Tag Archives: postaday

f*ck you carrie bradshaw

 

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I hate you, Carrie Bradshaw. I hate that we have the same problems, date the same shitty men, that you have a closet full of Manolo Blahniks and I have to budget in my Jimmy Choos.

This is not a rant but could easily turn into one.

He broke up with me on a post-it.” ~ Carrie Bradshaw.

My dating life is a series of Carrie Bradshaw quotes, if a very short email is the electronic equivalent of a post-it. Let’s just say, for the sake of my non-rant that it is considered to be the truth in all varying forms of reality. I’m also the writer which means that I get to pick whatever direction this goes. So…

Most men would raise a brow, or roll their eyes, or make some sort of facial gesture (with or without hand involvement) to the Sex And The City reference, in which case, I would like to make two quick points.

1. I’m not writing this for you.

2. It is our femininity, the yin/yang that attracted you to us in the first place.

I think we can just leave this first quote as is, ladies. I received a short and sweet email. No phone call, no face to face, no balls. Make no mistake, there was a part of me that wanted to respond, and a part of me that wanted to light a cigarette. Part of me had a dent in my heart that only his smile, and the way it felt when he held me, could fix. And yet there was another part of me that started to question my actions, my looks, even myself.

When the questioning starts, all kinds of terrible things can happen. Don’t go there.

“When it comes to life and love, why do we believe our worst reviews?”

If you’re anything like me, you’ve either completely ignored my “don’t go there”, or worse, you think… I’m different. I can handle this. It’s a growth spurt of self-analysis. Sure it is, sugar puff. If we continue to question ourselves, a certain phenomenon can occur.

This phenomenon begins with a very tiny speck of a thought. When I say tiny, I’m talking as close as you can become to non-existent without actually being invisible. You’ll suddenly remember your “him” saying something that was completely harmless at the time, and not intended to be anything malicious. You’ll remember him asking, “Hey, what happened to that black dress you wore when we went to (insert name of place)?” Here’s where it gets tricky. Your next thought is… did he only like me in black?… maybe I didn’t wear enough black… he hated the way I dress… black is slimming… he thinks I’m fat… he dumped me because I’m fat… oh god… this is ridiculous, I can’t believe I’m even thinking something so stupid… fuck, he thinks I’m stupid… I need to buy more black…

See what I mean? The thoughts are certainly ugly ladies, but you aren’t.

“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate.”

Ever meet Mr. Could Be Right while pining over Mr. Wrong? Don’t worry… you will.

There is one thing through all of the trials and tribulations of the heart and the penis that remains intact. And that thing is my dignity. That doesn’t mean that my pillow won’t be stained with mascara when I try to sleep tonight, but it will be a dignified cry. Such a thing must exist… right? (holds head up in gesture)

Maybe you’re only allotted a certain amount of tears per man, and I’ve used mine up.”

Sometimes tears are messy. Sometimes they are soulful. Sometimes they start to roll down your cheek before you even know what hit you.

As I’ve expressed, my pillow will more than likely see some tears, as they have been intermittent post email. There’s some venting in front of me. My tear quota has not been reached… yet. Which brings me to my Mr. Big.

My Big story did not end the same way that it did in the movie. I know! I was just as surprised as you are. Everything up to the actual public acknowledgement of a real relationship was spot on though. The break ups, the tears, the love, the passion, the tears, the laughter, the tears, the pain, the lies, the tears, the cheating; I married someone else, divorced someone else, dated Big again, more tears… that was all the same. It was cut you to the bone awful.

My Big and I definitely needed a new word for “over.”

The last time I found myself hurt by him there were no tears. I literally couldn’t cry. Not one more drop. That was one year ago and that was the day I knew over was really over.

“After a break-up, certain streets, locations, even times of day are off limits. The city becomes a deserted battlefield, loaded with emotional landmines. You have to be very careful where you step or you could get blown to pieces.”

Anyone else narrow their “spectrum of living” grid to a minimum? (Because what you really are gunning for is seeing your ex with someone else… something that’s only a touch more fun than peeling your own skin off.)

Even driving holds the potential for a disaster on two to four tires. Have you ever noticed when you are going through a break-up that suddenly everyone drives the same car as your ex? It could be the most random car ever, but suddenly everyone is driving a 1982 fucking Fiat. What is that, exactly?

“I don’t understand this. I get mugged and you get him? Maybe that’s just my karma.”

My friends that know me well have all heard me say at one time or another, “in a past life I must have killed an ex by running him over with my car. My guy luck and my car luck are the same. They both suck.” I think that statement may just wrap that quote up in a nice little package. Yes?
This brings me to the last quote, and this quote may be the most important of all. It wasn’t Carrie, but Samantha Jones.

So not sexy honey. Dump him immediately, here use my cell phone.”

You see, no matter what you’ve experienced in matters of the heart, no matter how many times it has been broken or how long you were seeing him, no matter how deeply you loved or if it was a new flicker of hope that got extinguished before it’s time, we need our friends to get us through. I hope you all have a Samantha.

We need to laugh, and laugh at ourselves. Find the humor, and most of all find what you need inside yourself.

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january 1, 2015

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I spent the first morning of 2015 handing out socks, water and cookies with Brian. We met a man named Jesse who broke my heart open. Jesse was sitting on 6th Street in a box facing the sun on a day when the warmth was needed. Jesse is fighting diabetes with full blown aids. His wish is to not be in pain every day. It’s been nine years since he had a day without it.

As we drove down the streets filled with pigeons and lined with homes built from trash, I knew that there was no other way to start the year.

It is so easy to compare, so natural to have expectations. Instead of contemplating which movie I would see this weekend I thought of this country and how it could allow this. How can so many be on the street, be in pain with no medical care because they get dropped from the system…It’s sickening. These people are no different than anyone else. Some are there because of illness, some were heroes. Some are there due to circumstance and fear of limitations. Yes, some by choice….but those are the exception.

If we all could take a minute….just one day….just to give. It took ten dollars and 90 minutes to give. Even if what you do is say a prayer instead of roll up your window the next time you seem a person less fortunate, that is enough. It all starts with a seed of hope. Everyone can find something to be grateful for, as I heard today on the streets. Take this year to love and appreciate. If nothing else, be grateful and know that you are blessed.

I wish you all everything you dream of.

 

 


truth

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to my fellow writers

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Last night I was inspired to speak, in the ways that I know how. I was reminded what it means to be a writer. I was reminded of who we actually are. I was reminded that we have no fear where a blank page is concerned. Give me scraps, canvas, bar napkins…I will write on your wall if I’m left with enough chalk.

We are driven by our passion…an innate need to tell a story. To touch someone, move them, help them….drive them. I see in words, in punctuation, in quotes.I see in script and type. I see stories everywhere I look. My eyes widen like a child’s…and it was during my childhood that I first wanted a muse. I don’t want to kill the mood, but I was watching Xanudu.

I even dream in stories; bright beautiful full stories. Last night I was reminded of this one…It woke me out of a deep sleep one night. I immediately grabbed the nearest tool, which happened to be eyeliner. It is a description of a lifetime with a man……My dream was set in a small town in Italy in the 1700’s. He was a painter, she was his muse.

It seemed easier then, you know, hidden away in the hills of our place.
“You are my muse”, he said.
“You are my heart”, she whispered.
Hours and hours, days upon days buried under pain and the promise of betrayal, I watched him work. Longing for our worlds to intertwine beyond the canvas and the sunset.

I do not remember the past clearly but as I woke this morning my eyes opened for the first time. Antiqued shards of pain wiped away as I thought of you. ….again.
“You empower me”, he said.
“You heal me”, she whispered.
To no longer battle time….It is infinate freedom. It is infinate spirit. Mirrors form a true reflection and I catch a glimpse of hope. Your hand brushes against mine and I remember. Your gaze locks mine and I feel. Your lips touch my mouth and I realize…you have always been my beloved.

I had challenges artistically when I was younger. My mother and father were not a fan of my artistic (endeavors? desires?  need? ). It wasn’t becuase they did not support me. They are old school. They believe in tangible skills. Degrees. Paper proof. They could not understand my need to create.

I went down every avenue. Acting, fashion, painting, every medium was a new adventure. I used to wrap myself in bath sheets when I was seven and parade my latest design for my mom. I couldn’t stop it, even then. It was a drive I was unable to control.

They encouraged me, but I knew they wanted  more….perhaps an interest in math? That remained their hope for me, until I wrote. I can still remember my mom telling me that she cried every time I gave her a birthday card or anniversary card. She would always say You write so beautifully. You should write for Hallmark. It still makes me smile.

We, as artists, know the power of words, and that power is, ironically, the only thing that ever slows me down. It scares me ever so slightly. That and perhaps my muse takes too many smoke breaks. My muse is not that robey Grecian chick on roller skates. They are my fellow writers, my soul mates, the man who cracks my armor. The ones who will listen to me vent and laugh, cry. They watch me fear and love unconditionally.

I’m sure you’re wondering why this power frightens me? It should be cherished. Shouldn’t it? It is because words can be misconstrued, twisted into ugly horrible things. They can cause the kind of pain that will cut your heart open. I cannot think and write at the same time. I must relinquish my thoughts and just keep going. If I say this will I hurt you? If I say this will you mistake it for opening my soul? Will my true self frighten you? Every word I type is vulnerable. Everything I write is a piece of me.

Perhaps I’ve offended some, certainly not intended in a hurtful or cruel manner, but every writer likes a good bout of controversy every now and again.

I am a writer. I am a creator. Some days I create pure shit. This is all a process. I don’t know if you are an artist, if you have all of our muses hidden in your closet or in a roller rink somewhere…. if you do please let them out (if only for coffee and some light conversation).

I do know this: As artists the only wrong we can do is to judge ourselves. We all have our uniqueness, qualities unlike any other. We all share a passion. So pick up your tool, your paint brush, pen, camera, your guitar with the missing e string. Get your hands dirty. Resist nothing.

Love each other, support one another and find your muse in everyone.


Create a miracle. Change your perception.

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gratitude

Thank you Facebook for finally catching on. I was over posts of food pictures the first time I saw one. I’d much prefer the use of media to be positive. Perhaps if we all focused on posting things that are of substance, we might actually be the change we want to see in the world. Instead of hitting on people you knew ten years ago or sharing the horrors, we can collectively share some joy.

I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised that social media would take a hot minute to catch on to the happy posts. It took me years to learn that expressing gratitude can make such a huge difference in me, my life and the world.

Did I always have things to be grateful for? Sure did.

Was I happy? Yes.

Did I always express them? No.

My prayers were always a laundry list of wants. Every day was like a wish list. (I didn’t actually pray every day.) Then there were the bargaining prayers: God if you give me ______ I will never ______. Or I’ll change this if you ________(fill in the blank).

What was I thinking?

I was thinking I was 17 and I wanted a BMW. That’s what. I wondered why I still felt empty inside. I’m grateful today for my awareness—I’m grateful for much than I can type in 900 words.

Trying to find something to be grateful for every day is something I’ve found indispensable to me. I wonder what would happen if everyone did this every day?

Here’s what a daily list does for me…and I’ve been doing it for over 20 years.

It allows a shift in my perception. It allows me to see the good in things—and when I focus on the good how can I manifest the bad?

I suppose it could happen but since I’m not dabbling in black magic or conjuring demons I’m going to with it won’t.

My life isn’t perfect. It has it’s ups and downs…financial struggles…financial gains…matters of the heart happen…then don’t happen…then happen again. I have been through health issues, loss, and traumas.

I’ve been fortunate to overcome them.

I was a female Johnny Cash—I had the dress in black thing down. My life was four seconds away from becoming a bad country song. I was so negative; now, I see it in others. I see it in friend’s faces. I see it on my Facebook feed. I see the doubt, worry, concern. Some fears are realistic and need to be addressed but those aren’t the ones I mean. I’m talking about the tiny speck of a fear that can snowball out of control until you feel paralyzed.

I don’t like the snow. I don’t want to build a snow fort. And although I don’t have a fireplace, I do have heat and I’m thankful for that.

I still have fear, I still have doubts—believe me. Earlier today, I was forced to say an out loud, on the spot gratitude list while driving. (Yes, I was indeed talking to myself in the car like Suzy Banana Cakes.) The list allowed me to take a deep breath and stay away from that fucking snowball.

Ironically, this weekend will be the coldest we have had thus far.

Finding things to be grateful for every day has given me the gift of leaning towards faith—well, not every moment—but a really good part of the time. Every so often I need a tiny kick in the shin over to get me to cross that invisible line I’ve drawn between fear and faith. As I said, negative Nancy. Totally present and waiting for misery. That was my M.O.

I am able now, when something is removed from my life, to see a bit of the bigger picture. Instead of mourning or grieving that thing that was removed, I see hope and potential. I see opportunity. Sometimes this process involves meditation. Other times it involves chocolate and dancing alone in my living room with a paper towel roll as a microphone. (Don’t judge.)

At the end of it all, I get to see the universe pushing me to take a chance instead of wondering why I am being punished.

I am no spiritual leader—I’m just a woman trying to make it through this weird, crazy and blessed life. I battle every day with my demons. When I stay in gratitude, this bizzare phenomenon that I choose to call faith, the fight can be won.

I challenge you to find five things to be grateful for.

They don’t have to be huge. As I said, it’s about perspective. Post them here in the comments if you want—I’d honestly love to see a thread of pure appreciation. How cool would that be?

I’ll throw you five of mine, vulnerability and all:

I’m grateful that my father is cancer-free and that I get to be his daughter.

I’m grateful that I no longer live by my intentions.

I’m grateful that even on days that terrify me, I can still muster up some sort of faith.

I’m grateful that I have a place to share my experience…that every so often, I’m left a comment that my words have helped someone.

I’m grateful for my best friend; for her support, her strength, and for being there for me for the past 18 years.

My hope for you is that you find that comfort in thankfulness and live in that state of being as often as you can.


my father is cancer free

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“There is no cancer in your body.”

Those were the words my father’s doctor spoke at his follow up last week.

There are no cells left.

I hadn’t seen my parents for quite some time—I’ll admit, it was way too long. I recently moved closer to them; it wasn’t necessarily out of concern, but it was important to me to be closer than a five hour flight.

My father has gotten in to the habit of scaring us—us being his family. He had three visits to the emergency room this year. The first time he was complaining of stomach problems; it turned out his appendix was about to rupture. They kept him for surgery.

The second time was in Paris. He fell, hit his head and need stitches. (I should interject that my parents are adorable. My mom told my dad at age 74 she had never seen Paris. He took her. They still go on dates and he still buys her flowers after 54 years of marriage. I love what they have.)

His next trip to the ER, he was complaining of headaches. It turns out that they never did an MRI in Paris. He had a subdural hematoma from the fall and once more, he ended up in emergency surgery. His complaint while healing in ICU was that he looked like Herman Munster.

My dad has always had a dry sense of humor. My brother and I grew up on Monty Python and Masterpiece Theatre. Truth be told, I never made it all the way though an episode of MasterpieceTheatre back then. I was eight. I inherited the same humor. My father and I can banter for days…and no matter what he goes through I will never stop trying to get a laugh out of him.

It was at this point I said to him, Hey Dad…you’re allowed three scares a year. Knock it off. You’ve met your quota.

Last month I went up to visit them for a family event. One of my favorite things to listen to is my dad telling stories about his childhood, more specifically my grandfather. I love my father’s stories. I love history. I soak it up like a sponge…I digress.

I went back home with my parents after the second party. The three of us reminisced for a while before my mom went to bed. And then my father sat me down at the kitchen table. In my family, when someone your senior asks you to sit down, it is typically not good news. It was always one of three things: I was grounded, I was about to hear something that could potentially traumatize me, or someone had died. Since I hadn’t skipped school in over 20 years, my heart lodged itself in my throat.

This time was no different. My father told me that when they had taken part of his appendix out, they found cancer cells in the part that was removed. I do not know all the technical terms, nor do I care.

The moment I heard the word cancer, memories with my father flooded my head.

I recalled my father teaching me how to ride a bike and the sound of my own laughter when I peeked behind me and realized I was half way down the street..the vacations spent in Pennsylvania in our cabin. His signing me up for the summer camp program that his company offered. It was for children with special needs.

Sure, there was an indoor and outdoor pool, there were also peers that needed me. I promise you that I learned much more from them than I could have possibly given. My father, in his infinite wisdom, taught me that summer that everyone is special. He taught me that anyone can learn from another human being. I thought of our family Thanksgivings which were always held at my house. There were never less than 25 family members and as my mom calls them, the strays (aka my friends who always stopped by.) They were always welcome.

I sat at that table, scared. I was angry that they had known for three months and didn’t say anything. I stared at my father, my eyes as big as saucers and lined with tears. He sat to my right with his head lowered as he spoke. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. They knew I would have spent every dime I had just to get on a plane the moment they told me.

He continued:When they removed the appendix, the doctors found what they call carcinoid cells. The surgery is on Thursday. They are removing the rest of the appendix, and part of the colon as a prevention. While I’m under they are doing a procedure called a chemo wash. It’s not like chemotherapy. I started to cry.

At that moment, my dad looked up at me and had tears in his eyes. We wiped them away with a handkerchief. He has kept one in his pocket as long as I can remember. He said, Don’t make me cry. You know, Ronna, I’ve only cried twice; when I married your mother and when my brother died. I said, I know, Dad.

Seeing my dad with tears on his face hurt my heart. Seeing him scared broke it in 1,000 pieces. My father died from colon cancer. His next words ripped my heart completely out of my chest. I’m not ready to go. I want to watch my grandchildren grow up.

It was the most honest and loving moment my dad and I have ever had. It doesn’t get more real than that. Dad you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to be ok. I know you are, and you know that I haven’t been wrong yet.

I hugged my dad so hard that night and I didn’t want to let him go.

No family is perfect and I’m not claiming that mine is, but I’ll tell you something…nothing in this entire world is more important.

There is no greater love.

I got to end my night tonight with one call. Hi Daddy…I just wanted to tell you how much I love you.


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