than, and moms were less than that. That Everyone and Everything else came first.

Oh, I know, she didn’t mean it. She probably wasn’t even aware she was doing it, poor thing.  She was the fantasy concocted by the producers, directors, and writers of the show: she embodied the so-called ‘ideal woman.’  Basically, she was the first Stepford Wife.  

Women took the bait and soon found themselves constructing their identities around the June Cleaver model.

And so it began.

That’s when the shoulds and have-to’s and supposed-to’s came flooding in.  In torrents.

It was as if there were a political-socio-economic effort to reconstruct Woman’s role as that of wife, mom, home-maker.  World War II was over.  Women belonged back at home. Otherwise the sky would fall.

Yeah yeah, you know the story.

But I want to have a career.

The war is over honey, get back in the house.

But I want more. 

You should be happy at home.

But I want to do something else.

Why can’t you just be like June Cleaver?   

Then along came Gloria Steinem.

Then along came Martha Stewart.

Then along came Oprah.

WHAT THE FRUIT LOOPS!

Confused yet?

Fine, let’s get back to my murderous plot, which is far less complicated.

It goes like this…

As is so clearly illustrated above, being a woman is the greatest invention since Adam.

How did we forget that?  Oh yeah… it’s all June’s fault.  Poor June. She meant well. I think.

And now it’s time to turn that ship around for YOU, my fair maidens.

Oprah always talks about living your best life, and this is what that really looks like:

Being on top means….

Staying home and being a mom; as long as that is what fills your soul.

OR…

Going to work, as long as your job fills your soul.

OR…

Staying home, baking (or burning, who really cares) cookies, loving your babies and your husband, taking care of the house and all the things that make it a home, as long as it fills your soul.

OR…

Anything else YOUR HEART desires (as opposed to what someone else desires for you), like: working part-time if you want to, writing a book, or painting, or making a paper mache totem pole with you on top…  whatever floats your boat, as long as it fills your soul. 

It’s the filling your soul part that ought to be your number one priority.

Number. ONE.

When you fill your soul first you automatically pass it on to the people in your life, especially the ones closest to you.

How do you do that?

Well, first of all, you don’t have to quit your job or get a job or leave your husband or unbirth your kids. (The last one is really really hard. Don’t bother trying.)

You do have to commit to finding out  exactly what it is that would put you back on top.

If you’re not sure, then get in on the murderous plot, I tell you!  This is more than a conspiracy theory poppets. There is a way to actually do this “fill your soul/get-back-on-top” thing.

You can’t not do this. It’s your key. Your holy grail. Your big AhaHA!!! (Because it’s bigger than a mere “Aha”).

Are you in?

Good. Then go here.

Or I am going to have to kill you too.

——————–

Remembering My Dad

I lost my Dad when I was only 17. 

He was such a Smart Ass. 

This is my Dad.

I know what you’re thinking! 

It’s taken me a long time to embrace my inner Smart Ass.

Happy Fathers Day Dad

and…

Thank you.

And I just know you would be so proud of the man I married.

Yes… I did good.

He’s a great dad!

No, he doesn’t really smoke. But he looks good with a cigarette.

I wonder why…

TGIF: Thank God I’m Female

The other day I felt that familiar pang I get whenever I hear something irksome bordering on insanity.  My friend and fellow attorney/kife loach Dana Boyle, told me that her doctor said this to her:

God gives all the bad stuff to females because men can’t handle it. 

He meant it as a compliment.

Hmmmm.

I could feel the heat starting to rise inside me…

Put-downs disguised as compliments are fed to women and girls all day long.

Be careful, don’t eat that, it’ll ruin your lovely figure. 

I’m glad you’re not one of those women who cries whenever she’s upset. 

Thank goodness you don’t throw like a girl. 

But I am a girl.

I do throw like a girl.

I also walk, talk, run and cry…

… just like a girl.

I also fight like a girl.

Think like a girl.

Wear lip gloss like a girl.

Sound like a girl.

Giggle like a girl.

Get all sentimental and weepy just like a girl. Because…

I.

Am.

A.

Girl.

God gave girls so many wonderful things.

And this isn’t just some knee-jerk retort to Dana’s doctor.  I believe this with all my heart.  And I want you to believe it too.

Anything else is a lie.

Pass it on girlfriends!

PS: yes, I know, we are women, but we were girls first and being a girl is the best part of being a woman!

AFGO Bustin’ Hokey Pokey Contract Drafting or: How to Save Your Life!

Run for your lives!!!! 

Wait, how do you run from your own self?  Hmmmm.

A woman I know who is in a very unhappy marriage tells me that her family is encouraging her to leave the marriage.

They’ve been telling her this for twenty years!

The reason this woman can’t leave her marriage is that her contract with herself tells her that this is where she belongs. Everything she believes about herself convinces her that she can’t leave the marriage.  Of course, she’ll tell you it’s because she can’t afford to, that her husband isn’t that bad, that she has nowhere else to go and, because of the kids. 

None of this is true, or relevant for that matter.

The truth is she cannot leave because she believes she cannot leave.  Leaving means she would have to leave her self. She can’t do that. Her self contract requires her to stay in situations (marriage, work, friendships) that reinforce the belief system she has about herself.  That this is what she deserves. This is what she is worth.

She doesn’t see that.  Instead, she has convinced herself that her husband is the problem, the kids are the problem, money is the problem, her weight is the problem.

And this is what I say to her:

You must not leave,

you cannot leave,

until you understand,

really really believe

your true worth.  

Leaving is not the answer.

Neither is staying and complaining.

The answer lies in her self contract. 

Does she even know what’s in that old thing?

No wonder she thinks staying in this marriage is her only option!  

In her mind, it’s all she deserves.  It’s all she’s capable of. It’s all she’s worth.

Even if she did leave, she’d very likely find herself in a similar relationship, UNLESS…. 

…she breaches her self contract.

In other words, she has to tell herself to go stuff herself. 

To do this she needs to re-write that smelly contract she’s been carrying around in her back pocket her whole life.  That thing seriously stinks!

So, how does one go about writing a new self contract or, what we call an AFGO BUSTIN’ HOKEY POKEY CONTRACT?

Well, it really is all in the wrist action!

Get out a pen and paper and start writing.  Write it down. Write it down. Write it all down.

Keep writing.

Hey!  Did I say you could stop?

Um…. EVERYTHING!

Write about what makes you happy.

What makes you sad.

What you like. Why don’t you have more of it?

What you don’t like.  Why do you still have it?

Who you like.

Who you don’t like yet still bother to keep in your life.

What do you believe in?

What are you values?

Do you live by your values?

What kind of daughter are you?

What kind of friend are you?

What kind of wife are you?

Are you kind-hearted?  To Everyone?

And the biggest one of all….

How (un)kind are you to your self?

How do you love YOU?

Can you list 10 things you love about yourself, like I did?

This takes some work.  Deep work.  It requires introspection.

This could take a while.

And so it should!

But when you’re done you’ll be able to do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around without even having to put your left foot in.

In other words: You’ll know exactly what you need to do in your marriage, your job, your life!

Think of the possibilities.  Don’t let fear stand in your way.

Don’t settle.

———————————–

Hey kids…  next Tuesday June 7th is the next meeting of The WORST Club.  You HAVE TO come. There will be dancing Polar Bears (the Grizzlies can’t make it, sorry).  We are going to be talkin’ ’bout AFGO BUSTIN’ Hokey Pokey Contracts.  We’ll help you write yours.  Go HERE to find out the details!

Or to Facebook, The WORST Club page, and click LIKE.  Because you like me. Admit it!

How to Write an AFGO Bustin’ Hoki Poki Contract: Part I

I’d like you to meet my friend Kataronica, (not her real name; I completely made that name up by splicing the names Katarina and Veronica together to conceal her true identity, and also because her real name is the mathematical symbol  ∑. )

∑, I mean Kataronica, tells me she always requires a contract when she enters into a business agreement, except…

when the other party doesn’t want to be bothered with a contract.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm….

Kataronica, called me up the other day and said, “I can’t believe I did it again!  I let someone else’s want trump mine.”

I said, I could believe it.

She called me a smart ass, among other things.

I stuck out my tongue, which didn’t really count since we were on the phone.  Damn!  She won that exchange.

I love talking to ∑.  We like the same lip gloss. We’re almost the same height. She has one leg, I have two, but you can hardly notice.

 AND, we’re both kife loaches.  But even as kife loaches we get stuck in old patterns.

Yes, of course we do.

It’s never “one and done” as we like to say in the mad and sexy world of kife loaching.

Nope. It’s not.

Because at some point in this lifetime we entered into a contract with ourselves that required us to behave a certain way.  This self contract is so deeply ingrained we hardly know it’s there.  It’s a contract full of loop-holes, discrepancies and overall bad faith. In other words, it blows.

Here is an example of a self contract, made sometime between the ages 6 and 22, that is in desperate need of re-drafting.

Of course, we are usually unaware that such a contract with ourselves even exists.

Which is all the more reason why we need to get a hold of it, tear it to shreds, stomp on it, set it on fire, and re-write it, on paper, in ink. Crayons are not allowed.  Neither is chalk, or smelly markers, or blood.

This self-defeating contract is not to be confused with the contract you entered into before you were even born.  According to Carolyn Myss, author of the groundbreaking book, Sacred Contracts, we already entered into a contract with our souls before we were born into this life.  This Sacred Contract addresses each of the significant areas of one’s life.  It’s your game plan. You signed it!

The trouble is, we usually forget the rules of the game.   Once we’re here in this life we’re presented with a whole bunch of circumstances that trip us up and make us forget about our Sacred Contracts.  We start to believe all the lies about ourselves. And others. What we don’t realize is that the people we don’t like, the places where we feel uncomfortable, the situations we want to run from, are all AFGO*s.   Your job, your agreement with your soul, is to learn from your AFGO’s.  You satisfy the terms of your pre-lifetime contract by learning the lessons the AFGO’s are trying to teach you today.

As a lawyer, I love drafting agreements, so I want to help you draft your own present day contract, or what I like to call an  AFGO Bustin’ Hoki Poki Contract (because Ms. Myss already snagged the term ‘Sacred Contract’, dammit).  An AFGO Bustin’ Hoki Poki Contract is one you make today, to bring you back into alignment with your soul.

Note: I reserve the right to modify the name of this contract.  This is called a cover-your ass clause.

So, first you need to examine the current agreement you have with your self.  What does it say?

I’m guessing it’s pretty darn fugly.

Or at the very least, it could use some tweaking.

Let me know what you come up with. Dig it up, write it down.

Hand in your homework below.

Stay tuned for Contracts, Part II:  Drafing your AFGO Bustin’ Hoki Poki Contract (or whatever we decide to call it–please submit your suggestions; there will be prizes).

———————–

*AFGO = Another F*ing Growth Opportunity

Heads up:  The next meeting of The WORST Club is scheduled for June 7th.  Mark your calendars! 

This Huzzaha post was brought to you by the mathematical symbol ∑ , and my friend Kataronica. 

Oh, and one more thing, go here and click ‘LIKE’.  Because you like me, right?

Do. Be. Do. Be. Do.

Some people say: I just want to be happy, or I just want to be at peace.

To which I’ll say: well then do it.

And then they’ll say: I don’t know how.

And then I’ll say: huh?

And then they’ll say:WTF?

And then I’ll say: no you WTF!

And then they’ll say: you’re crazy.

And then I’ll say something deep and profound like: I know you are but what am I?

THEN AGAIN…

On days when I’m not acting like a six-year-old, I’ll offer up a suggestion as to how one might find a way to do happy or be at peace.

Step 1.

Don’t do anything. (Seriously)

Step 2.

Try to just be. (Sit still with yourself and notice what comes up for you)

Step 3.

Don’t do anything. (I hate having to repeat myself)

Step 4.

Just be.

Step 5.

Stop doing, dammit!

It’s at this point that you may want to give me your best six-year-old comeback.

And who can blame you?

It’s hard to just be.  Especially when you tell yourself it’s hard to just be.

The truth is, many people are afraid to just be.

Be-ing can be scary.  It’s so much easier to just keep do-ing.

Do-ing keeps us from having to face the scary parts of our lives that we don’t want to acknowledge even exist.

There’s pain in them thar hills.

So we keep do-ing.

And do-ing.

And do-ing.

We do the nice thing. We do yes when we want to do no. We do the job we hate.  We do a marriage that’s gone flat . We do parenting that does not make us feel proud.

We eat.

We pray.

We do.

And still we get zippity do da.

And still we keep doing and doing and doing in the crazy-making hope that something will change.

And still….

Nothing.

No thing happens to take us out of our state of low-grade ick.

What the fandango?

Sorry munchkins. Nothing is ever going to happen to you that is going to save you from the ick.  The nice house won’t do it. A new (real) green dress won’t do it.  A shiny car won’t do it.

Chocolate won’t do it.

Prozac won’t do it.

Not even chocolate-covered Prozac is going to do it.  (I wish!)

It’s all up to you my adorable little kittens.

The question is: Are you willing to suffer a few slings and arrows to make things happen for you? Can you get past the fear of shaking things up a little (possibly even a lot) in order to find your groove? Are you willing to walk across some hot coals if it means finding peace, happiness, and guilt-free cupcakes on the other side?

Please say YES!

Because, I promise you, there is a way.  To be happy. To be at peace.

It starts with stopping.

Stopping the pretending that it’s good enough just the way it is.

Start with the truth.

Be with the truth.  Your truth.

Just be.

And then watch what happens.

Questions?

———————————————————–

If you just can’t get enough of me (and who can blame you!) read the….

Listen up: We’re going to get down and dirty as we discuss in detail how to do the do be do be do at the next meeting of The WORST Club.  For more info, go here.  Don’t miss it because I’m also going to teach you how to survive a Grizzly Bear attack. 

Another heads up girlies… there’s a new website called Mom Gets A Life where my friend Patty Lennon is doing some neato fabbo things for women. Check it out. And look for me there too.  I’m the one with chocolate on my face.

AND…. don’t forget to check out The WORST Club on Facebook and click LIKE! …. you can show up in your slippity slip slippers or your flippity flop flip flops, and broccoli in your teeth, and we’ll love you even more.  Show up at your WORST–post a question or concern and we’ll rally ’round to help you out.  Hey… we’re not going for ‘best’ life… just ‘better’.  After all, this ain’t Oprah!

I’m all out.