This is the year I’m slowing down. I don’t have to do it all. I don’t have to berate and chastise myself for not being the President of Google. I don’t know how to play the saxophone and I will never cure cancer. So instead of trying to do it all – be everything to all people – run around trying to hustle 75 seconds from a minute, I ask myself, how can I be okay with where I am? With who I am?
I am an explorer. I am a writer. I am a teacher. I am a friend. I am a daughter and a wife. I am fearless. I do not look like Kate Moss and I am not part of the “it” crowd whatever that is. But I am part of the “my” crowd. My life, my footprint, my happiness, my existence, my meaning.
This year I strive to accept and find joy with where I am. To see the glass half full. To be nice to myself inside my head. And to embrace a sense of confidence and peace in being a blip in time.
I urge you to do the same. Wherever you are – stop. Breathe. Be mindful of this exact moment. And remind yourself that life is not a race, not a fight, not a competition. It’s you and me and him and her all on a journey together. And you my friend, are doing awesome!
For awhile now I’ve admired Hillary; her stamina, her determination to play in the game, her teflon like armor. But my admiration is waning. No politician is free from making tough ethical choices in today’s business of politics and fundraising. Where heavy donors equate greedy, immoral big business and shadowy, back door handshakes. Where moral decisions are made in a compromised state of mind. I’m speaking now about Monsanto and Hillary’s affiliation with their nasty GMO’s, animal cruelty, and chemical predilections when it comes to food and farming. As a woman, did Hilary feel like she had to go to the dark side in order to play in pen? Even in 2014, it’s a different game for women, a harder and less rewarding game. But GMO’s? Surely Hillary understands how damaging genetically modified food is for us? It feels like the Clintons began something that is destroying our health.
It’s past time for a woman in office, but I’m not sure Hillary is the one to do it. She’s strong enough and experienced enough, but her values seem askew from mine. That being said however, I do feel solidarity in our sex. Would I rather vote for a woman who will open the door for countless women to come (even if she makes decisions that seem short-sighted and self-serving) or another man who blah-blah-blah-blah-blah (these males presidents are all starting to run together for me like Leonardo DiCaprio’s model girlfriends).
I understand that the sites below all have their own bias, but it’s food for thought:
Unable to relax after another very very very very very very very very very VERY long day, I watched 112 Weddings on HBO. The documentary provides a quick, but honest look at marriage through the eyes of wedding videographer, Doug Block. (who you might recognize from his more well-known, The Kids Grow Up)
Maybe it was my exhaustion, maybe it’s because I’m married, but the movie made laugh and cry. I loved seeing the different types of relationship out there and how they’re different from own…and yet exactly the same. My favorite part is at the end during wedding #112 when Block captures the true difference between men and women. I won’t spoil it for you so just look for the part when the bride gets taken away by her womenfolk for sage advice and the groom gets the same treat. Can you already predict why this might have tickled my funny bone?
112 Weddings – I give it a happy thumbs up.
Zoom Zoom Zoom, I’m going to the moon…
It’s a song my kids like to sing. My city kids. My uber-urban, uber cosmopolitan mini-me’s who started their uber progressive preschool today.
A preschool where some families arrive vis Uber, the non-taxi taxi service.
A preschool that is so thoughtful, the teachers come for playdates to your house before school starts in order to help the little ones transition better.
Our house, where I now sit listening to the gardeners blowing leaves up and down the street.
And life moving like a tsunami. It reminds me of those t-shirts that read, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Or how when I ask someone how’s he doing, everybody (and I mean everybody) always answers the same: Busy. Super busy. Crazy Busy. So so busy.
Years ago my husband gave me a hard time about not being more intellectual, (please read with a sneer) which I have never let him forget. The other night we were out and about partying old people style. On the way home, my darling husband told me I was funny, sexy and smart.
“Smart?” I asked. “I want to be mysterious and intellectual.”
“Then you’re going to have to start talking about Mark Twain and Descartes instead of Grinder, Chris Rock and Beyoncé when we go to a party.”
My husband had a point. If I’m going to be intellectual, I need to change-up my talking points. And if I’m going to change-up my talking points, I’m going to have to reboot my interests.
This means spending less time watching X-Men and more time reading The New York Times, United Nations press releases (is there such as thing?), and dead German poets. I’m going to have to dedicate myself to the art of learning esoteric information that makes me <yawn> think. I’m going to need to figure out once and for where the hell Mabibia is. Mabibia? Nabibia? Namibia? Something like that. I’ll Google it.
I’m going to read the Brothers Karamazov. Yes, the whole thing!
I’m going to listen when Sam starts going on and on about that Middle East stuff.
I’m going to vote in local elections instead of recycling my ballot.
And most importantly, I’m going to quote Shakespeare. That quoting stuff sounds super fancy. From now on I’m going to be the intellectual girl at the party. Mark Twain and Descartes. I’m all over this.
Addendum – $20 says I never get invited back to a single party.
5:59am, 5:58am – these are the numbers I see every morning when the little Prince (aka Napoleon Bonaparte) wakes me up. What is up with that short dude? I put him to bed at 6pm – 5:59am wake time. I put him to bed at 9pm – 5:58 wake time. I put him to bed shackled in the closet hanging upside down – 5:59am wake time. (get it? ’cause he’s like the opposite of a vampire – whatever, i’m tired)
And these are the good days. There’s always at least one morning a week where numbers like 4:32am and 4:28am greet my swollen, sleep-crusted eyes. Strangely, the loudness of my voice seems to directly coincide with the order of these numbers.
The point is, just once I’d like to see some different numbers in the morning. A 7? A 8?
Really, my little autocrat, let mama get some sleep. I’m aging so fast from this hard living I look about 49 going on 57.
All because a job that looks superduper-fragalistic wanted me to have a twitter. And then the doorbell rang. And Ma in her kerchief And I in my sweats, Had just settled down To a long winter’s nap – When out on the lawn There rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (this will make sense once you read my first tweet)
But seriously, what have I gotten myself into now?