No. My Magical Word for 2017

No. My Magical Word for 2017

Readers, friends, writers, artists, As straightforward as I am, there’s so much more honesty and courage inside of me angling to get out.  Let 2017 be the year I pay even more attention to the tiniest of feelings – that whisper of “no” I often hear but override. Here are my Notes to Self for 2017. Just because “I can,” doesn’t mean “I should.” I’m tired of being nice. It’s exhausting, That’s not to say I’m not a good person – I am – but I’m more interested in getting better acquainted with my fierceness. “No” is my word for 2017. You can help me practice by asking me for things. If I say yes, cock your head and ask me one more time. If I say no, kiss me. Sometimes I say yes, and then an hour later I realize I meant no. Note to self: Don’t be afraid to change my mind. I’m not a flake, it’s just that my internal listening after 56-years of not listening so well is a little fuzzy. Every time I have the courage to have a difficult conversation with someone ten pounds are taken off my shoulders. It turns out that getting people mad at me doesn’t kill me. My propensity to be helpful often occurs because I’m uncomfortable being with people who are unhappy. They make me nervous. Like, unless I try and fix them they might kill me. Note to self: Let unhappy people be unhappy. Sadness is a path too. The big problem with my beautiful 21-year-old daughter and her lack of plans after graduation from college is me,...
Drink, Drunk, Drank.

Drink, Drunk, Drank.

A couple of years ago when I realized my marriage was over, one of my first thoughts was, “Now I need to stop drinking.” I didn’t think, “Who will love me now?” or “How are my kids going to handle this?” I thought, “Shit, I have to stop drinking.” The thing is, I don’t think I was an alcoholic and I don’t think alcohol broke my marriage, but I did like to drink, and something about my drinking had been bothering me for years. Like almost every morning after some rousing night out with friends, I’d wake up and think, “I’ve got to stop.” And it wasn’t because I’d done anything wrong the night before, but it did have something to do with waking up tired or hung over in the midst of a big life with a family and a business and students and friends – everything I cared about. Sometimes I hadn’t even had too much to drink, or maybe I’d had one drink too many. Sometimes I didn’t drink for weeks. It was confusing. At times it felt like I had a problem, other times not. I’d make deals with myself; I’d only drink on weekends. I’d carry a little pocket-sized sign alerting my friends that I could only have one, and could they please remind me when I’m ordering my second? And if I did manage to only have one, I’d make sure to have it on an empty stomach so I could feel the buzz doubly big. My mother – a champ of a drinker – taught me that. None of those schemes worked,...
But Was it Life Changing?

But Was it Life Changing?

“Was it life changing?” my daughter, Zoe asked me this morning as I groggily sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. I’d gotten home from nearly three weeks in South Africa the night before, had managed a few hours of sleep, and was now on my third cup of coffee and it wasn’t even 7am. “Was it life changing?” “Yes and no,” I said. “Yes, of course, and no, not really.” And it’s not because I’m jaded by my recent travel to Bali last November, Nepal this past April, and the last many weeks in South Africa where I traveled with my 21-year-old daughter Ruby, and my 79-year-old mother Suzy. It was incredible to tool around in a jeep on a large private animal reserve in South Africa and to stumble into a herd of elephants taking down trees for breakfast. It silenced me to get as close as we did to the pride of lady lions whose faces were covered with blood – “lipstick,” our guide called it – after they’d just taken down an impala – a kill we’d seen them circling for, heard them attacking deep in the bush, and watched them emerge from afterwards. It was ridiculously amazing to watch a mama rhino and her baby lumbering along a shady dirt road, taking their time as our vehicle kept a safe distance behind. The closest I’d ever gotten to these animals – cheetahs, giraffes, rhinos, leopards – was in magazines or on T.V., and it was both oddly wonderful and disconcerting to be so close to them. One day we drove right up to a...

One Stinky Breath at a Time

My adorable Chinese medical doctor, Scott Blossom, tells me that the lungs are connected to grief – which explains my love affair with cigarettes this past week. I wasn’t going to tell him I was smoking, and planned on not having a smoke until after our 5pm appointment was over so he wouldn’t smell it on me. That was some serious nail biting for someone who had lately been having her first cigarette before the milkman arrived. I know. It’s been a rough little spell. Between the overnight departure of the sexy cowboy, which left me in a crumbled little huddle, and an avalanche of deadlines which appeared out of nowhere – I found myself overwhelmed, distracted, incapable and exhausted. Cigarettes and their delicious nicotine rush were more rewarding than a hot bath, a glass of wine, even a good cry. I think it was the way Scott lifted up my limp little wrist to feel my pulse, the way his forgiving green eyes bore down on me – I couldn’t help myself and I blurted, “I’ve been smoking!” Then I burst into tears. At least Scott would know the truth about me and wouldn’t confuse me with those darling yoga girls who traipse through his office with their starry I’M CHANNELING BLISS eyes. I can be me; messy, goodhearted, clunky and sorely imperfect. Besides, I’m a terrible liar. “I can feel it in your pulses,” he smiled. “Your lungs are like…” and then he made this horrible sound like he was a small rat drowning in sewer sludge.  Three cheers for me for telling him the truth. “It’s...