It's what you said...

In 20 years…I won’t remember what you bought me, I’ll remember what you said to me. Money isn’t everything. As a child, it may sometimes seem as though having the “perfect this” or the “exact that” is the answer to all your problems. The thinking is “I’ll be good enough when I have the latest video game/toy/entertainment system ect.” In looking back, I couldn’t tell you exactly what toys I actually got, or what purchases my mom sacrificially retrieved so I could feel cool at school. Nope. I mean I’m sure I got lots of toys and stuffed animals as a child, but the specifics are a blur. What my mother SAID to me, on the other hand, is clear as glass. See the thing is, as we grow up the things we tend to remember most about our parents are the lessons they taught us and the way they treated us, not the toys and tricks they bought us. As I write this, I am trying to remember the coolest present I ever got for my birthday from either of my parents…besides the obvious: car at 16, blah,blah,blah….nothing really jumps to mind. But ask me to tell what my parents have taught me about work ethic and humility and slightly more than a zillion thoughts come to mind. As parents, there must be an overwhelmingly strong urge to want to give your child the best of everything and anything--- and on the reverse side, a sinking feeling when your are not possibly able to do so. At this point, it is more important than ever to remember: children grow, and they outgrow things. But lessons? No, those are for life. Presents and gifts are nice, but those things are secondary, icing on the cake. The good stuff, the cream of the crop? Those can’t be found on a store shelf. They don’t have a price tag. And even if they did, it’d be ridiculously difficult to afford them.

The Locker Room

In case it's been a while since you've suffered through high school gym class, let me take you on a stroll through memory lane. Fortunately for me, my afternoon gym conquest was nothing short of a bad VH1 reality TV show. Upon completing what seemed like an endless run on the terrormill, I limped into the suana for some pore-cleansing hell. As neurotic as I am, I always bring reading material to give the impression to my fellow sweaters that I am reading, while in actuality, I am just posing so to avoid lame small talk. Rude? Maybe, but at least its subtle rudeness. Unlike the sweaty beheamoth next to me. This lady was a talkerrrrrrrrrrr. Judging by her lack of social skills, I'm guessing she's probably the cliche'd crazy cat woman, who's only sort of social contact occurs by accosting innocent strangers, just trying to get their sweat on (me). Anyways, not 5 minutes had passed before she inquired, "Whatcha readin'?" While temped to respond with "No Engles" I reluctantly held up my December "Vogue" and smiled (I mean, hell, I was reading VOGUE, and NOT the Spanish version). Only for her to reply with an eager, "Cool!!" and scootch up next to me. Did I mention we were in a SUANA. You know, the insanely small wooden hot boxes that serve as the equivalent as a human microwave. Ah, this pesky buttinsky wasn't giving up easily. I knew at this precise moment my sauna time was going to have to be cut short. This sauna wasn't big enough for the both of us. And let's face it, given my exhausted, hungry, and sweaty state of being---it is not totally unforseeable that I might do something crazy, like say...mistake her thick arm for a chicken wing and take a heaping bite. Due to her ridiculously close proximity, I wasn't sure how I could discreetly move away without blatently offending her. So I bailed. "Oh, w" I thought to myself. I washed my face and began to unload my locker so I could change into my comfy sweats for the drive home, when who appeared with her stuff (I kid you not) in the locker RIGHT beneath mine. To fully understand how improbable this is, let me inform you of the plethora of available lockers. probably close to two hundred. And Talkers-MaGee chose the locker which was directly under mine. Now I was certain. I was indeed, being "punk'd". If only....but no, no Ashton popping out from around the corner with a big smile and camera crew. Instead, the talkative sweat-er was again angling for some more "girl-talk" as she tried to compliment me on my Dooney and Bourke gym bag. I should have gone the "no engles" route. Upon thanking her and cramming my stuff into my bag as haphazardly as I could, sorta like the way I would if had just woken up in a strange guys bed after one two many shots of vodka the night before, I jammed my feet into my shoes and prayed that I didnt leave anything behind. Just as I was about to grab the last of my things, I noticed her leaning over the bench half naked while her ginormous SWEATY boob dangled above my bag (cringe, gasp!) . In sheer horror, I looked up--which she must have erroneously interpreted as a sign of friendship--when she squealed, "It so crassy". Um okay, The contraction is "it'S". New Rule this year: sentences MUST HAVE VERBS! No verb, no sentence! and in the word is cLassy. LLLLLLLLLLLLL. I wasn't sure if I should send her the dry cleaning bill now or later. But upon realizing that this would likely lead to further interaction in some minor way, I opted to suck it up and high-tail it the hell out of ther. Moral of the story: No Engles, lo siento.

Are We 'Googling' Ourselves to Death?

Today I had the staunch realization that I not only have (what I’ll) hypochondriac tendencies, but also a disordered relationship with Google. Let me explain. Upon my favorite afternoon pastime of farting around on the internet, I engaged in a little search engine action by thinking up any slight symptom or ailment of recent….and entering into the search query. Before long, I was completely convinced that I indeed suffer from anything and everything…From arachnophobia to zelophobia. I had it, and I had it badddddddddd. “Wait, Wait, WAIT!” my mind clamored, “This is just another one of my loon behaviors that makes absolutely no sense, but I still do it anyways.” If left alone, I could google myself right into the grave. Before long, I got to thinking, is “googling” your symptoms something I alone am guilty of? Or are there others like me? How many other people out there seek google as a first response to medical questions? I wonder if there is something empowering about having the capability to play patient AND doctor? Well, Google makes it possible. At the click of a mouse and a bit of typing, it is possible to find answers to anything! True, not all credible. But either way, it’s feedback. We know the credibility of the internet. It’s not news, but we goole-goaltend anyway. I guess it boils down to one thing: What DID we do before the internet?

Hate is My Mother Fucking Fuel

Push me down, I’ll bounce back higher. Tell me I can’t, watch me do it faster, better, stronger. It’s just the way I am. Defeating doubt, is my high. I love to stake a claim against all odds and then beat it beyond reality. I’m an underdog junkie, and if I could mainline my anger, I’d have more syringes than an AIDS clinic . One most-unfortunate fight has caused me to look the offending asshole in the eye, and vow for vengence to be mine. Sure, you won this one. Good job, nice work. But I’m a war kinda gal. If I lose battle every now and then, so be it. But you better believe my name is what’s going down in history under the victor title. I am doer. I just don’t have it in me to go down without a fight. A look at my childhood will quickly illuminate my penchant for coming out on top. My mother will be the first one to tell you that my “last-word” tendencies, FAR exceeded that of normal children. I didn’t just need the last word, I needed the satisfaction of knowing that the offending party was aware that they had been upstaged. The petty “We both know that you LOST” feeling. Mmmmmhhhh. It’s kinda sick, and a little disturbing how good egotistical winning feels. Yea, yea, yea, there is always the question of when people get hurt, does anyone really win? Um, I’d being lying if I said no. On the larger scale, it’s wrong and I know it. I’ll pay for it in the long run. But right now…put it on my tab. He fucked with the wrong person, one too many times. If it’s gotta be this way, then pitch it to me. I’ll swing away EVERY time. True, our relationship is going to take a hit. It will likely take tears, tissues, and time. But that’s ok. Those things I’ve got. What I don’t have? Is patience. I’m not down to pave your walkway with my heart. I’ve done that. You don’t care, you exceed the speed limit and throw cigarette butts out your window. Fuck him. In all fairness, I’m sure if he knew beforehand that our mild fight would escalate into world-war proportions he may have reconsidered his words. A day late, and a dollar short. No going back now. This ship has sailed, next stop: “Apology not Accepted.”

Keepin it Classy

Today we ventured out to my grandmother’s favorite discount warehouse: walmart. Quickly, I realized that this superstore is merely a front for a “social slaughterhouse”. Where else can you find children over the age of 10, still sucking their thumbs, or ladies named “ L’Shawn” sporting 3 inch acrylic nails, each nail containing a letter of everyone’s favorite explitive that rhymes with “Luck”, Oh L’Shawn, I would hug you, except the pistol tat on your neck…it kinda scares me. Walmart is prime real estate for wedgie watching. If you’ve never seen grown adults shamelessly pick their asses, this is the spot. Its like some sort of white-trash rite of passage. Not to be all hoity toighty, but where I’m from, we pick our asses in private. We keep that shit on the DOWN LOW. Oh, no, not at walmart. That sort of display is commonplace! You know what else is commonplace? Um, eating while shopping. I’m not talking about munching food court-purchased popcorn and Icees. I’m talking like full on opening bags of chips AND SALSA!!! While in the store! I wish I was kidding here. I actually saw a family eating a bag of chips and dipping them into a jar of salsa in their cart...And in case you’re wondering where the drinks were to wash it down? They had several beverages in tow. I’m just surprised little Tommy wasn’t doing kegstands from the mini Heiniken. No this family must have been confused. See the way it works is: First PAY for the food, then bag it, bring it HOME, and THEN consume. I’m not even going to imagine the double-dipping that must have been going on. But really, I could probably have looked the other way if they had been discreetly snacking on their fritos, instead of heaving their hands into the chip bag and dunking the innocent corn chips into a sea of salsa, before sloshing it down their throats. Oh Walmart, you classy joint you! All hope was officially lost when we hit the bike aisle. I narrowly missed getting into a head-on collision with an unaccompanied minor who was free-wheelin, needless to say without a helmet, on an unpaid bicycle. This adorable little convict-in-training, was lucky enough to veer left as I swerved my grandmother’s wheelchair to the right., narrowly avoiding an ambulance ride to the hospital Close call. Not to worry though, this small episode of road rage certainly wouldn’t have been complete had I not heard him call me a bitch under his breath before he pedaled the 10-speed down the next aisle. I can die happy. Wedgie picking, snacking, and biking aside, Walmart is a great place to spend the afternoon…if you’re HIGH! Otherwise, avoid the social-abyss, and head to somewhere a little more worthwhile. A pawn shop for example. Odds are you’ll be a lot safer.

When in doubt...dip it in ranch.

Day 1 in Syracuse can officially be classified...as OVER. Not to sound hostile here, but I'm a little miffed that THIS is what I am taking VACATION days from work for. Um, this isn't club med. True, I've flown out of state, put the US postal service on notice to hold my mail ( December's "Vogue" and "Self" BETTER be waiting for me upon return or heads will roll), and even packed a suitcase...but this sure as shit does NOT qualify as vacation. Aside from having my life micromanaged by my overly-efficient father for the next 5 days, I am also subjected to the loving and constant call of duty to change my grandmother's adult underpants (read: diapers). Cosmo's and Martini's? Not quite. No, instead of skanking around in my bikini on a beach where "Jose" blows a whistle while simultaneously shovels tequila down my throat, I got the distinct pleasure of applying deoderant to one very unflexible senior citizen. Who would have guessed the whole "getting dressed" part of the day becomes such an event when you get old? This probably makes sense when you take into consideration the fact that your TEETH aren't necessarily in your mouth upon sunrise. Ah, I digress. Anyways, these mandated "vacation" days mean no work, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, until I remember it also means no money. Shit. And THAT is a bad thing. So let me get this straight: I will have to seriously downsize spending this month in order to compensate for time spent changing diapers and applying Tussy. (Not sure what "Tussy" is?...google it and check your gag reflexes). I'm getting screwed. On the upside, it DOES mean free dining out. And believe me, I make sure to get even. Filet mignon, shrimp appetizers, and double vodka soda's please! If this is the biggest perk I can milk "family time" for, then my dad can foot the bill. Ugh, I'm totally out of creative mojo. I'm going to go to bed and pat myself on the back for behaving entirely within the limits of the law, while on "vacation". I guess there's a first for everything.

Orange “My-Shit-Doesn’t-Stink” County

You, with Louis Vuitton carryon luggage, wearing an obnoxiously bright velour jumpsuit with “Juicy” sprawled across your lipo’d ass…Drop the act. Yea, this whole “I’m too rich/hot/important…whatever” business isn’t cute. It certainly doesn’t make me look at you and think, “wow, I want to be her.” No, it makes me think, “That lady watches to much Bravo TV and I hope to God, I NEVER end up a minion serving in her poser hell.” Even worse? When these botox’d sacks of skin wear sunglasses…in an AIRPORT. What are you? The fucking unibomber? A celebrity? Neither? Well then take of the oversized Channels, honey. You don’t need them. I’m pretty sure you can remove the shades while inside the baggage terminal, the paparrazi have bigger fish to fry. Oh, and “adding-bling” to your cell phone was cool like 5 years ago. Take off the rhinestones. If you’re using a phone capable of wi-fi and high-tech digital imaging, then you’re phone doesn’t need sparkly decorations in the form of crystal rhinestones. Grow up. And what’s with the fake tan smell? Don’t get me wrong here, it’s California, sunshine and tanning go together like Lindsey Lohan and a bag of blow. But the smell? Really? I thought Lorea’l solved that problem like two summers ago! Nobody even makes the stinky stuff anymore!! Which begs the question of exactly how much self-tanner must be applied in order to generate such a stench? Lay off the faux glow. Another thing? What the hell do you keep in your big-ass purse? Or is the whole “purse” thing just a ruse, because you think carrying a PARACHUTE is “tres” chic? I got news for you: #1) Your not that important, we know that your bag is empty save for a phone, lipstick, and a wallet of maxed out credit cards. #2) If you’re not a mom, downsize your bag. You don’t need a minivan of surface area stowed beneath your arm, to display designer logos. Cheap, not chic. It’s an accessory, not an appliance. Lastly, Orange-County clowns, lose the phony zen books, which describe philosophy you either #1) don’t understand or #2) blatently ignore. Yes, yes, it is so cool to be all Buddhist spiritual and vegan. But really, when you’re a walking hypocrisy to everything discussed in that “trippy” little book, it kinda makes me want to call Paris Hilton and send her you’re your audition tape for an untapped MTV reality series. So let’s drop the act Orange County. Yes, Fox may have made a television show and dubbed it after your namesake, but if that’s the going rate for “cool” I’m moving to the valley. See ya in Lancaster bitches.

Never keep score, but Never forget.

Words well spoken. This concept recently emerged when recalling a certain friend. I think this "mantra" is a great little motto. Let me explain. Think of that person that you never have to remind about pasft-due favors. They always remember, they always hook you back up, and never make you feel like you owe them. These "G's" are the gangstas' of giving. When you think of these people, I'll bet you also notice that they seem to get away with a lot too. Like, they never get caught, stand without, or lack. Everything works out for them. Huh? How do they do it? I think the secret forumla is quite simple. Too simple..almost. These people never keep score or tabs on people, they don't need to. Nope. But, they damn-sure remember the good that's been done for them and seek to make above-and-beyond reparations. Therefore, people like them. They survive and thrive in a vortex of good-coming, because of their abundant outlook. They give like, they've got, therefore...They get. And continue to get. It's really awesome. Seems totally doable...right? On paper and in theory this seems basic and shockingly-uncomplicated. But in action, the plan is WORK. It's not easy to fight the egoic state that can cloud the mind and result total being-selfsihness. But I'm going to try. I get it, I do. (And I hope I didn't too-badly butcher the message, here)...but I want to live it. So I am. I'm living in an abundant state of happiness, with the intention to love and spread it. Join my little experiment and try my mini-mantra: Never keep score, but never forget. You don't stand anything to lose, that you wouldn't have lost anyways.

How Do They Know?

How do mother's always seem to know when you've gone out and been irresponsible? "Ah," you might argue, "my mother doesn't always know when I've been acting naughty, surely there are times when I've gotten away with it." And true, you might have gotten away with it a time or two. But, I'll bet your mother has at least an 8 for 10 record when it comes to calling you FIRST thing in the morning when you're deathly hungover. My mom. She's good. I am not sure I've ever gotten one past her. She's onto me. Good Luck, Cori.

Really though. In case the throbbing headache and vodka-vommit smell plaguing the carpet weren't punishment enough, the pre-10 am cell phone call really seems to sock it to me. It is at precisely this moment, when the iPhone induced-self-made-ringtone, really just makes my ears want to bleed. Not only is it obnoxiously loud, but it is also the karmic-kick-in-the-ass for the poor choices from the prior evening. Alas, today I found myself in this very cozy predicament. Inevitably, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to relish the idea of having no work on Friday...by using Thursday night responsibly, to say...um, I don't know. Pack and collect the necessary items for my trip (which is in like less than 48 hours away)? Aw,Shucks! HELL NO. Instead I opted to pull my economic weight and go spend other people's money....in the form of adult beverages. several. Great, idea....Not so much. Especially when you wake up to: no food in your refrigerator, a sore throat, and shorts that are on backwards. Needless to say this winning combo of a day all before the wee hours of noon, really makes me feel accomplished. My inner-Winner needs some glitter.

Field Trips....and other fun things that make my want to poke needles through my eyelids.

As children, we saw field trips as fun days to get out of class. It was a day that meant no desks, no assignments, and freedom to be loud with our friends. Ah, yes, how it changes when your on the chaperoning end of the deal. Ok, So today I went on a field trip as a chaperone for the third grade. What was I thinking? All of a sudden I switched teams. And let me tell you..TEAM STUDENT, is TOTALLY better. Having to be responsible for holding lunches, buddy-system bathroom trips, and keeping everyone in eyesight. Totally sucks. Especially when your group, is, say, composed of pre-pubescent boys who think its cool to make fart noises and ask elderly aquarium volunteers about the mating habits of sea slugs (They lay eggs, in case you're wondering). Yea, super cool. After arriving at the school-infested site of said field trip, I was curtly informed that I would have to lug around these kids lunches. Coincidently, they all opted to bring 32 oz gatorades along with a sack lunch that could easily be mistaken for a full-fledged buffet. Lucky me. So, after we meandered around all the fish tanks and I corralled them to the picnic tables I was forced to "enjoy" lunch alongside them. Somewhere after I choked down my skimpy lunch, I was called to the attention of a crinkling red bag that's eminnated a scent that could unmistakenly be identified as Nacho Cheese Dorritos. It is precisely at this moment when I self-diagnosed my condition: Accute Dorritos Deprivation. Yup, I had it. I had it baaaaaaaaaad. Only upon catching myself mid-reverie, squashing little Jacob like a pancake and snatching his Dorritos to the point of licking the "cheese" off my fingers did I realize, I indeed had a problem. Maybe it was the smell that did it? Or maybe it is the fact that I haven't had Dorritos in YEARS that did it? Whatever it was, the outcome wasnt pretty. In my Dorrito fantasy, I pictured myself like the kids in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory"--carby goodness abounded. I danced on corn chip hills, crunched on processed gluten, and swan in synthesized Dorrito cheese. MMMmmmmmmm. Oh, and did I mention I was skinny? That too. After I came to my caloric senses, I realized that lunch was over and there was still an hour left of the field trip. How many ways can I find to kill time? The touch tank! It's interactive, exciting, and hands-on! Surely this will entertain my group of Bart Simpson-esque comrades. And entertain it did. It was especially entertaining when we got asked (and when I say "asked" I really mean told/ordered) to leave the vacinity as a result of our inability to follow the 'two-finger' touch rule. Real shocker there. Telling 10 year old boys, they can reach their arms in the tide pool tank, but please--use gentle caution and delicately place only two fingers on the critters, would by like taking Kirspy Kreme doughnuts to a Weight Watchers meeting and then telling the dieters to take one whiff, because consumption is out of the question. So, after our lovely reprimand from senior citizen Mr. Bo, we enacted a hands-at-your-side policy to try and boost our behavior points. Didn't work. Judging by the dirty looks from surrounding private school kids in uniform, I could tell we were out of our league. These boys didn't need an aquarium. They needed a zoo. Maybe there, their behavior would be more socially acceptable. Who knows, maybe by comparison, the Monkey's flinging poo would have up'd our status? Tough call, hard to say. Thankfully, the field trip was over by 1 and we survived the bus ride home, but certainly not without a round of everyone's favorite "I don't want to sit by him" game. Ugh. Moral of the story: I need Dorritos, tazers must be legalized, and responsibility sucks.

It really is THAT simple...until I complicate it.

Lately I've been doing some (very) mild soul searching. I kind of hit a low point and in sheer desperation began seeking, something, ANYTHING to pick me, dust me off, and kiss my boo-boos. Would i like some cheese with my ginormous wine?!? No, thanks. I'll pass. Instead, I did what I do best: turned to books. I dabbled in the self-helpy section, and floated around in spiritual limbo before realizing, that all I've got to do is: SHOW UP. Here I sat, throwing my pitty party, totally convinced that I was never going to get back up. My problems seemed of enormous proportion, certainly too big for me to tackle. My problems here in the natural world, could only be resolved with supernatural hep. So what to do? Well, after reading, meditating, and talking to friends, I have ultimately come to the conclusion that I can and must do only 1 single thing: SHOW UP. That's right. Just SHOW UP. Here's the thing--I have come to believe that if I do my part, everything within my capacity to improve my condition, God will do the rest. For some reason my twisted (read: lazy) mind mistook God for a shoe salesmen at Nordstrom who I could beckon my size and style to, and he would go to the "back" and magically reappear holding the answer to all my problems while I sat on a plush leather chair. Nope. Not even close. See, so far, I'm learning that God helps those that help themselves. When we behave in self-destructive manners there's this little voice inside that quietly says, "yea, whoo-hoo. This feels goooooooood." Then the next day you wake up and another voice (usually of reason) looks back upon the previous day and extracts punishment. All. Day. Long. Thus this vicious cycle of good/bad repeats and progress hesitates to be made. So, in recognizing this, I made a deal with myself. If I screw up, so be it. I don't need to go and make it worse. Accept my mistakes. Roll with the punches. Even if they suck. But DON'T STOP SHOWING UP. See mistakes as just that. Mistakes. They are going to happen, but we make the choice to use them as a learning tool to our benefit or a weapon for our own defeat. When you decide to show up, you take your mistakes and flaws with the grace of a woman and not the grief of a child. You dust YOURSELF off, pick YOURSELF up, and promise YOURSELF that the pangs of this mistake will not be felt again. That's showing up. Once you make that decision, the rest is up to God. But God can't do his part, if you don't do yours. God isn't wearing a suit at Nordstrom waiting with a pair of stilettos, perfectly in your size, to slip on your cinderella'd foot. God is the grace that comes when we do our best. When we make the commitment to do our best, we can count on two things: #1) There's nothing more we can do. let the chips fall where they may. and #2) God doesn't operate in our natural world. He's in the big leagues. He is capable of far more than our miniscule minds can even comprehend. So, try it. Just show up. Find whatever "brown sauce" is lurking in your life and attack!! I know, that if you sincerely (and only you will know how hard you try), make a "go" at it--you will be utterly amazed at how mighty you are. Show up. And wear comfy shoes, you might have to do some walking.

The Gym..and other minutia of my Life

Warning: MAJOR rant ahead!

With that preface aside, I can guilt-free launch into the ridiculousness which engulfed my mind for at least a solid hour. As I reached the gym and plodded up the stairs to the torturemill, err..I mean TREADmill, I propped up my magazine and put on my headphones. I began my run to the melodic hum of Pat Benetar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" (The kick-off jam is croosh to a good run! It totally sets the mood) no sooner did a portly gentleman hop of the treadmill right next to me. Nevermind the fact that it's like 10 am and there's, um I don't know..like EVERY other treadmill open, going completely unused, but whatever. I politely look over and smile before I silently curse him for being an IDIOT and opting to workout RIGHT next to me, when I notice his T-shirt. And want to kick him in the groin. Before I go further, let me first say that my gym attire is no couture collection. In no way am I decked out in Under Armor or Nike workout wear. I am certainly not saying that I flaunt falls latests runway trends to the treadmill, no, I wear your average running shorts and a tank top (usually a cheap one!). Ok, back to my treadmill BFF, he is wearing an "I (heart) Oreos" T-shirt. What?!?! He is wearing an OREOs shirt...to the GYM!?! WTF??? I mean, thats like wearing a Marlboro shirt to a caner ward. Oreo's are what got my fat ass in this gym-mandating predicament in the first place!! And then to have to push through a grueling 6 miles next to a man blatently professing his love for sugary, carby, goodness? Douche bag! And to make matter worse? He's skinny. I officially hate him. Bastard, bragger! I could look past the fact that he insists on working out RIGHT next to me...WALKING. I could look past his annoying flipping of the newspaper that inevitably resulted in running-mode interference. but I CANNOT, cannot-with-a-capital "C" look past his open proclimation, at the gym no less, that he has a love affair with the ultimate diet-vixen: Oreo-friggin-cookies. May fatness strike his thighs!

Whew, ok, back to me. Another gym-fueled rant boils down to the inordinant amount of sweat I produce on the daily. Let me be blunt here. I am not one of those girls who goes to the gym fully-clad in eyeliner and lipstick. No, sir-ree-bob. It's just me, my New Balances and a sports bra (the cheap kind, thank you very much). My hair rests in a "bun-like" rats nest atop my head, and flat-ironing my bangs? OUT OF THE QUESTION. Let's face it, I'm a beast. Thats how I roll. To those of you familiar with high school biology, there is a term used to describe the process the human body goes through in order to regulate itself and maintain constant internal conditions: homeostasis. Put simply, your body is a well-oiled machine that gets hot when you work out and produces small droplets of water on your skin (aka Sweat) to cool you down. Now, back to me being a beast. I can run a mile in six minutes flat. I haul ass. When I go to the gym I run about 6.5 miles. 6.5 miles of vigorous intervals, 6.5 miles of internally telling myself to shut-up and not punk out. Needless to say, my haul-ass regime isn't pretty. Nor sexy, nor cute. I run hard and it shows. Primarily in the form of a sweat drenched tank top. Pretty standard right? Apparently not. Never fails, some nit-wit just HAS to open his/her mouth and comment on "what a sweaty girl I am". Ok, #1) "Girl" I'm 23 thank-you-very-little. I'm not some teeny bopper selling magazine subscriptions for a school fundraiser. Please try and refrain from talking to me as such. Unless you plan on placing me on Santa's Lap and asking what I want for Christmas (everything, in case your wondering) #2) Um, HELLO! It's a gym, you know, a fitness facility, whose sole purpose of existence lies in getting people to sweat! It's not like I'm a hooker in fish-net stalkings walking up to the Holy Alter about to receive the Body of Christ. I'm a runner, AT THE GYM, who sweats. I really don't think its that inconceivable, astonishing, or magical to warrant so much attention. Its perfectly commonplace to work your ass off and sweat like you have to fit into your prom dress. And that's what I do. Minus the prom dress. So, next time I'm at the gym and I get the critical "Wow, you're sweaty" comment, I will resist the urge to thank Captain Obvious and instead reach for a towel and picture my skinny jeans.

I'm not that good, but I know people who are

Some people are incredibly brilliant, insightful, and resilient. They can feel the pangs of disappointment or defeat and pop right back up and keep on truckin. Others, pour themselves a cocktail and turn on E!. Using trashy entertainment television to minimize your sorrows as you compare hollywood trivialities (read: bullshit) to your own life dilemas can only get you so far. One can only handle the ridiculousness of a Jake Gyllenhall sighting at Fred Segal or the latest Heidi Montag (of MTV Hills fame) drama for so long. It's then that you actually realize the emptiness of your wasted fame-whoring, hour. So, as my financial downsizing (um, can you tell I cancelled cable TV?) rages on, I have been forced to seek out more intellectual and responsible outlets. Hence my latest foray into Joel Osteen's new book: "It Is Your Time." I came across a really powerful and inspiring passage this afternoon that was just to good to go unshared. Now, I am probably breaking all sorts of copyright laws, when I straightup COPY (paraphrasing just wouldnt do this justice)--so I'm resting on the good-natured benevolence of one of my readers to front my bail money while I jet-set to Mexico and hideout. No, just kidding. But anyways, I am sharing this bit in hopes to inspire and breathe faith into others the way it was breathed into me. Please enjoy and feel inspired:

"The fact is that any time God is about to take you to a new level, you will face opposition. There will be new battles to fight, new obstacles to overcome, maybe people who doubt you, or speak poorly of you. I once heard someone say, ' New level, new devil'. It's easy to let negative voices discourage you. It's tempting to think, 'Why is this happening? Why did they doubt me? Or, Why did I get laid off.? Or Why am I hit with one thing or another?' But right beyond today's challenges are tomorrow's victories. New level of success are just on the other side. Whenever God is about to take you to a higher level, you will face stronger opposition. There will be new battles to fight, new obstacles to overcome. The adversity can actually be the tool God uses to promote you. Many times our enemies will do more to catapult us to success than our friends. I know in my life there have been times when I was down. i didn't see a way out. It looked impossible. But I thought, I can't give up now. It would make my enemies too happy. Sometimes we can smile, but not becuase we want to, not becuase we feel like it, but becuase we will not give our enemies the pleasure of seeing us down. On the inside, you may be hurting. But on the outside you should wear a smile. Do not let them see you defeated. Not out of pride. Not out of spite. But out of a quiet confidence, knowing that you are a child of the Most High God, and He would not have allowed it if He did not have a purpose for it."

So there you have it. Spoken like a messenger. Receive it like a listener.

Me?

Today while anxiously driving home, trying to avoid the temptation to text-while-driving, I got to thinking about why ANYONE would ever want to date me for longer than an hour. Hmmm, I thought to myself. I can totally understand why guys in a bar would buy me a drink and throw casual conversation my way in an effort to bed me, but date me? Well, now that's a mystery. If i were of the opposite sex I would expect a girlfriend who, say, cooks awesome dinners, and shaves her legs daily, while always remaining quite the lady. But no. Not I. So, to get to the bottom of this mystery, I made a pro/con list. And here's what I got:

1) Con: I don't cook, clean, or do laundry. Domesticity is just not my bag.

It's true I'm afraid. I HATE the thought of operating any devices in my kitchen other than my microwave and my coffee maker. If it were socially acceptable, I would live in a house that doesnt even have a kitchen. Truth be told, I think it'd be a better use of space if it were converted into a closet. But that's me.

2) Pro: I can party and handle my shit. I'm not one of those girls you'll find slumped over a toilet in a bar come last call. No, sir. I've got class. I can go round for round with the best of 'em. And better yet, I'll still manage to get to work on time the next day. Maybe even the gym too. I am all about raging my little face off, but i know how to balance it. Work hard, play hard.

3) Con: I'm moody, neurotic, and a little overwhelming---all rolled into one. I have days when I'm up, down, left, right, and everywhere in between. Boring, I am not. I love to be spontaneous and my big-ass mouth has a penchant for getting me into trouble. I call 'em like I see 'em. Even if it lands me in deep shit (which, more often than not, does). Don't like your boob job? I'll let ya know. Perhaps its a good thing: With me, you'll never have to wonder. I have no fear of speaking me mind.

4) Pro: I've got spunk. Yup, opinions flow through my veins like oxygenated blood. I am pretty sure that I'm genetically encoded to be outspoken. I'm confident that someday scientists will discover a gene on the 21st chromosome for: outrageous, and if I'm lucky, they'll name it after me. I drink vodka and spit fire.

5) Con: I can be very self-centered. Anyone who has shared a meal with me knows...that last bite on our plate--consider it MINE! Don't get me wrong, I love to share and I'm all about the koom-by-yah, but in the words of my idol: "Sometimes I'm a superbitch." And if you're fucking with something that's near and dear to me (like say, shrimp) I'm gunning for the last morsel.

6) Pro: When I love ya, I'll give you my left arm. I can be loyal to a fault. I will lie, cheat, and throw blows for those I love. Unless I'm fighting with someone I love, in which case I'm still probably too stubborn to back down, but give me an hour---I'll cool down and come around. I always do.

6) Con: I'm obsessive. I know it sounds crazy, but I love to kick my own ass. Yup, self-torture (the gym) is right up my alley. The more it hurts, the harder I go. Could it be? Am I a...sadist?

7) Pro: I dont quit. I'm not a quitter. I don't care what it is, determination is like my crack. I will try, and try, and try until I freakin get it. Learning to ride a two-wheel bike? I've got the scarred knees to prove it. Running a half marathon? Victory T-shirt is in my (dirty) laundry. When I set my mind to it, I'm stubborn as shit. And if seeing you happy is my goal, rest assured I won't stop until I get it.

8) pro?/con? I'm an artist. I think deep, dream big, and color outside the lines. I give good love and I demand it. I party like a man and fuck like a woman (sorry mom).

Ok, so what do you think? Want to date me? It ain't easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is... right?

Confessions..

Ok, so like any good catholic, I had a reckoning moment where shame overcame my senses and propelled me into full-on confession mode, so here it is:

I totally love MILEY CYRUS. Yes, I am a 23 year old college graduate who is completely stoked on teeny bopper pop music. However, not ALL teeny bopper music floats my boat, just hers...and maybe Taylor Swift. Maybe. I gotta be honest, I'm not the Miley fan who passively gets happy when her song comes on the radio. No. I full on download (and PURCHASE) her songs from itunes, bump it at volume setting 32, and unabashedly sing along to it. Who can resist her catchy hooks, or name dropping shout-outs (Britney Spears? Jay-Z anyone?). I mean, here is this sixteen year old mini-mogul who has her own TV show, donates thousands of dollars to charity, and still manages to make my semi-adult heart flutter? I'm in love. Wait, there's more. I think my love for Miley hit an all time high today as I was lapping up the pages of Vogue and came across an article detailing her latest fashion foray. According to the style Bible, she is collaborating with BCBG to design a line for Wal-mart. The intention is to create an affordable fashion accessible to the masses. And she's an equal opportunist? What doesn't the woman do? I don't know about you, but I'm saying right now: Miley for President. Ok, maybe that's a little much. I'll have to investigate her foreign policy and get back to you on that one. But seriously, Miley is the shit. She rocks the house. and she can't even buy lottery tickets! (Not like winning the lottery would actually make a difference to her, but that's beside the point). She's sixteen, for crying out loud. I don't know about you, but my rap sheet at age sixteen wasn't nearly impressive as hers. At sixteen, I'm pretty sure I was drawing hearts on my math notebook and planning my next trip to the Cerritos mall. Cool. Now, gentleman, I know that many of you would deny listening to her songs as if they're some sort of STD. But really though? You like her jams. I know you do. Unfortunately for you, fessing up to listening, much less LIKING Miley Cyrus would be practically signing up to be socially neutered. So I understand your hesitation. I can only imagine how well it would go over if you displayed your Miley passion at the local sports bar during happy hour. You may as well hand over your nuts right then and there. But have no fear, I can keep your secret safe (And I won't even threaten to castrate you either). So, here it is, I'm coming out of the closet and revealing my true nature as a Miley fan. I said it, now feel free to heckle the shit out of me. But don't be surprised if put on my headphones and blare Miley to tune you out. Tootles.

Humility is Hot

When you think of humility, the image that probably comes to mind is likely that of Mother Teresa, or some other saintly religious figure. If you're lucky, one of your friends comes to mind. But for most of us, humility is another virtue that gets tossed into the, "ahhh, isn't that nice" category. Humility really is quite simple on paper, it doesnt take cunning wit or clever genius, but why is it so difficult in practice? Today, I met a rather hot girl (who stereotypically tend to be stick-up-their-ass bimbos), but upon conversing came to realize she was totally cool. Now, I have to wonder did her rockin bod and flat-iron perfect hair make her hot, or did her laid-back, girl-next-door attitude amp up her sex appeal? (No, I'm not a lesbo--but I've got nothing against it. No on prop 8). Well, to answer this question I have to replay my interaction with her and properly over-analyze our conversational small talk. It started out with (in typical female fashion) some good old eaves dropping. Upon her (polite) interruption during my "Sherlock Homes" investigation of new Acne products at the drug store, she inquired my thoughts of a particular skin care product. Looking at her flawless skin I couldn't help but roll my intellectual thoughts and label her a hypochodriatic nit-wit. I mean, here is this Giselle-esque broad with skin practically GLOWING, asking me what I thought about acutane. Huh? That's like an anorexic woman, asking her doctor for phen-phen. What the hell? Reluctantly, I told her about my love-to-hate cystic acne, to which she SHOCKINGLY admitted to having as well. Hold the phone, sister. No WAY do you have mega-bacteria lurking beneath the microscopic skin molecules, you call "pores". But she did. She could even spout off the the prescription meds she'd been on (this girl, new her stuff). Striking as it may seem, this walking Heidi Klum imposter wasn't as perfect as I'd assumed...and even more shockingly, wasn't afraid to admit to such. This got me thinking. Why are so many of us reluctant to extend our the branch of our human side? Why do we fear admitting our imperfections, if they have the potential to make us more likeable? Based on my experience, I saw first-hand how the admission of your own flaws can impact the way others perceive and subsequently respond to you. Maybe we've got it all wrong. Perhaps, showcasing only our best, shiny sides in order to have other people subconsciously compare themselves and shrink in cowering comparison, ISN'T the way to knock their socks off. Maybe, the real kicker is when when we can take a compliment and proceed to act and respond humbly--illuminating that we truly are human beings, flaws and all. Now, that's HOT!

Gym Rats

While some people lightly refer to these sweathouse-toture chambers as "health clubs" I prefer to cut the shit and call it like I see 'em. It's no secret that the gym is a place of obligatory attendance. When faced with the question: Would I rather go home and lazily plop down on the couch and waste my afternoon reading, or high tail it to the gym to sweat my ass off and run 6 grueling miles--the answer is pretty obvious. So, I kind it somewhat facetious that someone would say, "oh, working out for 3.5 hours is fun for me, I enjoy it!" (Smile!!). Liar. I call bullshit. There happens to be a smug little Asian girl who religiously works out for hours on end and wears the SAME thing EVERY day. Upon applauding her dedication, her phony reply of claiming to "prefer" the gym, only made me hate her more. I mean, come on, be honest--it sucks. Running for an hour while your boobs are pancaked into a sports bra and sweat pours down your forehead (ruining a completely perfect blow-out), totally blows. Yes, there are things you can do to negate the torture of exercise such as read a magazine or listen to your ipod. sure, but those can only distract your mind for so long, that is, until the bitching and moaning coming from your aching body begs for it to be over. And this woman claims to "enjoy it"...sure.right. She works out like a banche and she can't even have ONE slightly normal human quality: empathy? Let's be real, we all probably hate her anyways because day in and day out, she does what I can't....and then she can't even have the human decency to sympathize with me? Bitch. I want to like her, I do. I want to appreciate her efforts, again, I do! But not with her attitude. That phony line of crap doesn't fool me. No, it sure doesn't...BUT what it does do is force me into ultra competitive mode so that I, too, can look pleasant and amicable while I beat her ass of the treadmill. If she thinks its all rainbows and lollipops, damn right I'm going to give her a run for her money and sprint right next to her. Yup, fake it 'till ya make it sister!

costco

Now don't get me wrong here, I am a major fan of the ginormous amounts of food you can get at wholesale prices (totaly deal!)..but i am certainly NOT a fan of the hostility surrounding the asile-ladden sample carts. We've all been there. Cruising up and down the aisles of the giant warehouse, when parked conveniently next to a promotional food a small sample cart appears, usually backed by a gray-haired old lady sporting a hair net. She's probably even wearing an apron with the appropriate costco name tag, reading "Betty". There she stands dolling out delicious mini-bites in an effort to lure customers into tossing the item into their carts for purchase. This sounds innocent enough right? Well it is...until it isn't. Innocence is suddenly lost when voracious shoppers close in and swoop down on the tiny samples, like saber-tooth tigers grouping the meat off a dying gazelle in an African jungle. You get the picture.

Seriously, I kid you not, I have seen grown adults not-so-tactfully meander their way in front of patient people in an effort to seize a freebie. Now its one thing when you see a kid clad in his soccer uniform do it. The kid's 12, he's hungry, and for all intents and purposes has little to no clue of (declining) social norms. But it is a whole nother story when it's a 50 year old lady wearing elastic-waist band pants and a wannabe Lakers jersey. Hell, even if it's a 30 year old in a collared shirt with high heels on! STILL RUDE! Not to be condescending here, but for reals? You're going to sidestep your dignity and manners and barge into people to score a sample? Wow. Costco membership is not a weekend buffet. This isn't China, and if you're shopping for costco sized foods, chances are you're not starving. No, just greedy (and/or) stingy. Look cheapskates, pass up the freebie and save your dignity. Ya look ridiculous! And God forbid it's ME that your big ass bumps out of the way for a sample, because when I see you in the check out line, revenge is mine bitch! Another quip? When these foodies bombard the sample cart they totally ditch their basket, leaving their groceries, purse, and, um, CHILD completely unattended. Where are the purse snatchers when you need them? Oh, probably racing to the next sample cart. Figures.

Weapons of Mass (Diet) Destruction

We all have them. It doesnt matter how well we're doing, or how religiously we've been to the gym. Some diet sabotages are just unavoidable. And the worst ones? The pleasant people that you want to like, but have to hate because they're so nice. Take for example your totally fit friend who guzzles down beer like an infant takes to breastfeeding. I mean, it's highly unlikely she endures the mental struggle of getting her ass to the treadmill, and even less likely that she even knows what a carb is. Fucker. Then there is the kryptonite food. And God help you if its inexpensive! Lucky for me, my finer taste in overpriced food prevents me from going too crazy. We all have that one delicious treat that lurks in the back of our mind, secretly creeping into our thoughts throughout the day. Before long, you're like a total crack feign, planning on how and when you can get your hands on it. The uncontrollable "need" causes you to go into a full Apollo 13 mission. Ugh! Oh, and another WMDD (weapon of mass diet destruction) are good old fashioned frankenfoods. You know what these are. They hang out in the "diet" section of the grocery store--packages of sugar-free, fat-free goodies that look and smell just like the real thing...only upon actually forking over the ridiculous fee for the item do you learn it was a farce and the "diet alternative" tastes strikingly like carboardy dog-food. (That's you, walden farms, food products!) Really though, maybe I'm the idiot for getting conned into believing that a "Fat-free" "calorie-free" "Sugar-free" peanut butter can actually exist. I mean really? It's peanut butter...it's practically synonomous with fattening. The cliche, "If it's to good to be true, then it probably is" comes to mind. While I hardly have to explain this one, it's certainly no secret that booze ranks high on the list. What DOESN'T look good at two-thirty in the morning after a liquor-fueled saturday night? Chinese leftovers, peanut butter totally scooped right out of the jar, and cold pizza...SUPERSIZE ME! So, it seems, alcohol not only has the proclivity to induce bad choices regarding MEN, but it also may do so with food. Lovely. I'm not sure if this one goes for anybody else, but my car seems to be quite a culprit for snacking (read: bingeing). I would be seriously embarrassed if anyone could telepathically read the mental struggle that goes on in my mind anytime I pass a store that sells nuts in bulk. Two things: 1) Somehow buying nuts by the weight hijacks my psyche (and resolve) into believing that if I only buy a small amount, its impossible to overdo it. Wrong. I know better. I know my self, well enough to know that when I want something, I'm going to have it, even if it means marching right back in a half hour later and buying another bag of $0.90 macadamia nuts..shameful, i tell ya. 2) I have been disillusioned to think that if I consume something in my car, it's calories magically disappear, and it doesnt really count. wrong again. Really though? Can't we go back to elementary school where there's do overs and chance-y's? Apparantly, my thighs seem to think not.

In thinking about my own weapons of mass diet destruction, i have to admit they are pretty sneaky. It's kinda ridiculous that while I remain completely aware, I refuse to duck and cover...err, I mean avoid these sabotages at all costs. No, that would be to easy, and who likes to do things the easy way? As the past would prove, CERTAINLY not me. Learn from my mistake so I don't fail myself once again? What fun would THAT be? Oh, right I wouldn't know. But as soon as I do, I'll let ya know.

Allergies

We all have reactions to different people and circumstances. When our reaction is negative, or anything less than satisfactory, i think it's an internal volcanic eruption signaling "sucky"...so here's what I'm allergic to:

1) Carbs. They make me break out in fat.

2) People who drop the f-bomb way to much. Diahrea forms in my eardrums.

3) Complainers/Whiners. I get an irritating headache which results in bitch-out backlash.

Just had to shed a few of my rants. What are you allergic to?

The Gospel according to Erin

The Ten Commandments of Love, Life and everything in between.

1) The whole, "Nothing is perfect" couldn't be more off. Instead, EVERYTHING IS PERFECT. It's all a matter of perspective. Things are what we make them, and perception is everything. I know, I know, hardship by its very nature is hard. Translation..sucky. BUT, and there is a but, the silver lining of hardship is always growth. and that is good. So maybe your too-tight skinny jeans don't feel perfect, but its motivation to get into fighting form. A swift kick in the ass never feels fun at first, but look closer. Look deeper. Because when you only see the surface, it's pretty tough to not be shallow.

2) God didn't create the world in a day. So don't expect yourself to be able to either. It's all about babysteps, guys. Doing small things everyday to bring you closer to your goal seems tedious. I of all people am a "NOW" kinda gal. I want results immediately. I'm all about the bing, bang, zoom. Pump out a 10 page paper in one sitting--no sweat. Spend a whole Sunday doing laundry--fine. But maybe it's not so all-or-nothing. It's simple. Our lives are a masterpiece. OUR masterpiece. Do you really want to rush through it so that something is on the canvas? Or would taking time to perfect it be a better representation? So don't rush the process, take each day one watercolored brush-stroke at a time.

3) Dating and Mating. It's a dangerous duo. But if there's one thing I've learned it's: Never give away more of yourself, than you can afford to lose. Dating is fun, pretty low steaks, but throw in mating (sorry mom) and get ready to up the ante. Committing to someone takes a certain level of security, not only in the other person, but more importantly in yourself. I've found it very difficult to love someone, when I'm consumed with hating myself. So the take away? Before being able to be happy with someone else, make sure you're happy with yourself. It may not be the perfect yellow brick road to success, but it's certainly better than a traffic-jammed freeway commute.

...alright, my creative mojo is weaning so rather than half-ass my thoughts onto this post I'm going to resume tomorrow. Even Moses took his time before God slated His 10!

Fortunately

It amazes me how easy it is to take things for granted. How often do we go about life, doing or even COMPLAINING about the day-today? Sometimes it takes losing something to fully appreciate how much we actually value it. Today my knee hurt. really bad. Just as I was getting back into the swing of running, a chore I typically bitch and moan about doing, I fell captive to a bum knee that throbbed and ached with every step I took today. It made me think, "Wow, all those times I complained about having to go to the gym..all those times I angrily cursed the treadmill..." What I wouldn't give to be able to have a full run. At this point, my usual protest of being too tired would be welcomed over the shooting pain that pulsed through my knee. As I begrudgingly hobbled off the treadmill, I wished (prayed) for a pain-free knee. I tried to bargain with God by mentally promising not to complain again if only He would heal my knee. Turns out the gym isn't a swap meet, and God isn't a geenie. But He is a good teacher. Maybe the lesson wasn't about running at all. I took away a message about gratitude. Instead of blindly operating throughout my day, I decided it was time to take inventory of my blessings. Take our cars for example. How often do we buckle up and stress about the gas tank, or complain about the mess in the backseat? Imagine how much more difficult life would be WITHOUT the luxury of a car. Thank GOODNESS I have a vehicle that operates. Without it, how would I get to work? Run errands to the grocery store? All the little mundane things that require us to get from point "A" to point "B". Wow, all of a sudden having a dirty car seems pretty insignificant in the grand scope of things. In true self-help form I forced myself to think of 20 things I take for granted and list them....So here they are

1) My healthy, functioning body (knees included)

2) My car

3) Computer

4) Cell phone

5) Fridge

6) Couch (If you knew me when i lived on Missouri St. you'd know that actual furniture is a big step up from my minimalist beach chair motif)

7) eyes--God, I love reading, I'd be screwed without my vision!

8) My bank account--humble yes, but adequate

9)Shoes--being barefoot all day would make for one hell of a long day

10) Clear..ish skin--don't know how pretty your skin is until its covered in zits--gross, i know. but true.

11) Arms--yes they may be fat, but I'm sure glad I have two arms to help me haul all my crap

12) My mind--although sometimes it works against me, I am so thankful I have all of my faculties and can process the world around me.

13) Love..'nough said

14) Mentors--Who knows how hard life would be without someone to ask and answer questions.

15) Health insurance.

16) my computer!!!!

17) ipod--it would take at least twice the motivation to get me to the gym without it.

18) my apartment...i love coming home to what's MINE

19) My bed--totally comfy and welcoming after a long day.

20) God--Even when ego causes me to lose sight, I can always count on God to stick around.

So, take some inventory. What are the "needs" in your life? What would it be like without them? It goes along with being present, but I challenge you to take an hour of the day to focus on what you do, what you use, what you depend on--and appreciate that which makes them possible. It shouldn't take losing something for us to start appreciating it. Now go out there are appreciate your heart out!

What is "right"?

There are some days where its as if everything just makes complete and total sense. There is order, reason behind the day--and advantage to the present circumstance. But there are also other days. Days when you question EVERYTHING. Days when what made total sense a mere 24 hours ago, is completely cast into question at the present. So how do you know if the present circumstance is "right"? Is there some sort of life measuring stick that tells you your right on track? And if your not on track, does shit have to totally hit the fan before you wake up and get your ass in gear? What does it take?

Well, for me--I wonder that very thing. Am i wasting the blessings I've got? I think the real answer to whether or not a person is on track lies precisely on their happiness barometer. Am I as happy as I want to be? If not, why NOT? What is it that keeps me from being 100% satisfied, and why am I not just reaching out and grabbing it? Is it really that simple? What if what makes you happy can't be acquired by simply flipping a switch---do you have to spend the interim being miserable? Maybe happiness lies in the process. Maybe it's not some linear equation that unfolds nice and systematically. Maybe, just maybe, real happiness is in the REACH toward "happiness" (Whatever that maybe for someone) rather than the actually "happiness" itself. What if, it were possible to draw happiness towards you like a magnet by simply enjoying the process. SO maybe you have to force yourself at first, fake like trying really hard is actually a load of fun...fool yourself into loving the journey than fantasizing about the finish line. Afterall, the finishline is only as great as the road leading up to it. Do the "right" thing.

Choices

Choices

In some ways the most basic human function can be seen as making choices. When stopping to consider the millions of choices we make in a day, it is remarkable and quite impressive to see how our attitude and perception might mitigate our actions. From deciding to sleep in to choosing to be kind----we become "mind-managing" machines. So, it seems, if our minds control our behaviors, what controls our minds? Is it past experience? Intuition? Luck? What causes some of us to do one thing while others another? And what makes some choices "good" while others are "bad"? Who gets to decide that? Is it the same for everyone, or person-specific? Well, when it comes to the self (where I think it must FIRST begin), I think that each individual bears an internal compass, guiding them in the direction that offers the best route for the greater good. . The choices we make, or fail to make, often leave us with a certain sensation that either pleases or displeases us. So ,how do we control which direction our compass points? For me, it has to start with listening. Perhaps this is the most difficult starting place. I wish i could say that my regrettable choices were simply a matter of not KNOWING what was right for the situation....but that would be a cop-out. Instead, I am usually slightly (if not wholly) aware of what is in my best interest, I just lack the complacency to exercise the necessary patience or persistence. Maybe intuition is like a muscle, the more you listen and trust it, the stronger and more reliable it becomes. I guess this could be considered the mental weight-lifting of our souls. Never easy to start, but as you strengthen the weight eases up and so do our minds. Have a good day everyone. And dont forget, only YOU can make tat choice ;)

flow

To be in "flow" sounds like some sort of flowery state of being-something professed by self-help gurus, suggesting that people follow their passion and pursue their destiny. Certainly the IDEA of flow sounds pleasant and simple.... but is it really as easy as that? As a child, doing what you love seems to come so naturally. It is as simple as putting on a soccer uniform or tickling the keys of a piano--eerily free of self-doubt and subsequent sabotage. Nothing to remind you of the risk of failure. As an adult, it seems as though doing what I love is no longer quite so risk-free. After having moderate amounts of success throughout my school career and now as a working professional, I have grown comfortable with the feeling of being "good" at what I do. I find a certain ease in resting assured my efforts will be applauded...with either a pay check or pat on the back. In a way, I feel safe. Safe in knowing that what i do is not connected to me. It is not an extension of my heart, the way that my true passion, writing is. I'd be willing to bet there are more people out there that find safety behind the shield of doing what gets them by, rather than what they're passionate about. Pursuing your passion is taking a risk-- it's leaving the guarantee of today in search of the pleasure of tomorrow. Stepping away from your safety net and jumping off the high dive of adult life into the pool of passion is a little bit like losing your virginity. It's a time when you stand metaphorically naked, hoping that others see and validate your efforts--showing you that indeed you ARE as good as you had thought. Pursuing what you love to do is like stepping out on a limb and hoping the branch doesnt snap below your footing and leave you crashing down towards the eons of self-doubt you've backlogged over the years. Its giving it a shot, doing your best and being entirely vulnerable in the process. Vulnerability seems to be a paralizing fear for may of us. What if I'm not as good as i thought? What if no one sees value in what i do? What if i just don't cut it? And on and on, until you come to the ultimate conclusion of how to avoid all of those what-if's....What if I just don't ever try. So there we sit. In the comfort of never failing. In the comfort of never being naked. Always covered up and buttoned in security. But does there ever come a point when the wardrobe just seems to tight? What will it take for us to look in the mirror and shed our starched garments for the curve of sensual vulnerability? I don't know. But I'm going to find out. One blog at a time.