Susan Mary Malone's Blog: Happiness is a Story, page 31

HERE I AM CRANKY, HAPPY, AND A SIDE OF REGRET

So, I plan my life. Meticulously. Wearing 4 distinct hats, each of the endeavors under them pretty much a full-time job. I sometimes end up panting at one time or another during the day. You know the drill—where you’re racing to keep pace with the insanity of your life. You’re keeping up, but that’s about it. And all you need is one good stub of a toe and everything goes to hell in the proverbial handbasket.

I want things to work out. I need things to work out. And when they don’t, I regret it.

And I don’t believe in regret.

 

Of course, the latter is philosophical and the former, real life. But it takes a bit sometimes to get from the event to the realization. That’s kinda what they call living.

 

Anyhow, after all my research and planning and hands-on and dollars, after the progesterone testing and collecting/shipping and the AIs, even after being pregnant, my girl reabsorbed her babies. Sigh. (At least I’m to ‘sigh’ now.) I got to go through all the stages of grief again, over something most folks would look at me askance that it hurt so. Then again, those folks aren’t dog breeders! My breeder friends understand entirely.

 

And no, I didn’t lose a dear friend to a horrible disease (which I have this year, and the one before), didn’t suffer a career setback (which I have this year). Didn’t lose something beloved to me. My furr kids and I are all safe and warm and dry (and my God, as I write this, rain is actually falling from the sky! Yahooo!)

 

But a loss is a loss, and has to be grieved. The subconscious has a funny way of bringing that up if we don’t, and sometimes even if we do.

 

Last night I dreamed—vividly—that Siren started giving birth. Simply, easily, with no trauma. I couldn’t wait to call my vet and friends! LOL. She had a black boy, a yellow girl, and a Palomino. What can I say? It was a dream.

 

But what I knew from that was that hope remained for the future. She’s young, she’s healthy, she’s beautiful, and there’s always next time. Sans the Palomino, please.

 

So my crankiness has waned. No, things didn’t work out for me and Siren. Often things just don’t work out. All that new life and puppy breath wasn’t meant to be. Then again, neither was all the work and stress and emotional upheaval, which comes with having a litter.

 

Some lingering irritation remains of course, due to paragraph one here. Dang the timing. But I bet when I look back at some point, I’ll see the reason behind it. Not my plan, mind you, but one that works more effectively than mine do. As the old saying goes: When you want to give the gods a laugh, tell them your plans.

 

I’m smiling and happy again, just because life is, well, life. And that’s a good thing. And now, I regret nothing.

 

And I remember the words of Margaret Thatcher, who did have a few more things to do than I do: “Look at a day when you are supremely satisfied at the end. It’s not a day when you lounge around doing nothing; it’s a day you’ve had everything to do and you’ve done it.”

 

How do you deal with setbacks?

 

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THE BEST ADVICE I EVER GOT

And I thought it was about writing. Well, it was about writing, that part’s for sure. But as art imitates life and vice-versa, this wisdom was about both.

A couple of decades ago I participated in a writer’s group, for many years. And made tons of friends there, many of whom I still have today. I was in my thirties then, and my first night there, I sat next to an old codgery guy who might have been the most irreverent person on the planet. Which was great for me, as irreverence makes me laugh. And I like to laugh. It makes me happy

 

Anyway, I was visiting for the first time and Glen B (no, this wasn’t AA—everyone just always referred to him that way) was quite nice and funny, smoking his pipe (man, would he hate the laws today—we were in The Boys’ Ranch building, and they smoked in the room!). This was a read-and-critique group, and at some point someone read a sex scene. I don’t say love scene because, well, there’s a huge difference. And this was definitely a sex scene.

 

Glen B, sitting next to me, drew stick figures in the position of this writer’s description. Then leaned into me and said, “That’s not possible for humans.”

 

I spit out my coffee laughing. Which was my introduction to the group at large.

 

But anyway, his advice has stuck with me. Not the drawing-of-humans-having-sex advice, but what he said later.

 

Come to find out, Glen B wrote normal fiction, but he made his living writing dirty Westerns.

 

I didn’t even know such a genre existed, but found that very night not only does it exist, but it’s a perennial seller. And Glen B actually made his living writing them. Who knew! The genre is fairly formulaic (he and a host of writers wrote The Trailsman series, about Sky Fargo. It calls for the usual Western flair only in addition the hero is superman on a horse and rides across the country getting laid. Okay, so he does other things too, but you have to include a minimum of 3 graphic sex scenes (again, these are not love scenes). As the series description says: “Never met a challenge—or a woman—he couldn’t conquer.”  And conquer he does.  Glen B had to churn one out every 6 weeks, for which he was paid, well, a lot. An amount that boggled the mind of this then-starving writer.

 

In fact, once he got sick and was dying, he had the publisher offer me the contract. It was tempting, I can tell ya. I was living on $500 a month, growing my own food, and even making my own beer. And giving the latter as Christmas presents on account of I couldn’t afford to buy much more than yeast and hops. Just a year of writing this series would heal me . . .

 

But I didn’t, in the end. And not for snooty reasons, but because with the volume of writing required, I wouldn’t have time to write my own stuff. And I had gotten pretty attached to writing my fiction by that point.

 

Anyhow, to ‘take that contract’ wasn’t his best advice to me either. Well, who knows—it mighta been had I taken it.

 

Glen B was the first person to tell me that putting together a plot is like pinning clothes to a line. And it’s all about the order you pin them that makes for a good plot or a boring one. That clarified so much for me. It was great advice to a budding author. But still not the pearl I’m referring to.

 

Glen B loved to express his opinion and give advice, but whether you took it was none of his business. Actually, he didn’t care. By then he was on to spouting his next wisdom.

 

That advice I still use? And can hear his voice say? It’s not Earth-shattering. And you’ve heard it before. But spoken from a brilliant, witty, irreverent, hoot of a man as he was dying, well, it lodged in me and has never waned.

 

Simply: “Nothing is ever wasted. Nothing.”

 

Again, he was speaking about writing as I bemoaned some failed novel or another. But he knew, and I knew, that wasn’t all he meant.

 

And as these decades have passed, and I still see and hear him, the truth of that statement has stayed with me, both in writing and in life. Ideas and characters and even plot pieces of failed work have often been woven into new stories. Ah, the tears I had shed over their deaths all those years before, only to see them resurrected in a fresh way. All the times I’ve stubbed my toe, thinking I’d broken my leg, figuratively, with one crazy choice or another. The time I’ve thought I’ve wasted, lost on some wrong turn or another . . .

 

And then, behold and lo, something I learned or gained comes into play in a decision I’m making today.

 

And each and every time, I think of Glen B . . .

 

What’s the best advice you’ve ever heard?

 

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BEFORE YOU CAN FIND BLISS DO THIS: READ

I saw the most amazing thing on the Today Show yesterday morning. Warmed my heart, caused my serotonin levels to shoot through the roof, and of course it centered around a topic I’m crazily passionate about: Reading.

Oh, my God, do I love to read. Always have. Even before I could do so myself, my entire family read to me (I was the baby:). And still today one of the biggest angst-producers in my life is not having enough time to read for pleasure, as I still read for a living (which I love).

 

My friends read, and often we sit around and talk of books we’ve loved (or didn’t). And like me, many were read to at a young age. I’ve always believed and still do today that it forms a part of our bond 

 

But anyhow, this Today story focused on Dr. Carolyn Boone, a pediatrician, and part of a nonprofit program called “Reach Out and Read,” started by Dr. Robert Needlman twenty-five years ago, which gives out new books at children’s checkups to promote reading to their young patients, and encouraging parents to read to them.

 

Now, over 20,000 medical providers engage in the program, giving out prescriptions for reading with health advice.

 

Did my blood ever rush!  And in that moment, I found Bliss.

 

Reading is the gateway to the Universe. It opens worlds. It asks questions. It answers everything from what is my potential to why am I so unhappy. And always, always, reading assures us: I am not alone.

 

We know that children who are read to (from the earliest ages, but at least starting at six months) have higher language-development skills, which is a critical predictor of school success. Wow, it’s that easy.

 

And the benefits just continue from there—in logarithmic progressions.

 

Even today, nothing soothes my soul as deeply as sitting with a great book. Beit a perfect novel, a work of self-help, a spiritual text—all feed my soul.

 

A world without books would be one I would step off of . . .

 

And back to Dr. Boone. She practices in the inner city, giving hope to God alone knows how many families. She treats, as she says, “body, mind and soul. Reading is just as important as immunizations, it’s making sure that the brain develops and teaches parents to interact with their children because that develops language.”

 

She smiles and says, “It all starts with a book.”

 

The kids she’s treated are going to college in huge numbers.

 

And her own story?

 

A product of a teenage pregnancy, she was raised by a foster mother on a small farm, without even running water. But, they had books.

 

“Even though we were poor,” Dr. Boone said, “I could travel all over the world. I could be anyone. I could be the Queen of England if I wanted to be . . . in a book.”

 

She became a doctor, and dedicated her life to low-income families. “I think,” she said, “I am the American Dream.”

 

Indeed. Indeed, she is.

 

And it all started with a book . . .

 

How often have you been transported through the universe by a book?

 

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HAPPINESS, HORSES AND BACK PORCHES

My characters always end up on porches.

I mean, all the time. Literally, all the time. In I Just Came here to Dance, we spend much of the novel sitting on the porch, telling and enacting myths. Both passions of mine   The novel is a myth within a myth, so that makes sense. But I’ve written countless short stories, another novel, and a novella (neither of which I’ve submitted yet), and the new novel I’m working on where folks tend to sit on a porch somewhere. Not that other action doesn’t exist, but so much of the meanings are discerned from under wooden awnings, either coffee cup or wine glass in hand. All the stories are quite different, but somehow their people just like those porches.

 

My favorite is when horses or dogs frolic in the front yards. What better view? LOL. And both beasts tend to factor into my fiction as well. In On the Porch with Proust, our main character rekindles her love of riding (okay, so she’s tricked into it!) and her passions burst forth once more. Anyone who has ever loved a horse knows that the kinship never leaves you. You may not ride again for four hundred years, but when you do, it’s like your seat never left the saddle.

 

But back to the porch. In olden days, people spent their evenings on porches, when the Texas heat began to wane and the soughing of the day’s dying breeze cooled the skin. When Mourning Dove sang their keening lament to the last of the butterscotch rays. It was a time of connection, to discuss the events of the day, to relax, to tell stories and laugh with one another. For kinship. And to make sense of the ever-crazier world.

 

What a different planet from the one of today, where evenings are spent online, on smart phones, watching TV. Maybe the family supped together. Probably it didn’t. We’ve all read the studies on how this ‘always-connected’ culture is so vastly disconnected from one another. In a time when someone across the globe is literally at our fingertips, we don’t know the people in our living rooms.

 

And we’re all aware of that, right? I, too, am virtually connected. We all are, pretty much. It’s the world we live in, the reality of our today.

 

But when company comes to my home, we sit outside on one of my porches. Yes, I have more than one. In fact, I added onto my house so that in whatever weather, there’s a porch with a rocker or swing that’s either protected from the winter wind, out in the spring sunshine, under a fan and in full reception of the summer breeze. We do a lot of porch sitting  No TV. My cell phone stays inside. We focus on one another and what’s happening in each other’s worlds. Kinda like our ancestors did.

 

I went to my good friends Nancy and Leon’s a few weeks ago. A beautiful fall Sunday. Where yep, we sat on their back porch, their Labradors at our feet. No horses but show heifers in our line of sight. Wine glasses in hand. (Okay, so the guys had beer.) And made sense of the world.

 

That’s what connects us. Reinforces our bond. That’s what makes me happy and smiling and ready to take on the work week ahead. Recharged.

 

And it always reminds me of Bob Hope’s definition of Happiness: “When we recall the past, we usually find that it is the simplest things – not the great occasions – that in retrospect give off the greatest glow of happiness.”

 

Yes, sir!

 

And I’d say I was becoming an old fuddy duddy, had I not done this all my life 

 

What great insights have you gleaned sitting on someone’s back porch?

 

 

 

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BRIE, TURKEY, FAMILY AND STRESS 5 Tips to Surviving the Holidays

The holidays are approaching, love them or not. And don’t’cha just love Norman Rockwell? I especially love that painting of the family at their holiday table, the mom looking all proud as her beautiful turkey gets served, the kids joyous but seemingly well-behaved, the dad all smiles. Brings back the fondest of memories, no? And a feeling that all is well with the world.

I can hear people hooting. Because who, exactly, had that holiday?

 

In my family of origin, holidays took on an odd tone once we lost a family member, tragically, and never quite recovered to the joyous occasions of myths and stories. Still and yet, we loved each other and did the best we could, finding simple enjoyment in one another’s company. Norman Rockwell though, it wasn’t.

 

And now, every year I hear horror stories from many friends about how awful their Thanksgiving was (and mind you, we’re all fairly old at this point!). Mom treated the sister better. The brother-in-law got sloshed and made inappropriate moves on (pick a relative!). Uncle Fred brought his latest in a line of trashy bottle-blonds and groped her under the table, although everyone knew. The list goes on and on and on.

 

What is it about holidays that brings out the worst in folks? Especially in families? Why amidst all the wonderful roast turkey, the luscious brie beforehand, all the fixin’s and champagne does tension fill the air so thick the butter knife won’t begin to cut it and you have to use the electric-carving variety?

 

Families is why.

 

None of us grew up with Norman Rockwell, and most people carry into adulthood unhealed wounds. Those get stuffed tighter than that Thanksgiving turkey, glossed over like the butter glaze, and we think baking it all in high heat will kill the emotional bacteria. Funny thing about those pesky bugs though, they thrive in the warm and dark.

 

So, get everybody together—even the sisters who haven’t spoken all year—toss in a timetable to get it all done and eaten before the Cowboys start playing (this is the South. LOL), and mix it all with enough wine or champagne to float Washington’s army across the Delaware, and, well, talk about a recipe for a drowning disaster!

 

All those hurt feelings get flushed smooth out, and before you know it, somebody has said something hurtful (which of course she actually meant, but had never been angry or drunk or whatever enough to say), somebody has stomped out, Mom starts to cry and Dad either yells or goes into another room to get saved by the NFL.

 

And eeeeekkkk! They have to do it all over again in a few weeks at Christmas!

 

God save us all.

 

My co-author brother (a psychiatrist), Gary L. Malone, and I talk about this in depth in What’s Wrong with My Family? And there are things you can do to prepare for the inevitable, and then to treat the wounded once the battle is over and the smoke has cleared. And here’s the big thing: “The key is to not let others, even your well-meaning (or not!) family control who you are or how you feel. If you cannot do this, it’s like having a button on your chest that anyone can hit to elicit the emotion of his choosing. In other words, if you don’t control how you feel, you’ve just given the power to do so to those crazy relatives.”

 

So what’s a holiday seeker to do?

1. First and foremost: Dig down and find your own wounds from growing up in your family. We all have them. All of us. Try not to do this during the holidays!

2. Deal with those wounds—on your own. So many ways exist to deal with childhood trauma. Books, groups, therapy, etc. Get a handle on what happened, how it affected you, and what you need to do to get past it.

3. This doesn’t require confronting folks. But if you choose/need to do that, avoid holidays! Every year someone tells me their (pick a relative) chose the Thanksgiving table to declare he was gay, she was pregnant, or that Uncle Henry molested one of them. Eeeekkk! There’s a time and place.

4. Realize that your family is, well, your family. And no matter what happened, they always will be. The best families are those who deal with their issues—in whatever manner—realize they’re all flawed, but love each other anyway (even if they really don’t like Uncle Fred!). You can always still love someone you don’t particularly like, and have a pleasant conversation at holidays.

5. Find Forgiveness. Which as we all know, isn’t about excusing the behavior. Might never even be spoken to the person. It’s about healing your own heart, and putting down that weight you’ve been carrying. It’s often amazing once you do, how the big ogre turns into a ridiculous caricature, and how insanely funny his antics become. Laugh. And laugh with that sister who was mad at your before. Laughter really is a great healer.

 

Because, as Norman Mclean said in the iconic A River Runs Through It, “It is those we live with who most elude us. But, you can love completely without complete understanding . . . “

 

We literally cannot escape our families, so in the meantime, pass me another slice of brie and some more champagne!

 

How do you plan to survive the upcoming holidays?

 

 

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HAPPINESS IS A BRICK WALL

Man, don’t you just hate when you ram into a wall? You know, you’re motoring at break-neck speed, clicking things off your list, charged with inspiration and happier than a hummingbird in sugar water. And then, wham! Out of nowhere looms an immovable object smack dab in your way.

And you’ve just slammed into it. What’s a person to do?

 

At first of course you can’t do one danged thing. You have to sit back, try and un-dizzy your head before you can even take a breath. Force a swallow to ease your queasy stomach. Let the tears flow for a time and then dry them. Then inhale long and see what’s left once the sorrowful dust settles.

 

Life is like that. When we start something new or renew an old dream, we aren’t thinking of obstacles, but rather, focusing on the goal. We think positive and smile and feel the enjoyment of the fruits of our labors. We don’t listen to naysayers but only those encouraging voices (from within and without) telling us, “We got this!” And then . . .

 

A great spiritual teacher of mine, Charlotte Dunhill, always says that when you take a stand for something right, all the wrongs rise up to test you. And that idea sure helps me to continue once that happens—knowing that the crap comes to squash the good. That at least gets me over the hump of self-pity, realizing that I’m not the only cosmic fluke in this universe. And one step past that is to focus back on the goal and see how to get through that stinking wall.

 

Because we know that’s gonna happen. I guess there are successful folks who’ve never hit a wall in their pursuits, but I don’t actually know them personally. The people I know get to walk through lots of trials and tribulations on the way to glory, whether in the sporting arena or reaching for the brass ring in their chosen fields.

 

Authors know this oh-so-well. Rejection is a given in this game. Whether it’s criticism from a writer’s group, a no from a much-wanted agent, getting agented and then a no from the absolutely perfect publishing house for your book (although they still don’t know it!), the book coming out and a bad review—the list is endless. All writers feel (and tell me every day! LOL) that in their naivety, they wanted to hear of their first novels: “Not a word needs changing. You are Nobel material.” And every variation on that theme.

 

I think that comes with the narcissism especially required for writing a novel. You have to believe in your own greatness, or you’d never have the fortitude to even begin this in the first place, much less follow the process through. It’s quite daunting, actually, on all levels. The deepest of course being that your core is literally bared. We’re not selling bread dough here, but our very hearts and souls. And rejection in those places smarts a bit.

 

But every person who strives for a goal faces rejection and setbacks at some point. And of course we all know that it’s in the getting up and dusting off of things that greatness truly lies. It’s the fortitude to keep going when your dreams are shattered that separates the women from the girls.

 

I actually think cats have the best idea. When one misses its mouse, it doesn’t sit there and beat itself up, thinking ‘I’m such a bad mouser. I’ll never catch my prey. I’ll never hunt again!’ No. The cat licks its paws, waves its tail, if anything thinks, ‘Stupid mouse,’ and goes to find another to slay. Difficult to effect if you’re a human rather than a feline, but that attitude helps me.

 

And oh, the happiness, the outright joy that then scaling, chipping through, blowing up—however you get past that wall—gives you! What an accomplishment! And it makes all of the heartache worth it, and then some. Even if you’re the only person in the world who truly knows what you went through, you know. And there is such nobility in that.

 

Because as the beautiful Randy Pausch said, “The brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. Because the brick walls are there to stop the people who don’t want it badly enough. They’re there to stop the other people.”

 

How do you get through yours?

 

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MOTIVATION IS A LUXURY FOR THE AMATUER

Man, the world is filled with motivators these days! It’s a whole industry unto itself. And I love to read their quotes, as those really do kick me in the butt to get stuff done. And a great attitude is infectious. Makes you want to jump in and do, well, whatever it is that you do!

I’m a motivator as well with my editorial clients. Almost always when a writer gets back the initial edit and critique, the first and main feeling is of being overwhelmed. Writing well, especially fiction and narrative nonfiction, has more elements to it than fire ants pouring out of a mound. As I often open with when speaking at literary conferences: “Writing well really IS rocket science.”

 

And so often when writers see their Mt Everest looming ahead, viewed from far below at base camp, the first response is to chuck those climbing shoes, pick up their tents, and call for the helicopter to fly them the heck out of there.

 

My job is to make sure they don’t actually hitch that ride home.

 

Almost always I can get them to take deep breaths, quit looking at the far far peak or the immediate abyss of a crevasse, and focus instead on the first step. And then the second. After that I have them hiking up the hill until they’re too far up to quit. And by then, they don’t want to stop, the summit growing closer by the day.

 

It’s the same with my own writing. If I were to set out to write a whole book, well, I’d need to lie down with an umbrella drink in hand after a good cry.

Because even the idea of it is too daunting! So instead, I focus on one scene. And then on the next one. And then on . . . Well, you get the picture. An old friend once likened writing a book to pinning scenes on a clothes line. Every book has the same sort of plot (there are no new ones, Aristotle said, a fair number of years back), and the difference is in how you pin those scenes together. Don’t you just love that?

 

Wait! You say. I thought we were talking motivation? We are, we are, just in a roundabout way. Which reminds me of—No! See, I can stop myself from digressing, at least now and then.

 

But the point being we all need motivation. And to be motivated. And to give that to others. It keeps our work moving in the direction of our dreams. Because you can of course dream forever but if you don’t take out your pickaxe and start chopping away at that hill, you’ll never reach the peak.

 

Motivation really is a luxury for the amateur, who doesn’t understand the vital part it plays. But it’s daily fare for the professional.

 

And while the latter finds motivation in all sorts of places, it ultimately must come from within. That’s where greatness originates—from within your breast.

 

I’ve always been fond of Steve Jobs’ take on this: “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.”

 

Yep, find and use motivation from all sources. But mainly, excavate it from your own heart. Because that’s the music that causes you to desire to dream and dance in the first place. And as Paula Ann Fairbanks says at the end of I Just Came here to Dance, “. . . once you catch the rhythm, the flow becomes endless.”

 

How do you get motivated?

 

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STOP TRYING TO BE HAPPY AND FOLLOW YOUR BLISS

STOP TRYING TO BE HAPPY AND FOLLOW YOUR BLISS

Happiness. Everybody’s looking for it. I just googled the word and 40,000 hits came instantly up. Even I, a confirmed non-techy, realize that translates to lots of folks chasing it.

But what is happiness? And how do you find it?

 

The dictionary says: ‘Happiness results from the possession or attainment of what one considers good.’ Now, that’s about a lame description! And I know tons of folks (I’m sure you do too) who worked tirelessly to achieve what they considered to be good, only to find in the end they weren’t happy after all. And then they were pissed about that in addition to not being happy. Talk about adding insult to injury!

 

As everyone likes to say: Money can’t buy you happiness.

No, but it can sure buy you freedom. And if freedom is what makes you happy, then viola! Happy you are. But if you were looking for money itself to fix your life, not-so-happy you are. Dang that money anyway.

 

How often do we, especially in youth, believe that a soul mate will make us happy? That one person who, famously from Tom Cruise’s movie-roll lips, “completes me.” Eeeek! If you need someone to complete you, I strongly suggest therapy! Happy relationships don’t start co-dependently (except in movies). That sort of relationship is going to come with surging highs, but also troubles and trials and precarious lows that take you back to not-so-happy once more.

 

Often I hear folks say to fake being happy until you are. But I always thought Deepak Chopra, MD, had the best answer to this when he called it mood-making. It’s not real. And will slip right off like a runaway in the night.

 

Of course we all know that happiness is not a thing we achieve by striving for it. That’s like trying to hold water in your hand—the tighter you grip, the more liquid you lose. I always loved Victor Frankl’s take on it: “But happiness cannot be pursued; it must ensue. One must have a reason to ‘be happy.’ Once the reason is found, however, one becomes happy automatically.”

 

Yep.

 

It’s like those moments of inspiration (inhaling spirit) where you take off at a mad gallop after characters running through your story.

Or at least, that’s what inspiration is to me  The world around you blurs at the edges and your heart patters and time stands still while that thing races on and you are oh-so-happy to chase it. Ah, now that’s bliss!

 

One of my favorite people who ever lived on this planet was Joseph Campbell, and I’ve studied him forever. Probably long before I even knew I was enamored with his work. His ‘follow your bliss’ lives between the lines of almost all great works of spiritual teachers, from days or yore to modern times. It’s what the real myths teach.

 

And it’s that very thing talked about above—that running with the wind at your back when the goal isn’t even the thing, the sheer joy of flying being meaning unto itself. Because it’s in following our bliss we find that happiness has tagged along for the ride. It indeed ensues, as Frankl says, without being pursued.

 

And once you find and follow that bliss, then it becomes so abundantly clear, as Pharrell sings, that “happiness is the truth.”

 

Bliss to me is writing and stories and characters run amok and trying to see if they can dig themselves out. It’s words and the turning of a phrase that tweaks you oh-so-happily. It’s reading other great authors and falling in love with their people and places and plotlines.

 

So that’s happiness and bliss to me—what’s yours?

 

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THE TRUTH ABOUT MEN AND HOLIDAY SHOPPING, OR AT LEAST MY VERSION OF IT

Okay, the holidays are still a ways away. But don’t tell Walmart! Christmas stuff lines the shelves. Yikes! And every year, the same problem arises.

And, well, this is some sort of cosmic joke—requiring men to actually shop for presents. There are those rare beasts who actually like and are good at it. They do exist. I’ve even known some of them. But most would rather wade through a mine field naked. And we all know how they value their private parts.

 

I had a boyfriend once who actually did all of his Christmas shopping the night before—at the Mart. Every bit of it. And he was a man of means, educated, and otherwise fairly normal for the male of the species. But he went through the aisles Christmas Eve, buying with abandon, spending boatloads of money, and always crowing about the great deals he got. He claimed to be a man of efficiency. Although I would question how well his sixteen-year-old niece was gonna like the Cabbage Patch doll, or some version thereof. Of course the answer was a baffled expression.

 

And baffled is how most of them are with shopping for gifts. The idea of planning rarely enters the picture. And we gotta remember these guys are hunters, rather than gatherers such as ourselves. They see, they shoot, they bag the game. Wooly Mammoth slain. With a satisfied smile.

 

Most of the married men I know let their wives do the shopping. One of my brothers does this. The other does his own and is actually good at it—getting personalized gifts I treasure. But he’s the rare animal out there.

 

I’m not saying spouses doing the shopping is a bad thing. Most of the time women gatherers make lists and buy nice gifts. They’re just usually not terribly personal. Give me one that says “Me” any day, no matter how odd the spouse sees it. One of my favs of recent memory is brother Gary’s gift of a seat from Cowboys’ stadium when they were tearing it down. Mine is authenticated and signed by Troy Aikman! For a lifetime Cowboys’ fan like me, ah! I’m sure my sister-in-law thinks we’re both nuts. And I have to confess most females would be unimpressed. But, ah!

 

For most of them though, you gotta give them some help. At least where your own gift is concerned. Even if he likes to shop, you better insert some subtle hints unless you’re comfortable with alpaca-wool-knitted caps from Peru. I am not making that up—one of my husbands gave me several one year. I have never worn a wool cap in my life. And I’m sure he spent a good deal of money on it. Oh, and another year I got a black-fringe jacket—I mean fringe, all over it. I could only see me as a pole dancer come on stage, to rip it off and reveal . . . Well, you get the picture. And I bet it cost a boatload too. Ten years later, it hangs in my closet in pristine condition. I’m many things but pole dancing has never struck my fancy, despite the recent craze.

 

Give him a list. I know, how unsexy is that. And so often women resist, resentful that their man can’t ‘know them well enough’ to buy a thoughtful gift. But honestly, their brains aren’t wired that way. One thing I learned (very well!) while writing Five Keys for Understanding Men, with my psychiatrist brother co-author (yes, the one who bought me the Cowboys’ seat! Ah!), is that men are wired way different from how we are. It’s the testosterone. Really. Poisons their wee brains shortly after conception but it gives us things we like too 

 

And it’s not that they can’t change, but do you really want to push the river uphill? Some battles are worth fighting, even necessary. But presents . . . Or more to the point, expecting them to know what the female wants and will appreciate, well, energy can be spent more effectively in other areas.

 

Tell him what you want. Men do so well with that! Whether in the bedroom or from Saks, he’ll appreciate the heck out of it. And you’ll get what you wanted in the first place. What could be better?

 

Make it easy for him. Truly. It’ll make everybody happy. Two easy ways:

• Have your man save a wishlist as a note on his phone. When he’s lost at Neiman’s, at the press of a button is your fav gift! Now he’s smiling.

• Create an Amazon wish list he can choose from. Problem solved!

 

How do you get the men in your life through the holidays?

 

The post THE TRUTH ABOUT MEN AND HOLIDAY SHOPPING, OR AT LEAST MY VERSION OF IT appeared first on Susan Mary Malone.

AM I CRAZY OR ARE THE HORMONES TALKING? 4 Ways to Tell

Men. We love ‘em, no? They make us dizzy, drive us crazy, they baffle and irritate us and yet, we can’t live with or without them. But what’s driving the train here? Your head, your heart, or are hormones running amok?

In my life anyway, the latter has often ruled. Although so many reasons exist why we enter into relationships, for most women anyway, through most of our lives, we’re driven by hormones that cause us to nest.

 

Horrors! Say feminists. Of which I confess I am one. Feminism to me is just the fact that women are competent, capable, worth every employment cent that men are, and get to be in charge of their own bodies. I’ve never burned a bra (chiefly because I don’t have one of those bodies where you can go bra-less. LOL).

 

But no matter how we want to refute it, hormones drive us.

 

Through most of our lives, oxytocin, which is about a billion times stronger in women than men, drives us to nest. While testosterone drives men to do all sort of insane things (reference Five Keys to Understanding Men!), female hormones make us every bit as nuts. Just in a different way.

 

I can only laugh at the crazy choices I’ve made with men (my love life has been a continual source of amusement to my friends).

 

What sticks with me most is that so many times, once the pheromone fog lifts, I’m baffled at why I even had lunch with this person, much less invited him into my home! What could I possibly have seen in him? And while I’m not excusing my own insanity of choice, in hindsight I can see where the hormones seduced me.

 

And thank goodness, some wisdom at least comes with age. While I’m not immune to the hormonal onslaught of course, at least now I have the tools to filter them before leaping into the abyss. I know–wiser women learned emotional health much earlier than I did. But hey, you get it when you get it, and I’m happy to have a checklist now.

 

So, how can we filter the feelings through the hormonal lens, and come out with sanity? The “Am I Crazy Test.” About him.

1. Did You Meet Him at the Bar or the Book Club (insert any sane activity here)?

I know it sounds cliché, but I’ve yet to meet one at the bar that I didn’t eventually toss back. And it’s not just that alcohol has a pesky way of making fools look attractive, but we tend to get physical more quickly, which among other things, causes a sea of oxytocin (the bonding hormone) to flood our systems. Attila the Hun morphs instantly into Prince Charming, and man, are we ever screwed. And not in the good way.

As is often said in therapeutic circles: She looked across the room. Their eyes met. Love at first sight! Which just means she’s found someone as sick (psychologically speaking) as she is.

2. Are You Dating Him or His Agent?

I always love the Chris Rock line that when dating a man, you’re actually dating his agent. You know the one—who presents all the stellar things, even if they’re not exactly true, and the ratty stuff is hidden. The agent who’s trying to sell you his client.

And here is where you have to pry! Dig deep under the façade.

• How does he get along with his mother? His sisters? That will tell you exactly what he thinks of women. For my money, this one is paramount. Watch and listen

• Take a trip. Nothing brings out the worst in folks like taking a wrong road, not finding a hotel, losing your luggage. His “agent” at this point will be completely superseded by his real self

• As your mom always said, take it slow. Character is revealed over time. I know—not the sexiest of options, but still true as it was in Mom’s day

• Take time away from him, and spend it with your friends. This accomplishes two things: First, you get to see how possessive he is, which reveals more than we can even begin to talk about here! And second, it gets you out from under the pheromone fog, at least for a while. I once dated a gorgeous sexy man, who made my head spin. But when I wasn’t with him, I didn’t like him much. All of that disappeared when we were together. It was really crazy. And I shoulda paid attention to that crazy—once I broke up with him, he stalked me for months!

As a good buddy of mine used to ask when I started a new relationship: What’s horrible wrong with this one?

We still laugh about it. But find that thing—it’s there.

3. What does your brother think? I know, we usually think more in the line of what does Daddy think. And while that’s quite important, your brother is most likely more in-tune with guys of your age. And if you have a good brother (love mine!), he can cut through the BS quicker than anybody on the planet. He speaks ‘guy’ far better than you ever will. And guys instantly know whether this is a man other guys would respect. Or not. Listen to his counsel!

The Bluebeard Myth encapsulates both numbers 2 and 3. Remember how he came in all rich and shiny and oh-so luscious, sweeping the youngest daughter (i.e., that naïve part of us, no matter our actual age) off her feet? His beard is not really that blue, she would think. Her older sisters saw through him. But it was her brothers who came and rescued her from the deadly fate befallen Bluebeard’s previous wives.

4. Is it all about Him?

So often women fall into this trap. You know the feeling—you’re so wrapped up in him you want to know all about him and what he does and where he’s going and . . . And most healthy men are glad to star as the center of attention.

But is there equal attention to who you are? I’ve always loved the old African American myth of Manawee. It’s a great one about the wildness in healthy men, but my favorite part is the wild man’s desire to learn the different names of a woman. I.e., learning who she is. Now, that’s a wild man worth knowing!

 

Yep, we’re all infected by hormones. But that doesn’t mean we have to be ruled by them! So is it a match, or just your hormones talking?

 

How do you tell the difference?

 

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