Is Honesty the Best Policy in New Relationships?

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If you’ve ever been in a relationship that has ended you’ve probably heard the infamous words, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Most folks think this phrase is bullshit.  I wholeheartedly disagree. In fact, I would say that 95% of the time truer words have never been uttered.

Perhaps the reason most folks have such a hard time believing that it’s not about them is because they can’t imagine that there is anything in this world that is not about them. They think it must surely be that they suck, that they’re not lovable, that they’re not interesting, that they’re not attractive enough, that they’re not good enough, that they’re not… blah, blah, blah.  That’s all ego.

I am here to shed some light, speak my truth, and set the record straight.  When I say, “it’s not you, it’s me” I mean it from the depths of my ever-lasting soul. Read more

The Initiation of a Kennel Mom – Part Deux

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I wondered briefly, before settling in to write this, if folks are tired of hearing about my pup; bored with seeing pictures, of hearing tales about steer pizzle, or of listening to my worries and I decided that I really don’t care. For the past twenty some years I’ve been a cheerleader for all of my friend’s little human children, I’ve been a sounding board for their fears in regards to said children, my photo albums are filled with their pictures with missing front teeth, my fridge bears witness to their accomplishments with crayon. I’ve been happy to be there, thrilled to be witness, excited to watch these tiny folks grow and learn, but today is my day.

If you recall I wrote a piece a while back that dealt with the fears and needs of a newbie kennel mom. I am no longer a new parent. I’ve been around the block, (literally about four thousand times), and I’ve learned a thing or two. Read more

The Means to Flush

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Who travels to Europe and spends as much time perusing the water closets as they do roaming through the Duomo of Milano? Well, I do. Perhaps it goes back to my nomadic youth traveling across the Western states. It wasn’t that I really couldn’t hold it for another half an hour before visiting the next toilet, and it certainly wasn’t a bladder control problem. Looking back I think it was my way of combating boredom. Breaking up the monotony of staring at the back of the same red leather seat in my folks’ Chrysler, of seeing herd after herd of antelope, of counting license plates from different states, and of fighting ferociously with my older, larger sister for my rightful half of the back seat. Bathrooms were the focal points of my journeys, especially on our twelve hour trips to Utah twice each year. My step-father boasted, often with disdain, that I knew every single bathroom on that twelve hour trek. It was true. There was a certain comfort, and a mile marker all my own, when we would arrive in Evanston, Wyoming and pull up to that dingy Shell station because I knew that inside of that greying building there was housed the only cushy, padded toilet seat of its kind. Or at least it had been my vast toilette knowledge to know. Read more

LeBron James: On Following Dreams

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I would not call myself a sports enthusiast. My limited participation involves cold Sunday afternoons when I turn on a football game so that I can take a nap. It’s a comfort thing. There’s usually roast beast simmering in a fruity Pinot Noir in the oven, flakes of snow tumbling down outside the window, and me curled up on the couch. I turn the volume down low and doze to the sounds of whistles and that same cadence of the commentator’s voice that I’ve been hearing for the past thirty-some years (with the exception of Howard Cosell, of course).

“The Decision”

However, Thursday night I consciously tuned into ESPN (with the volume up) to watch (and hear) LeBron James make “The Decision.” You see, I’m from Cleveland, which is a city that has been on more Forbes.com “Worst Cities” lists than you can fathom: America’s Fastest-Dying City, America’s Most Miserable City, America’s Worst Winter Weather City… While I may not watch LeBron break records or win games each time he plays, I do have a vested interest in what he means to our city. Well, apparently… what he meant to our city. Read more

“Living” with Endometriosis

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Before you go running for the antibacterial wipes I just want to let you know that I’m not contagious. What I have is not catching. What I’m about to relay will not travel through your computer’s innards as a deadly Trojan virus or spread through the air like an uncovered sneeze. It’s called stage IV endometriosis and according to the information traffic jam, over 70 million women around the world live with it every day and, I’m guessing another 50 million or so women don’t even know they have it. Those women are probably lying on the bathroom floor right now, gritting their teeth, clutching their wombs while saying, “What the Fuck!?” and praying for the strength to live through the next couple of days.

So what is endometriosis?

I usually tell people, strictly out of exhaustion, that it’s a “girlie” disease. This comes from being raised in a household where you don’t talk about stuff like this. If by some circumstance of extreme horror a particularly cute boy asks, I worry that he thinks I have funky bacteria of the hoo-ha and imagine him running home to Google. A medical professional might say something resembling a foreign language like, “endometriosis is a disease in which the lining of the uterus grows outside of the uterus so that when one menstruates this displaced tissue bleeds as well, but has nowhere to go, thereby causing pain, infertility and various other problems.” Read more

IMHO, FML is WACK

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This morning, just like every morning, I stumbled to my coffee pot to prepare a large carafe of caffeine.  I laid my head on the counter for seven minutes as it brewed, poured myself a large cup, threw in a couple heaping spoons of hot cocoa mix, and walked back to my computer to peruse my social media – the only thing I can handle before at least two cups of my brown solace.  The first thing I read went something like this, “I was late for work again, FML.”

“FML.”  Really?  Over being late you’re going to tell the universe to F*)# your life?  I’ve been seeing this phrase a lot lately and I have to say I take serious issue with it.  I’m just fine with a bit of WTF? I WTF? all over the place.  But IMHO saying FML is causing some serious damage when our thoughts create our reality. Read more

Bestseller or Bargain Bin: The Stories We Tell About Ourselves

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I’m a storyteller.  I tell stories.  Recently, however, I’ve been thinking about a different type of tale; the one I’m telling myself daily about me and my life.  This got me to thinking.  Am I in a comedy or a tragedy; a fairy tale or a mystery?  And like my fiction writing, do I have some semblance of control over setting, plot, characterization, pacing, and theme?

First of all, let’s meet the protagonist of my story: me.  After the required number of years of self-doubt I’m finally coming into myself and have discovered that I’m a pretty great character.  I’m compassionate and caring.  I’m fiercely loyal.  I’m an avid listener.  While a bit of a loner, I do shower every so often and leave my apartment to forage for food.  I try to pay attention to the universe, and when attacked by a red-winged blackbird I try to figure out what it’s trying to tell me.  I can be selfish when it comes to living my best life and I’ve learned to say no –  to disappoint others in an effort to be true to myself.  I’m a girl who will leave her home and her family to move three thousand miles away when I feel the nudge from my Creator.  I hate broccoli.  I enjoyed diving out of a plane. Read more

Steer Pizzle: The Initiation of a Kennel Mom

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I don’t know if I’m prepared for motherhood.  In fact, I think it’s safe to say I’m fairly freaked out.  It’s been thirteen years since I’ve had a wee one romping around the house and let me tell you, it’s a whole new world in the realm of puppy parenting.

My first indication of unpreparedness came when I visited PetSmart for the first time in a decade.  I walked into the fluorescent lit store, the white tiles stained yellow from those pups that came before me, and went in search of dog food.  It was insane – three thousand  square feet of choice.  Never before had I seen so many varieties, sizes, and flavors of pup food:  organic, all natural, made with real chicken, real beef, real liver, hormone-free, gluten-free.  I was overwhelmed.  I don’t have this many options when I go to my local grocer looking for a frozen pizza or a bag of lettuce.  What would I buy?  Things had definitely changed from the days when I went in to a pet store and had the one choice of Purina Puppy Chow.  Four hundred dollars later I left the store with “all-natural” kibble, organic pet treats, gluten free chews, and toys made out of “safe plastic”, whatever that is.   I had no idea what I was doing or what I was buying. Read more

You Won’t Find Your Inner Child on a Milk Carton

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Dedicated to Jen Lyman – May you find your Selves and gather them together in love and safety and may you wholly heal, both inside and out.

I was told recently that part of me is missing.  I wondered, what exactly does that mean?  I have all of my limbs, my digits, my hair, though I am short a few internal organs.  So hey, perhaps I am a bit disjointed.  Aren’t we all?  Apparently I misunderstood.  I was told instead to imagine that we each have a number of different selves within us determined by how long we’ve lived and depending on our life experiences.  Say, for me, I have five selves.  (God forbid I’ve left any out.)  For example, I have myself as a child, a teenager, a married self, a divorced self, and my current self.  Well, unbeknownst to me, my inner child is on the lamb. Read more

meh. A Quest for Mojo

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I recently lost my mojo.   I don’t know what else to call it but, as I’ve been devouring the contents of the Owning Pink website recently, I’ve decided that they are on to something BIG.  Mojo means different things to different people.  According to Owning Pink, for some, mojo is sexual, for some, mojo is being present in the now.  For me mojo is that inner glow, the one you often see on pregnant ladies.  Mojo is that smile inside of you that shows on the outside.  It’s that inner spark, that feeling of connection to everything and everyone around you.  It’s feeling truly alive.  When you’ve lost it, things feel gray and dingy and it’s as if that tinge of hope within has buried itself somewhere and is too busy licking its wounds to present itself.

After days of blah and meh, I wasn’t sure what to do and, damned if it isn’t superficial, I dashed to my black Beetle and raced to the salon.  Once there I hobbled up to the counter, my pasty skin stretched into a grimace, with hair that looked like the end of a Q-tip that’s been hanging out in the bottom of my travel case since a European vacation in 2004.  I asked for my stylist Nicolette.  The receptionist’s pink and tan glow hid what I imagined was her own grimace at my pallid state and said, “Have a seat, she’ll be right with you.”  As I looked around the salon I saw smiling faces, heard endless chatter, I saw hot pink highlights with streaks of robin egg blue, I saw people glowing, and not from some radioactive hair gel. Read more