10 Things I’d Rather Do Than to Shop on Black Friday – 2012 Edition

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In the tradition of top ten lists everywhere, I’m instituting the beginnings of my own tradition – a list of top things I’d rather do than shop on Black Friday. Enjoy.

  1. Insert a moist parasite into the depths of my bowels with a pair of tongs.
  2. Shave my armpits with a lice infested cheese grater.
  3. Alphabetically file all the names of the children in China. Twice.
  4. Drink a warm mixture of acid, cat urine and Redbull.
  5. Lose my right pinkie finger in an unfortunate “smelting accident.”
  6. Scalp myself with a crude and rusty implement while singing Surrey with a Fringe on Top.
  7. Eat a heaping bowl of toe jam with ladyfingers.
  8. Squeegee all the windows of the Empire State building with the corner of a soiled napkin.
  9.  Dance to Weird Al Yankovic with real zombies during the apocalypse.
  10. Swallow three lit tiki torches while wearing nothing but a sparse grass skirt.

The Power in Perimenopause – Part 2

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This isn’t over. Me and this… menopause… perimenopause… just o’ pause.

I just went to the grocery store and, while standing over the pre-baked lemon-herbed chickens, I had this overwhelming urge to rip my Rock & Republic jeans off. Like right in the front of the chubby-cheeked children still in their church clothes begging their mom’s for peanut M&Ms. I didn’t care who would see my junk. My knees were sweating. My moles were sweating. My right toenail was sweating.

Before I got naked, I quickly traversed to the Ben n Jerry’s section and stuck my head in the cooler pretending to search for a tub of Chunky Monkey. Not sure I fooled anyone, no one takes sixteen minutes to search for ice cream do they?

And… just like that… it was over. I went about my shopping, loaded the groceries into my car, strapped the Kr8z into his puppy car seat, and hit the road. At the second stoplight I felt the flames fanning again. I pulled over and stripped down to my tank top and turned on the A/C despite the 30 degree temps outside.

I haven’t slept straight through the night for almost three weeks.

How many years does this last? For the love of God…

I want to thank everyone, beyond oodles, for all the amazing advice and sage wisdom they gave me on my last post.

I have to say though that I feel as if there’s something bigger going on here with this spontaneous combustion; something deeper.

Last week on Facebook someone told me that they consider their hot flashes to be “power surges.” I thought it was an interesting take, but didn’t delve further into it at the time. The next day I was talking with my dear friend Lissa about my work and how I feel as if I’m coming into my power.

And then it hit me.

While I am indeed feeling as if I’m coming into a power I’ve never really known, I’m not fully stepping into it yet. Rather I’m skirting around the edges of it. It’s sort of like cleaning the toilet right after you get out of the shower. I don’t know about you, but I clean the toilet with a lot less abandon when I’m freshly clean. Perhaps therein lies the problem – comparing my power to a dirty shitter. I dunno.

But that got me to thinking. Do I really need medication at all? Maybe Suzanne Somers can keep her yams. Maybe the flaxseed can sit on the shelf like all the other health food I’ve purchased over the years and never consumed. Maybe I don’t have to undress at the grocery store, or in my car, or at the fancy restaurant over homemade Blue Cheese chips. Maybe, just maybe, the key lies in owning the power that’s trying to surge through me.

But what does that mean, really? Owning your power? I’m definitely saying “no” more. I’m saying “no” to utter asshattery that I used to say yes to just to be congenial. I’m saying “no” to not trusting. I’m definitely saying “no” to Jersey Shore.

Seriously though, I’d love to hear your thoughts on what it really means to own your power, to step into it. What if hot flashes are just that – denial of the power trying to surge through us? It’s interesting to ponder, no? We’re traipsing into an unknown world as we reach this stage of life, there’s an erupting volcano within us, literally. How do we navigate, and what are the underlying emotions that come with this new journey? There’s fear there too, I know, I’ve even had to stop watching Backdraft.

The Pause in Perimenopause – Part 1

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Oh. Dear. God. Above…

I think I’m having hot flashes.

Is it menopause? Perimenopause? Just-o’-pause?

Come on baby, light my fire?

I’ve never worried about the “change of life” before. Ever. I mean I’ve actually looked forward to it after years of Stage IV Endometriosis and cramps that have left me crying, cuddled in the corner like Baby on crack. But, that was before I knew I was going to be pushed up to the razor’s edge of a stream of internal molten lava.

It was definitely before I knew I was going to burst into flames at any possible second.

It was most assuredly before I knew that the blazing inferno inside of my body was going to reach the surface temperature of the sun about eight times a day with no warning.

Picture it…

I’m sitting there watching reruns of Frasier, cuddling with the Kr8z, eating Big Hunks, and suddenly I feel this warmth in my torso that quickly turns hotter and hotter and spreads throughout my whole body until I’m gasping from panic and lack of oxygen. I’m afraid to open my mouth to let in any cool air because I’ve watched Backdraft about a million times so I know better.

I’m not sweating profusely or anything so there is that. But I am waking up a couple times a night and my yellow Dr. Seuss “One Fish, Two Fish” pajamas have melded to my body like molten gold. I lay there panting with So-Kr8z trying to lick the sweat from inside my mouth. It’s all very Animal Farm meets Suzanne Summers without her yams in the Mojave Desert in August.

I always thought that when you went into menopause you’d then graduate to Crone status; you’d be all wise and sage and have this crazy depth. I’m certainly not feeling very wise. Just yesterday I had Cap’n Crunch for dinner.

Picket Signs?

I visited Dr. Google looking for alternatives to hormone replacement. I’m only 42 and my guess is that, due to my endo, I only have one lone ovary up in there and she was probably struggling to keep up with my estrogen demands and went on strike. I can see her brandishing a picket sign painted with neon pink letters that read “Overworked and underpaid.” Or perhaps she jumped off my uterus due to loneliness and splatted to her death. Who knows? But, there is no way I’m going to swallow a single drop of horse pee. Plus, my dearest friend lost her mom due to a blood clot from those drugs and it was heartbreaking.

Unfortunately, my research didn’t uncover much. Some studies have shown flaxseed to be helpful and another study showed that it doesn’t do shit, though apparently it makes you need to shit. Then we have Suzanne’s yams which, apparently, don’t do a damn thing either, plus yams are meant for bathing in brown sugar and butter during Thanksgiving time.

I’m not wholly sure what it all means. Perhaps it’s time to take a pause. Perhaps it’s time to buy a fire extinguisher. I dunno. But… I’d love some tips for unfanning these flames. What works for you, aside from Equus ferus caballus urine? Have you experienced this inner pyromaniac phenom in your body? I’d so love some sage words of advice.

The Helper

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All signs point to the fact that I’m a helper.

A giver.

The right-hand.

Over the past twenty-five years I’ve taken test after test and read book after book: Myers Briggs, Enneagram, Linda Goodman’s Sun Signs, astrology, the color code, you name it, and continually found that I’m the helper. Hell, I was even born on the same day as Mother “Fucking” Teresa.  Oh, and Mother Teresa is also an INFJ. (Just hammering it home, people.)

Type 2 on the Enneagram: The Helper

According to this site, “Twos are warm, emotional people who care a great deal about their personal relationships, devote an enormous amount of energy to them, and who expect to be appreciated for their efforts. They… thrive in the helping professions… Helping others makes Twos feel good about themselves; being needed makes them feel important; being selfless, makes Twos feel virtuous… Because Twos are generally helping others meet their needs, they can forget to take care of their own. This can lead to physical burnout, emotional exhaustion and emotional volatility.”

Ya think?

Here is how most of the relationships in my lifetime have played out, with friends, families, boyfriends, the post man, the clerk at the gas station, the teenager bagging my groceries, my dog…

My Refrain:

What do you need?

I’m here.

Let me get it for you.

I can jump that high. Count on me.

I can cross those level 10 rapids wearing my tattered pea coat and purple galoshes, you just relax. I’ve got this.

Hmmm… that doesn’t feel so good to me but here it is anyway. Take it, I’m yours.

Refrain.

Refrain.

Refrain.

Refrain ad infinitum.

Ah, you’ve hurt my feelings but I don’t want to inconvenience you or make you feel bad by telling you. Besides, I’m probably just being ridiculous. I want to be sure your feelings aren’t hurt. I can handle anything so it’s better if I hurt than if you hurt.

Refrain.

Refrain.

I need something. Someone to talk to. I’m suffering. I’m not happy. I’m burnt out. My feelings are crushed. Oh, but Dear God, I can’t ask. I would never ask. You need to be a mind reader and know that I’m not doing well. Just like I sense, intuitively, when you’re not doing well. Your intuition should be as developed as mine.

I get nothing. (And yet I’ve asked for nothing.)

I’m hurt.

I withdraw.

I’m done. I sever ties with an x-acto knife and deathly precision.

Myers-Briggs Type INFJ

According to this site, “While instinctively courting the personal and organizational demands continually made upon them by others, at intervals INFJs will suddenly withdraw into themselves, sometimes shutting out even their intimates. This apparent paradox is a necessary escape valve for them, providing both time to rebuild their depleted resources and a filter to prevent the emotional overload to which they are so susceptible as inherent “givers.” As a pattern of behavior, it is perhaps the most confusing aspect of the enigmatic INFJ character to outsiders, and hence the most often misunderstood — particularly by those who have little experience with this rare type.”

The end.

New relationship.

Refrain.

Repeat.

Hamster Wheels

I’m ready to get off the helper hamster wheel, folks. Don’t get me wrong. I love me; my personality; my nature. I own it. It’s what enables me to serve the chock-full-of-Amazeballs clients that I work with. It’s meant that I’ve been a great friend, a great girlfriend, a great human bean (much of the time.)  But it’s also meant that I often feel unfulfilled, empty, alone and miserable.

Why?

Because I expect people to be psychic. I assume people are as intuitive as I am, that they should feel  and sense what I’m feeling like I do for them. I don’t ever ask for what I need. Shit, often I don’t even think about what I need until it’s too late and I realize that my cup is dry as a bone even though I never asked for a drop to parch  my withered soul.

My dear friend, Lissa Rankin, first clued me in to my neurosis when she was talking with me about negotiating sacred contracts. When you’re in a sacred relationship with someone it’s important to ask for what you need, to have permission to say no when the other person asks something of you that doesn’t fill you up, and to practice acceptance when the person you’re asking something of says “no.”

Holy shit, how healthy is that? I hardly knew what to do with myself.  I could see that my relationships, up till then, had been full of my giving to others and their needs and my silence of my own needs.  I realized that, while I was happy to be there for friends who needed me, I had never actually said, “I need for you to listen to me on something I’m going through.” Or… even plainer.  “I need a fairer ratio. We can chat about your ‘issues’ for 45 minutes but I need at least 15 minutes to vent my own frustrations.” No, instead I would sit for hours on the phone, listening and holding sacred space and was lucky if there was a “how are you doing” at all. Even when I was going through big shit in my life. Like when I had just had organs removed and couldn’t sit upright and I didn’t ask to talk about it. Instead I spent three hours listening to the woes of a relationship with an asshole that wasn’t deserving of my friend in the first place.   But… the “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” is on me. Because I never asked. Because I never considered the fact that relationships are simply contracts.  Contracts that need to be negotiated and, over time, renegotiated if they’re to have any shelf life at all.  Wow, people. Big stuff, eh?

I don’t know about you but I’m pulling out my red felt-tip marker and going over my contracts posthaste. What sacred contracts do you need to revise?

The Icy Waters of Online Dating

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I’m exhausted.

And I’ve only been dating online for about three months after taking a three and a half year hiatus from the opposite sex.

The rules have changed, ladies.

About six months ago I created a profile on one of those online dating sites drizzled with pink hearts and percentages of a match to your soul. To me it was the equivalent of placing my toe gingerly back in the icy water – a toe that had been dry, cracked and peeling for quite some time. Within a day I had a number of messages and pulled said toe out of said water so quickly I pulled a muscle in my groin. I wasn’t ready for this. I had no idea how to respond. Hell, I didn’t know if I wanted to respond.

I flitted in and around the site for a few months. Receiving messages, not responding, feeling lost, unsure, scared shitless.

Many of the messages contained little gems like these:

“When I saw your photo, I thought you must be from Pearl Harbor, because you are the bomb!”

Or this one that blew up my ego like a puff fish, “Hey, beautiful. There is no way your are 42, you look like 29” but, alas, deflated, as I couldn’t get over the grievous spelling error.

Or this golden nugget, “You look really cute in your pics. You have a beautiful smile. Tell me… Would you be open for a friend with passionate benefits?”

My favorite might have been this one, “Hi there! Sooooo would u be interested in a good lookin, married 53 yr old for friendship and maybe more???”

Don’t get me wrong there were some nice messages sparsed out among the shite.

Puppy Ebola

I took the leap and went on my first date after conversing back and forth for a month with a witty gentlemen who could spell. We met at a busy dog park and while I held a nugget o’ hope for our meeting there was just no spark. So-Kr8z wasn’t impressed either and ended up contracting a nasty dog virus equivalent to puppy ebola. I broke it off and ran from the icy water clutching So-Kr8z to my heaving bosom. Or not so heaving, as the case may be.

A few months later I peeked back in to see if the water had calmed and found I must have processed a bunch of shit in my dreams because I felt much more prepared. I went out with a sweet 28 year old who appeared to be cultured and just looking for sex over our Thai Basil Chicken.

Next I asked out a guy for the first time in my life. He said yes. My ego and I chuckled at my batting average and we preened, whispering to each other over our cleverness. The conversation, with the guy, not my ego, went something like this:

Me: “Was wondering if you might be interested in grabbing grub or a coffee or some such sometime?”

Cute Tattoo Dude: “Actually, I would really like that. I’m out of pocket but we should figure out a time soon.”

Me: “Sweet. Reach out when you’re able and we’ll figure out some deets.”

*Utter internet silence for six days.* His computer must be broken. Surely.

Cute Tattoo Dude: “Just thought I’d say hello and tell you that I’m really looking forward to finally meeting you next week.”

Me: *shakes head* Am I losing my mind? We didn’t say we were meeting next week did we? After triple checking the email string I wrote, “I’m fairly free next Saturday if that might work with your schedule…”

Cute Tattoo Dude deleted his entire profile.

Batting average not looking so hot after all. I have caused a guy to wholly delete his profile from a major dating site. Props, Melanie.

“Engage!” (uttered in my best Captain Picard imitation)

So… I’ve been trying to engage more in the messages I receive. For example, one bloke wrote me a very nice message that didn’t include the words “Hey gorgeous, how r u?”  After reading his profile and discovering that he’s racist and doesn’t believe in gay marriage I wrote him back, “I feel our values and political differences are too vast, but best of luck to you on here.”

He wrote back, “Oh, I’m so open minded you would be surprised.”

Hmm… yeah, about as open minded as Hitler.

I’m not giving up though, I’m tech savvy and confident I’ll figure it out. I’m not engaging with the asshats or the guys who want to hook up while they’re in town for the weekend.

I even gave one guy my phone number after we’d emailed back and forth and he didn’t appear to be a serial killer looking to shave my head and attach it to his sparse beard before killing me violently. I’ve developed carpal tunnel from the texting. Apparently voice to voice contact is out nowadays, just FYI. Unfortunately, I’m not a big fan of texting. With anyone.  The first few texts are okay if you’re asking quick questions or making plans, but once you reach about text #5 I think you should just pick up the fucking phone and call me. Plus, how do you really gauge a person’s tone or the subtlety of conversation. I know it might seem safer, but man up and dial the number, for the love of God. Texting about your life’s passion and big dreams is like learning to surf on YouTube on the bamboo floor in your living room.

I have a coffee date scheduled with another non-serial-killer type next week. I have one fervent hope for our time together – that he’s able to place his cell phone out of reach while we converse and not play Pop Song the whole time while intermittently texting his mom.

A girl can dream.

How ‘bout you? Are you dipping your toes into the icy waters of internet dating? How’s that working out for ya? Any tips?

Politics, Schmolitics

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I’m about to admit something very un-American.

I hate politics.

I suck at politics.

I don’t understand politics.

I think this began when I was five and I stood in the hallway of our single wide trailer, clutching my Baby Alive with the wet bum (the Baby Alive, not me), and had severe angst as I looked from my father in his recliner to my mom on the sofa. Which one should I kiss goodnight first? It pained me greatly. If I kissed my mom first, I was positive my dad’s feelings would be hurt. If I kissed my dad first, my mom would surely be devastated. I would stand there, vacillating, until one of them would get upset with my stalling. Little did they know the utter discomfort I was feeling as I strangled my plastic doll.

Get Your Fresh, Hot Peanuts

My next experience in politics came when Jimmy Carter was elected. I was seven and I liked Jimmy Carter. Plus, he liked peanuts and so did I. My sister even had a poster of him picking his nose with a caption that said, “Pick a Winner” on her fake wood paneled wall. What I didn’t understand and, frankly, still can’t fathom to this day, was how his State of the Union was wholly picked apart. Talk about sore losers. Dude won, get behind him. He’s there for the next four years. No sense nitpicking every word he says or every thing he tries to do.  But that’s exactly what happened and still happens to this day.

I didn’t understand it then and I certainly don’t get it now. Every positive step a president tries to make is “vetoed” by partisan politics. How does a president get anything done? How is any positive change made at all? Then folks bitch about how awful a president is doing, how they didn’t do shit during their terms, but it feels to me as if their hands are tied to the “skin of dead elephants.” (George R.R. Martin)

Perhaps I’m naïve.

When I was the ripe age of 24 I had climbed quite high on the corporate ladder and traveled to an acquisition in NoWhere, Nevada. I wore tailored khakis, pale pink Izods and maroon loafers because that’s what my sixty year old counterparts wore.  I was a hell of a go-getter but no more well-versed in politics than when I was five.

“Lovely Room of Death”

We had purchased a large outfit in Nowhere, Nevada and my colleagues and I met up at the previous owner’s home for cocktail hour before we headed to a steakhouse to dine and swallow bullshit.  I walked into this man’s home and felt exactly like Jim Carrey of Ace Ventura fame when he strolled into that “lovely room of death”. There were dead, mounted animals. Every. Where. There were swans, and zebras, and cougars, and tigers, and bears, Oh, fucking, my. There were delicate white and brown cranes propped up on their spindly legs. There were tiny black squirrels sitting on their haunches, their tiny paws reaching mid-air for salvation. It didn’t help matters that, at the time, I was chin deep in the study of Native American spirituality and immersed in the qualities of different animals and what they might teach me given their characteristics. I couldn’t say a word. I stood there; disgusted; flabbergasted; wanting to hurl and curl up in a ball of crying mass.

When I got the call that I was fired a few days later I was told that I just didn’t know how to behave properly in situations such as that social hour. I argued that I hadn’t said a word. “Melanie, you didn’t have to say anything. Everyone knew exactly what you were thinking. It was offensive.”  Personally, I thought the taxidermied mammals, rodents, and birds with their black marbles for eyes were way more offensive. But, yeah, at age 24 I didn’t have the ovaries to say what I wanted to say. Something along the lines of, “You sick fuck” and “Get me the hell out of this ginormous room o’ death”, but today, as evidenced by my blog, I’ll pretty much say anything. (Ironic considering I only have one dilapidated ovary left.)

I don’t really know any politicians, though I was among those who saw President Obama at a political rally at Cleveland State. (Swoon.) And… I got to see the chock full of amazeballs Barney Frank, whom I promptly fell in love with as he shared his views on same sex marriage at the hand-in-script series 8.

So… yeah, I may be clueless when it comes to politics and our republic.

But here’s what I do know.

When asshats say things like this, “First of all, from what I understand from doctors [pregnancy from rape] is really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down” (Rep. Todd Akin) I could lose my ever-loving mind.

Or this… perhaps you missed it, as so many have: “Last week, Paul Ryan gave an interview in which, defending his position that there should be no excuses for abortion, he referred to rape as a ‘method of conception.’”  ‘Cause we women prefer rape over condoms.  What?!

Wait, there’s more.  Rep. Tom Smith compared “pregnancy caused by rape to ‘having a baby out of wedlock.’” Yeah, ‘cause that’s just what that’s like.

I may be slow on the political uptake. I may be naïve. I may even be clueless, but I’m not gonna vote for asshats and I certainly don’t want Republicans up in or around my vagina.

While George R.R. Martin was speaking to a different issue there’s no better summation of how I’m feeling than his words, “The people behind these efforts at disenfranchising large groups of voters (the young, the old, the black, the brown) are not Republicans, since clearly they have scant regard for our republic or its values. They are oligarchs and racists clad in the skins of dead elephants.”  These recent ribald and offensive statements around rape fit Martin’s words to a tee. The only thing Martin left out of his statement was “the women.”

Protecting my vagina,

Melanie

What I Learned from Falling in Love…

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“Gamble everything for love, if you’re a true human being. If not, leave this gathering. Half-heartedness doesn’t reach into majesty. You set out to find God, but then you keep stopping for long periods at mean-spirited roadhouses.” Rumi

You can try to avoid love all you want. You can decide you’re not ready to date after an OkCupid meet-up gone horribly meh. You can hole yourself up in your house, working like a fiend, watching reruns of Frasier, reading Fifty Shades of Grey and Rumi, eating buttered noodles and asparagus, and love will come knocking on your mother-fucking door anyway. Literally.

“Knock-knock, Motherfucker.” Or… in my case: Ding. Dong, Motherfucker.

Once you’ve opened the door you have to just let it in. Grab that dusty toolbox from the garage and keep those pliers handy because you’ve got to keep your heart open. I don’t care how often and deeply your heart has been broken in the past. I don’t care if you’ve been married twelve times to raging, abusive meth addicts. Those exes are not this new guy. No projection. No clamming up. No shutting down. Take those pliers and pry your heart open. Clamp it with a cold metal speculum. Use duct tape if you have to. Keep your heart open when he doesn’t text. Keep it open when you’re getting mixed signals. Keep it open when he’s reminding you of your past dudes. Keep it open when it feels safer to lock ‘er back up.

All relationships will hurt. Even if you’re dating Mister Rogers of the neatly folded sweaters and soothing carmel-coated voice. You still might trip over his well-placed black dress shoes. He still might tell you he’s feeling conflicted and unsure about the depths of his love for his ex; the utter opposite of you on the human scale. He might decide that your lack of sheep’s clothing, abundance of tattoos, and devil may care attitude aren’t for him. The fact that you jump in rain puddles might freak him out. Your adventurous spirit in bed might send him running to a shower of holy water and bended knees at the altar.

Connections may not mean to him what they mean to you. You may see the magic and wonder in your meeting. You may be floored by the way you’re already finishing each other’s sentences and have the exact same favorite food and how you orgasm at the exact same nanosecond. You may feel the tingly bits of electricity when you touch, you may marvel at this soul that feels like a comfortable, worn-in pair of Converse that you’ve walked in for a thousand years. Honoring that connection and being fully present in the gifts of connection may be totally lost on the other person. Or, they make recognize it and give a voice to it but, let me tell you, it takes a certain size of balls and ovaries to give yourself over to that connection – to ride it out. Taking the comfortable road of known paths, free of briars and brambles, with a topological map may feel more safe for him. The fact that you’re wearing your purple galoshes and a blue peacoat, standing on the edge of a precipice so you can jump when you hear the call of the wind doesn’t mean he’s willing to do the same.

All relationships will end in hurt. Forget the connection, forget the love, forget the feelings. Let’s even say you reside in the relationship for fifty-plus years. Eventually one of you will die. It could happen tomorrow. There are no guarantees. There’s no “100% organic, certified safe” stamp on a relationship. Whether it lasts ten days or ten years or ten decades it’s going to end in hurt. If you’re trying to protect your gonads with a dixie cup you’re gonna fail. If you’re trying to play it safe in case it doesn’t end well, it’s still going to hurt. As Mirabelle Buttersfield says in “Shopgirl” it’s a simple choice, “Hurt now or hurt later.”

Once the connection is severed and the relationship has inevitably ended in hurt and pain there are a few things that are vastly helpful in getting over it.

  • Now that you’ve let go and are out of the haze o’ love think about all the reasons you’re not right for each other. Suddenly remember how utterly perfect the Universe is – how it brings people into your life as a mirror. Stare hard at the reflection. Note the water spots. Learn. Grow like a stink weed. Be grateful that this person who didn’t work out, didn’t work out. Sappy, yes, but everything happens for a reason.  As Lissa Rankin says, “You may be asking the Universe for a Pinto when the Universe is trying to give you a Rolls Royce.” Aren’t you glad the Universe didn’t let you keep that Pinto? That shit blows up when you hit the backend even slightly. You don’t want someone who can’t handle a bit o’ rear end action. You don’t want to end up with someone who crumbles at the slightest ping of life. Right? Of course, right.
  • Thank him for breaking you open. Thank him for ringing that mother-fucking doorbell because the fact that you opened it means you’re ready. It means you’re not dead, cold, and entering the beginning stages of rigor mortis. It means that love is still out there for you. It means that despite the reruns of Frasier, buttered noodles and asparagus you can still feel deeply.  You’ve been shaken loose. Be grateful. Be YOU at the expense of loss. Get clear on what you want and then embody that. Attract someone with the hugest set of balls you’ve ever seen. Find someone who honors connection.
  • Listen to music, particularly Sade. Cry over love songs. Revel in the feelings of heartache. Read Rumi. Watch sappy romances. Fantasize about Johnny Depp. Join a trapeze class. Wake up. Love YOU more than you loved that other person.  Hold yourself tight and drink in the gorgeous soul that is you with your unique traits and attributes that someone else will someday truly appreciate. But… you don’t need that. Appreciate you yourself. Fall in love again. With YOU.

Whatever you do, keep those tools handy, you never know when love’ll come ’round again.

With a crowbar,

Melanie

Birthing a New Me

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There’s a change a brewin’ in me, folks.

And… it’s felt about as fluid and graceful as when Jim Carey of Ace Ventura fame was birthed from a large, plastic rhinoceros arse. My facial expressions and utterances are the same.

I’m on the lookout for something different; something big. I’m waiting to embrace change as enthusiastically as I’d embrace the return of the buoyancy of my breasts.

Trade Winds

You see, I haven’t felt very connected as of late. Hell, I haven’t felt connected for a good seven plus years. It’s more like I’ve been sort of floating around, willy-nilly, on a trade wind from the Caribbean. But, you know that feeling I’m talking about, right? When you feel that indescribable joy, feeling of connection, and clarity of purpose and path in every bone in your body; when you just know you’re onto something big and it swells you, you feel lighter, and you physically see more clearly?

I was talking with a friend about this feeling of connectedness recently. I told him that I haven’t felt that feeling since I moved to Cleveland. I was trying to noodle out with him what that was about. I think it started with an emergency surgery I had for my Stage IV Endometriosis. I was married to a wonderful man but we just had nothing to work toward together. We didn’t have much in common, we were just sort of going through the motions of existence, neither happy, nor sad, but simply content and comfortable. I hadn’t been happy for the last six years of my marriage. I think that surgery and subsequent recovery awoke something within me – a will to live; a will for more than just existence and comfort. I left my ten year marriage, I left my family and friends, I left my home and traipsed across the country with 30 boxes of books, a twin mattress, and a couple of bookshelves. I had never felt more alive. It’s as if my vision, normally 20/40 had returned to 20/20. I’d never felt more clearly set upon my path nor more full of joy.

Blowin’ About

It lasted for a good three years too. During that time I traveled to Europe, New York City, South Beach, Folly Beach, Ottawa, Chicago, Detroit, Toronto, Pennsylvania and a few places I can’t even remember. I dove out of a plane. I learned to snowboard. I got up on a surf board. I went to hundreds of concerts and met thousands of people. Literally.

What my friend and I decided was that when you’re taking risks, when you’re stepping out of your comfort zone, you’re naturally more connected. When you’re shaking things up in your life you’re truly living in the NOW. You’re not focusing on the past or the future. I challenge you to take your first dive out of an airplane while retaining thoughts of Aunt Hester smacking you as a child with her bejeweled ruby handbag. It’s not possible.

It’s the same for travel. When you’re in a wholly new environment you’re bombarded with new senses and sensations; things you’ve never seen, heard, or felt. It’s difficult to focus on the mundane or worry the past or future when you’re in a new setting. I think this may be why folks are addicted to extreme sports. Who has time to worry about the state of their stocks and the market when they’re barreling down a mountain on a piece of wood?

There are other ways to stay in the NOW but my meditation pillow is musty and I’m no Deepak Chopra. Yet.

Turning the Fan on Low

For now, I’m making baby steps. I’m not just sitting around waiting to be blown about by that nor’easter. I may not be moving 2,000 miles away, jumping out of a tiny plane at 11,000 feet, or traveling to Bali, but I’m doing what I can.

For example, since I was fifteen years old I’ve had long hair. Why fifteen? Because that’s how long it took to grow back after my mom decided I would look adorable with a Dorothy Hamill haircut for my entire childhood. I loathed it. It was like a bowl cut, only with a gargantuan bowl. Detest is probably a better word, in fact. Every time I sat in that stylist’s chair I cried big, fat tears and my tiny heart would break thinking about Julie Wood and her long yellow tresses. I swore that I would never have short hair again. And now, at 41, I’m seriously thinking about chopping off my hair. No, not a Dorothy Hamill. Something funky and chic and different. I’ve oft wondered if hair holds memory and toxins. If it does mine is full o’ guilt, shame, Jaeger and Beam. I want to lighten my load. I want to shock myself. I just hope I don’t cry while I’m in the chair with visions of Dorothy skating through my head.

Next up are three tattoos. Big ones.  Not like the little heart with a ball and chain that I got on my ankle when I was 19 and couldn’t commit. My second, back in 2002, was a piece of art I fell in love by a Japanese artist. Since that time I’ve fallen in love with various pieces of art, some of which I’ve gotten tattoos of, but until 3 years ago they were in more inconspicuous places. Now I have a large upper arm piece but I want more. So I’ve searched high and low to find the right artist here in Utah and these three super meaningful pieces of artwork will soon be on my chest and arms. It struck me the other day that I’m going to miss this body when I pass on because of all this gorgeous artwork by some of the most amazing tattoo artists around.

I’m also searching for a Yoga retreat that I can steal away to calm my monkey brain, get a tad of Zen, try to stretch my unused muscles and pat the must out of my meditation pillow.

Is this stuff superficial? Outer reflection? Surface?  Yup… but it’s the only place I can think of to begin to express what’s brewin’ within. I can’t seem to crack the inner. The deep. The buried. Yet. But I can feel it in there. Waiting. Biding its time to become. Birthing a new me, head first, from that proverbial plastic rhinoceros ass.

Seeing Red: How to REALLY Deal with Anger

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I have been full of rage lately.

Unexplainable-chili-pepper-hot-blown-out-of-proportion anger over trifles.

I’m pissed about burnt English Muffin toast.

I’m livid over the fact that I unsubscribed from HBO right before season 2 of Game of Thrones began.

I’m fuming over abysmally written novels that I’ve wasted half an hour on before I toss them out of my third floor window.

I want to mentally throw lukewarm Red Ginger tea in the face of folks on Facebook who act completely fake from the person I know them to be in the real world; people who write incessantly about helping others but don’t actually lift a manicured finger to do so.  Peeps who write about the importance of friendship but suck at it. Read more

On Death & the Next Grand Adventure (Oh, and Bilbo Baggins)

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I had an epiphany this morn. Like a choking on a slurp of my Ginger Red tea kind of epiphany.

I am Bilbo Baggins.

It all started with this

There was a study released recently that you are what you read. A scary proposition, eh, and I don’t know about you but I’m not particularly keen to become anything like Pap Finn, Iago, Sauron, Satan, Voldemort or Grendel. Plus, unlike Bilbo, I’m really not short. I don’t puff on a pipe (though I did once when I was fifteen and having a nicotine fit.) I do, however, shave the little wisps of hair on my big toes, but I most definitely don’t have hair in my ears. Yet.

I don’t know if I was Bilbo before I read The Hobbit or after. But, there’s really no question that I am Bilbo Baggins. Bear with me and I’ll explain. Read more