My Attempt at the Ten Commandments

And now for those SUGGESTIONS I promised you in # 2, above.

SUGGESTION # 1:  DECIDE to change the way you think about those things you hate about yourself.

For example, I used to beat myself up with the thought “I never finish anything I start.”  I thought this was a very bad bad thing.  Maybe someone said it to me once and it stuck, I don’t know. But I used to care. I mean, I really really cared.

Until, one day, I just decided to stop caring.  My coach helped me see the light… so bright and shiny and much more flattering! So now I just don’t care.  As in, I really don’t shive a git. I really really don’t. Because the old way of thinking didn’t serve me.  All it did was make me feel bad so that I never even wanted to start anything.  Go figure. Makes no sense. But that’s what happens when we believe the lies we tell ourselves.

Here’s what makes sense to me now: I sometimes don’t finish something because I have something else more exciting and compelling to do.

I bloody well LOVE this new way of thinking.  Don’t you?  You can steal it if you like, and you don’t even have to give me credit for it.

But if you’re polite you will.

Just sayin’.

Whatev…

(See, I didn’t even finish that word. And I don’t care!)

And it’s not like I haven’t accomplished stuff in my life.  Jeesh, I could start bragging here, but…

Okay… what the hell…

SUGGESTION # 2: BRAG YOUR ASS OFF! 

Bragging is underrated. I just DECIDED that (I took my own advice in SUGGESTION # 1). If I don’t brag, at least to myself, then how will I ever appreciate all the amazing and wonderful things about me. And I’ve got some pretty damn good stuff goin’ on. I’m gonna brag, to myself, right now… so feel free to tune out.  In fact, I’m just gonna list The Ten Things I Love About Me. (If you’ve heard this before, then, you know I’m pretty darn loveable!)

Here we go.

Put on your seatbelt.

NUMBER 1: I am ridiculously smart. Ridiculously!

NUMBER 2:  I love my feet.  Seriously–look at them!

NUMBER 3:  I can say NO in every language known to mankind.

NUMBER 4:  I can hold the plank pose for 5 whole minutes!

NUMBER 5: I know whose shit is whose. 

NUMBER 6: I invented ‘Talk-Texting.” It’s a real time saver!

NUMBER 7:  My Peanut Butter Cup Pizza is an international sensation!

Okay, I quit. I know I promised you Ten Things but I’m all out.

That’s fine. Remember? I’m a quitter (in a good way), and that’s okay, because, obviously, I’ve got something more exciting and compelling to do….

Like give you SUGGESTION # 3.  You’ll recall, prior to my having distracted you with my bragging, which you may not have paid attention to, I was giving you suggestions about how to learn to love the parts of you that you think you hate. (By the way, thinking is overrated!)

Here’s the best one of all….

SUGGESTION # 3:  Join my gang.

Gang members (we call ourselves Worsties… so adorable we are) get all sorts of love and support and coaching and coupons…  (because I’m also very very nice–hey, that should go on my list!)

Speaking of lists, when you join The WORST Club (cute name, huh?) you get all sorts of value-added member benefits, including – but not limited to – my famous pizza recipe; the only lip gloss to wear when Mercury is in retrograde; hugs; validation for the wonderful person you are; smart-ass comments (I’m also soooo good at those–jeesh, I’m good at so many things!) etc. etc. etc. and so on and so forth.

I am the gang leader. When you say “take me to your leader” you’ll be taken to ME!  And I will give you a paper-clip and a cupcake –bonuses for signing up.

So join The WORST Club, and I won’t have to, you-know… kick you in the shins.

Sign up now.   HERE  

And then pass this on to two friends and then hopefully they’ll pass it on to two friends and so on and so on until the whole world knows how good I am at the plank pose.

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.

 

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…

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?

Words That Begin With the Letter ‘F’ for 400 Please Alex

When I turned f-f-f-f-f-orty I made the decision to embrace all words that begin with the letter F.

Including the mother of all words-that-start-with-F.

The big kahuna.

You know what I’m talkin’ about.  

At first I decided to incorporate it into our regular Saturday date night vernacular. You know, to shake things up a little.

The Big Guy never saw it comin’. 

For the longest time Thursty just kept staring at me.

Initially I thought it was because I looked so damn hot in that little pink number I was wearing.  Plus, I had matched my lip gloss perfectly.

Then I realized it was because I had dropped the F-bomb.

I didn’t know what had come over me.

The word just passed from my lips as if I had blown a kiss. 

It didn’t make sense. 

So I tried it again.

There it was again.

That stare.

He was so darn handsome.  

Correction: he was so f*&$#ing handsome!

And he only had eyes for me.

It was as if he couldn’t get enough of me.

After that little bit of positive reinforcement I couldn’t get enough of the F-bomb. 

How lucky am I?

The moral of the story is: everything in life is what we make it to be.  We get to decide. We don’t need anyone else to tell us. And we can change the rules to suit our own lives. 

That goes for everything.

Even that bloody f*ing F-word.  If you make it mean something bad, it will make you feel something bad.

And, conversely, if you use it while out on a date with your sexy man-bear, it just might take his breath away.

F*^#ing perfect.

——-

Pssssst: Hey you. Yeah, YOU, you gorgeous f*ing thing you!  Have you joined The WORST Club on Facebook? Whaddaya waiting for? Check it out… get in on the discussions, and stay tuned for the next meeting (first Tuesday of every month).  Boys are not allowed. Except for TWM’s token male. Wait, even he’s not allowed. ‘Cause boys stink!  Sorry, it’s true.

Ho’oponopono. Huh?

One of my favorite BFFs, Jeannette Maw, once said one of the strangest things.

Ho’oponopono.  

 

At first I thought she was suppressing a burp.  

Turns out Ms. Maw was describing an ancient Hawaiian teaching called Huna, and Ho’oponopono is one of its principles.

Still…..

In a nutshell, (because that’s about the extent of my understanding so far)  Ho’oponopono (pronounced: ho’oponopono – yeah, I know), is all about forgiveness within the family. 

It’s about bringing a family–and all of its nut-bag members–to a place of forgiveness… for all their messed-up ways. 

Because, in Polynesian cultures, many believe that one’s so-called errors and the subsequent guilt can cause illness. 

The way to counter the illness is to confess the error.

One who fails to confess dies.

And after the confession comes atonement.

A heartfelt request for forgiveness is made. It goes something like:

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you

This is the pono part of the deal.

Or is it the nopo?

As if I know.  

But, once the confession and apology are made, the illness loses its power.

And therein lies the healing.

Ho’oponopono is all about healing. 

The transgressor, a.k.a. the ding-dong, bad guy, family jerk, black sheep, num-nut … is healed.

The whole family is healed.

So, here’s what I think (I know you sooooo wanna know what I’m thinking!)…

When you put out a good vibe, you have the power to heal.  Your self, your family, your world.

And it’s your job on this planet to put out a good vibe.  You can’t show up to the party (your life!) and just sit in the corner (yes, I just used the party-life metaphor… deal!) and then expect everyone else to bring you cake! (In this case cake is a metaphor for joy, but it also includes actual cake. Because I definitely go to parties for the cake, which, oddly enough, is never found in the corner.)

 

 

Actually, it’s not an either or thing.

You can have your joy… and eat it too.  Nah… that makes no bloody sense.  But I have a feeling you know what I’m talking about.

Because you’re a freak… like me. 

You love cake. And joy. And life.

And you want to do better. Be better.

You want to just Do. Be. Do. Be. Do.

Don’t worry… we’re getting there. 

Now go forth and put out a good vibe, like my BFF Jeannette Maw, a master of creating good vibes. In fact she runs an entire university that teaches you how to be a good viber.

And if necessary, do some of that ho’oponopono stuff with/on/to your family.

Heal thyself, my fellow freaks!

———-

Guess what? I’m having a cake party! This Tuesday, May 3, 1 pm Eastern, 10 am Pacific, where we’ll moan and complain for one whole minute about the non-joys of life, then brainstorm for the remaining 59 about how to put some party (and cake) back into your life.  You can even stay in your pajamas. Bring a cuppa somethin’… I’ll provide some peach upside down cake (because everything I bake ends up on the floor, upside down!). 

For more deets, go here.  

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Newsflash:  I have joined the gals over at Mom Gets A Life  where my friend Patty Lennon is launching a website where moms can learn all about ‘me-time’.  Go there. It’ll be fun. In that freaky way we like it.

Me time. Myth or meth? (’cause there’s a ‘me’ in meth…see it?)

I need me some me time.

“But there is no me in time,” she exclaimed with complete and utter exasperation.

Wait… yes there is!  Do you see it?

Of course, if you don’t know how to find ‘me‘ then you’re going to miss an amazing opportunity for some serious me-time.

Okay, let’s back up a little.  I can see that finding me is not going to be easy.

So, let’s practice, shall we?

Can you find me in the mess?

How about in overwhelmed?  Do you see me now?

Do you see me in this peanut butter cup?

C’mon, look harder!!!!  Don’t let that disguise fool you. Me is in there!

That’s why it’s very important that you take some time to find me.

Otherwise, me gets very very cranky.

Me needs time.

Why is this so hard to explain?

Would it help if I put it in mathematical terms?

Fine!

Argh!

The things I do for you!

Am I finally making sense?

I knew you’d get it eventually.

So, go on… Get some me time.

It’s all about me.

Always.

Psssst:  If you’re still struggling to find some me time, after all I’ve done for you already, please join me for a telecall meeting (that’s a telephone call meeting) at The WORST (mother) Club next Tuesday, 1 pm Eastern, 10 am Pacific where we’ll moan and complain for one whole minute then brainstorm for the remaining 59 about how to find me-time.  For sure you will know exactly where it’s hiding by the end of that power freakin’ hour.  Bring a cuppa somethin’… I’ll provide some peach upside down cake (because everything I bake ends up on the floor, upside down!). 

For more deets, go here.  

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