2017….Year of Me

2017

Happy New Year!  Or at least that’s what everyone keeps telling me. Although I can’t feel it yet. Blecchh!  I know, I know, it’s best to start the year from a place of gratitude and looking up, but I’m actually going to start mine by looking in the mirror. My life is horribly outdated!

But first, let me back up to catch you up because I know we haven’t chatted in a while. Three years to be exact!  That’s because the last 2.5 years, I flat out worked too hard.  I’ll bore you the details and sum it up by saying ‘over-achieving perfectionist’ and you’ll get my point.  Good thing is that my professional network looks grand and my bank account got better. But I also got my heart broken. I mean smashed to a trillion little shards!

broken-heart……and while I thought I had been able to superglue it all back together within the last 6 months, I learned that it only appeared pretty and put together…but it was still fragile if you touched it.

Well, it got touched as we marched our way up and in to 2017!  It actually felt more like a punch and now I have these loose pieces of glass and glue rolling around in my chest making it hard for me to love, err breathe. You see, my boo and I were in another tug-of-war; the kind that’s always front and center for us during the holidays and usually focused on the long-standing fickleness of my heart. As 2017 rolled closer, and our literal and figurative distance increased, I kept hearing this tinkle of sound and felt the sensation of my breath being taken away. By night’s end, there I was in Times Square, as the ball dropped and the year turned with at least a million people crammed all around me, and I felt…..ALONE. Yes, ALONE.

alone_in_the_crowd_by_yellowoctopus333-d7yqfd6.jpg

There was a sea of people hugging and kissing, but around me there was a perfectly empty circle. No one touched me. No one approached me. No one wished me a Happy 2017.  I stumbled to a corner and sent my boo a text, “Happy New Year, my love.”  She never responded.  When 2017 arrived in her time zone, I called to say those words in person.  She placed me on hold.

And as I held the phone and stared out into the night’s lights, I realized that the sound I heard earlier was my heart breaking yet again, and this time there would be no distracting myself with work and superglue to mend it. That’s because MY HEART NEEDS HEALING.

That perfectly empty circle in Times Square was my sign that no one was willing or able to hold my heart…or offer the tenderness and safety that it craves. Even though I felt ALONE, I would need to heal myself.

On my flight home, I tried to think about a solution instead of how my love had hurt me yet again.  I also tried not to focus on how I might have hurt her, because that appears to be an encyclopedia I’ll never finish.

It dawned on me as the plane started its decline, that the only thing I know that really heals is love. More importantly SELF-LOVE.

So, I’m headed to the store to buy mirrors.  2017 is the Year of Me!  I need the mirrors to take some good, long looks at myself.  Not to find my faults, because those are always spotlighted for me.  Instead, to learn to love myself even when no one responds to my text or call or that empty circle around me doesn’t close.

mirror

If you see me there, please say a hello. I’ll lift the heavyweights of healing myself, but I need support.  There’s still this pain in my chest that’s hard to breathe thru, and my inner voice does not yet speak love.

If I see any mirrors on sale, I’ll let you know.  I’m sure you could use some self-love too.

Happy 2017!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I can’t come to work today…I have MONDEGREEN.

My mother drives like a bat outta hell.  Okay, well now she’s retired and in her 60s; so there’s really no need anymore for her to race to garage sales and quilting shows, but when I was a kid she could really floor it!  What helped to keep the ride from getting too spicy was music on the radio.  Even better, was that she had wonderful music taste.  We’d listen to everything– and everyone!– from Genesis to Fleetwood Mac to Parliament to Teddy Pendergrass to Chuck Mangione to Charlie Pride to…..wait , wait, I’m getting distracted.  The point is that riding in the car with Mama taught me that good music and fast wheels are like peanut butter and jelly.  They’re married!

That also means that now when I’m thinking and driving to work as an adult, I like to sing. LOUD!! And I dance.  CRAZY!  My butt’s wiggling all over the seat, it’s rush hour, but I’m still snapping my fingers and jamming to the song that’s playing like I’m the only one on the highway. Now, before you laugh, think about what you just did in the shower this morning…or maybe it was karaoke this past weekend. Ummm hmmmm. I thought so.

And like 100% of humans in the world (yeah, YOU) I’m prone to mondegreens when I sing. That’s a fancy pants word for what happens when you hear the words one way but the actual words are something else.  Yep, like a misheard song lyric.  And man, do I screw up a lot!  Just like the folks that sent in their mondegreens to Jimmy Fallon in the video above. Take 4 minutes to wet your pants laughing at the things people hear versus what’s true.  I mean, I was just in the car today crooning to an old song by Austrian pop artist, Falco “Rock Me Amadeus,” but what I actually heard was “I’m Potatoes, I’m Potatoes!” instead of “Amadeus, Amadeus!” Yeah, I need new ears. But hold on before you laugh too hard in your wet smarty pants…. think about that last mondegreen you let out. Was it to a Michael Jackson song?  Maybe some Nikki Minaj?  Maybe even Carrie Underwood…..whoa!

Which brings me to the whole point of this epic tale. Mondegreens aren’t just for music. They happen in our lives too.  How many times have you said something that you thought was clear, only to have the recipient of your message hear it in a totally different way?  You ask your honey, “Can you take out the trash, dear?” He hears you say, “Want me to bring you a glass of beer?” Sounds light-hearted enough, but what if the stakes are higher….like WORK or LOVE??!!  This happened to me once when I thought a love in my life was saying “I love you,” but in reality she was saying “Olive Juice.”  Aaaarrrghhhh, it took a long time to straighten that one out! Then, the other day I told my boss “I  don’t want to assume those facts.” She heard, “I really hope to be assigned that.”  Yeah, that’s when I decided to call in sick to work on account of mondegreen….

But, I guess the real message is, we all have had a case of mondegreen.  The only antidote is to be crystal clear in saying what you mean and meaning what you say. Otherwise, two tiny keyholes won’t know Bo on a sleigh.  And I would NOT lie about that!

Butterscotch Memory Lane

So, I’m in my car trying to make my way to a Friday happy hour, and BLAM!  Traffic accident.  And, man, was it a doozy! Which means I had plenty of time to think. And plenty of time for my tummy to start rumbling.  Which got me to thinking about food. Which got me to thinking about butterscotch. (Hey, don’t judge!  I said I was on my way to happy hour and I like scotch on the rocks and butter goes with everything.)  Nonetheless what exactly IS butterscotch, where’d it come from and why did I have it on my mind amidst a serious accident?

image00Butterscotch itself is actually a simple confection.  It’s somewhere between the flavor of toffee and caramel and with similar ingredients. Butterscotch, which is said to have originated in Doncaster, England in the early 1800s, actually requires a simple mix of brown sugar, butter, milk or cream and salt.  Actual scotch isn’t required but a splash doesn’t hurt. The trick is in the cooking process.  It’s a delicate blend of bringing the ingredients to the right cooking temperatures and blah,blah blah blah blah.  This isn’t a culinary blog.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I associate butterscotch with my grandmother.   She’d keep these little hard butterscotch candies in her purse and would pass me one whenever I got antsy in church, usually because Reverend Scipio’s sermon was too long. I mean, there was nothing sweeter than unwrapping that crinkly yellow cellophane to reveal the little bite of deliciousness inside. (Critics would say this flavor is actually very different than actual butterscotch, but hey, I’m going for nostalgia here!) My grandmother also kept them in a butterscotch-colored candy jar in the kitchen so us kids could sneak one whenever the mood hit us.  Now, butterscotch was an ‘old folks-flavor’ candy, most kids ate the little round red and white peppermints instead, but I always found myself migrating towards the creamy smoothness of butterscotch.

image00My butterscotch love affair continued into early adulthood. My family would throw these epic holiday parties and a new friend and future love brought these wonderful confections called haystacks to one of the events. I was instantly intrigued!  I mean, butterscotch is daring–it makes a bold statement because not everyone goes for its unique flavor.  Yet who could resist these cute little treats resembling loose piles of hay in a wheat field? Again, the ingredients and recipe, were simple; crunchy chow mein noodles, butterscotch chips and peanuts all melted together and tablespoon-ed onto wax paper and allowed to cool.  Yummers!

Finally, one year when life and love were particularly tough, a made-to-order cookie company opened downtown.  On the days and nights when my head and my heart were not in alignment, I’d find myself at the cookie counter ordering my specialty…sugar cookie dough with butterscotch and pecans.

It was these cookies I was thinking of as I inched forward towards the accident that had first started my butterscotch reverie. And as I (finally!) approached the flashing lights of the ambulances and fire trucks, it dawned on me that it wasn’t my delayed happy hour that’d made me think of scotch and food, but rather the lesson of butterscotch itself…

…when life is at its hardest and most chaotic, it’s the taste of something simple and sweet that soothes it all and lets you know that everything will be okay.  

So, as I crawled past that accident, I visualized all the accident victims sitting at a buffet table piled high with butterscotch candies, haystacks and cookies…and I felt assured they’d all be just fine. I even planned to have a Butterscotch Martini in their honor.

Now, what’s your butterscotch?

What Do Men Carry in Their Pockets…and WHY?

PocketI was stuck in the “Gotta have my coffee!” drive-thru this morning behind a guy who was clearly having trouble finding his “that’ll be $3.73” in his pockets.  C’mon, you’ve been that guy!  You’re at the window, and either your wallet’s caught in your pants or you can’t quite reach that nickel wedged in the corner of your khakis so you have your feet braced on the floor and your butt lifted off the seat in order to crook two fingers into your pocket to get better access.  Yeah, you know the pose…and I was trapped behind that guy.

But it got me to thinking……….What do men carry in their pockets and why?

Now, let me be honest, I’ve always been fascinated with what men keep in their pockets. And ladies, you know you’ve asked a man at least once what’s in his pockets—-or else you’ve examined all the crap he tossed onto the dresser at the end of the day.  Yeah, I’m that chick too. Ever since I was knee-high to my daddy’s thigh, I’ve wanted to know what was in his pockets.   All of my life, my daddy’s pockets have contained a nail clipper, Chapstick and four quarters. Why this stuff? Well, I assume he’s metrosexual (don’t tell him I said that) about his nails and skin, and the four quarters are from the days of pay phones.  He always wanted to have change in case of an emergency.  Why he still carries the quarters, I don’t know, because he’s a 65-year old iPhone wizard, but hey…maybe one day the network will go down…..

At any rate, my brother pays homage and follows in my dad’s footsteps by carrying the exact same stuff.  My grandfather always carried an actual buckeye…even though he was from Arkansas. He said it was for good luck.  My first love, for years, carried the first letter I ever wrote to him…and a toothpick.  I always imagined him as that guy wrapping that letter around the toothpick and staking his claim….

An artist friend of mine never leaves home without a gel pen and a pacifier….he’s a dad of four and who knows when or where creativity will strike! I met a guy once who carried a bedazzled bobby pin in his pocket.  It was his greatest pickup line ever.  After he’d said a basic hello to a woman, he’d lay the pin on the hard space between them and tell her she’d need it later to pin up her hair for a long night of dancing.  He stated it never failed, the shiny rhinestones always grabbed her attention and women are naturally intrigued by a man who can dance.  I have to admit, even with my short short hairstyle, I had a momentary flash of myself on the dance floor with that pin in my hair!

What I also have learned over the years is that men are creatures of habit. They unanimously carry their cell phones, drivers licenses, credit cards, Chapstick and sometimes cash. At the end of the day, those things make us women feel safe somehow…and that’s really why I want to know what’s in a man’s pocket. I suspect it’s why every woman wants to know….

So fellas, the next time the sweet thing in your life asks  about what’s in your pocket….this video says it all:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qrwwM1Hgwk

She really just wants to know that you can take care of her.