Erika Napoletano's Blog, page 2

Hard Truth 213: The Illusion of Success

Here’s the god-honest truth: anything I type in a status update box on Facebook is automatically true.

Only 10 spots remain!

Almost sold out — the last 4 tickets are waiting!

I just booked an amazing speaking gig in Europe!

My book just hit the bestseller list!

I AM SO HAPPY.

If I type it, it’s true. Mostly because you don’t know any different.

Social media is THE place to fake it until you make it. If others perceive you as happy or successful, then they’ll be more likely to trust what you say and more likely to buy from you. They’ll envy your life. They’ll think you have something that they want.

It’s Trust 101 — if someone else thinks you’re awesome and other people have already bought from you, then it’s much more likely that I’ll buy from you. I’ll do what you say you did to get to where you are.

Because it’s easier to trust you because you say you’re happy and successful.

But today’s hard truth is one I deal with nearly every day — not only with my clients but for my brand and business as well.

And that truth is that success is often an illusion — and a slippery little fucker to boot.

And maybe right now you’re ready to unsubscribe or close this post because I said “fucker.” Hang tight — because if you’re read this far, I will tell you something else that is 100% true. And not just because I wrote it.

We spend way too much time measuring our own success by measuring it against the perceived successes of others.

And social media helps — because all we have to go on is what the successful people tell us is true.

This course has limited enrollment and there are only 3 slots left!

**You haven’t sold a single fucking course and you need to sell at least 2 to make your rent this month.

My book made the bestseller list!

**Pretty much any book — including mine — has been on Amazon’s bestseller list. And the day I learned you can buy your spot on the New York Times Bestseller list, I stopped giving a shit about being on a bestseller list.

I just booked a speaking engagement in Europe!

**You sure did. And you have to pay your own airfare and hotel to get there, you’re not getting paid for the gig, and you’re doing it because someone promised you it would be great “exposure.” Exposure to your damned bank account is about the extent of it.

I had 8 auditions this week and 5 callbacks! WOW! I’m so blessed!

**Yes, you did. For second-rate theatres in the suburbs that will never get reviewed and do nothing to advance your career. Not only that — you do musical theatre and I do not, will not, and never will so why am I clicking LIKE on this status update?!

My husband just got me this gorgeous Michael Kors handbag for my birthday!

**And you’re 2 payments late on your mortgage, it was bought on a credit card that is now maxed out, and you’re living paycheck to paycheck even though you both lease a Lexus.

Success and happiness without qualifiers are slippery slopes to get roped into climbing.

And it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard to see someone humble-brag and not want what they have — the successful business, the amazing boyfriend, the gorgeous wedding, the spiffy car, the trip to Europe.

We’re human. We WANT things and experiences that validate all the effort we’ve poured into the pursuit of what we love.

And here’s what I can tell you having run my own ship for over 8 years now:

When I have 3 slots left in my Mastermind, I say there are 3 spots left. Usually because I only take 1 to 3 new clients at a time because I operate one-on-one and not one-to-many with recordings and some shit like that. It’s okay for some folks. It’s just now how I roll.

When shit goes wrong, I share it. I don’t hide it.

When everyone else was (is) building an online course to do the whole passive income thing, I tried. Holy shit, I tried to build a course. Corbett Barr over at Fizzle.co was even mentoring me through the process. I emailed him one day and said, “I can’t do this because I don’t want to do this. Fuck this.” He said, cool — don’t do it unless it’s something you totally want to do.

Every day, I’m confronted with other performers who are on stages that are a dream for me to be on one day — and what got them there, I’ll never know. This industry is a curious combination of talent, timing, who looks good standing next to whom, reputation, personal bias, and perhaps a phase of the moon and whether or not you happen to look like the director’s psycho ex-wife. Every day, I struggle with doing MY best and bringing ME to my work — and one day, I’ll be on those stages and people will wonder how I got there. I’ll be honest and say, “A shitload of hard work, a little luck and timing, and some unicorn’s blood.”

And the people who tell you that they’re nothing BUT happy and successful…well, they’re editing. Censoring.

Leaving out the juicy bits like the lost yoga mats, foibles, fuck-ups, and days where your thong rides up your ass more than it hovers.

Because the truth is life and business aren’t pretty things.

They’re not.

They’re beautiful, but they aren’t at all pretty.

And I’d be much more inclined to ask for help and want to be friends with someone who embraces the messiest parts of whatever endeavor they’re pursuing.

Some people aren’t comfortable sharing those things, either. And that’s cool. There’s a metric ass ton of bullshit we each have to go through — woven into our life fabric since childhood — to decide to be open and vulnerable.

So, the next time you’re wooed by the prettiness of someone else’s success and amazing life — just ask:

IS this something I want?

Am I jealous about this because I think it’s something I CAN’T HAVE?

IS this REAL?

DO I CARE?

If you care — that’s the big one — then make a list of everything you’ve accomplished this year. Read it back to yourself.

Pat yourself on the back because you showed up and got shit done.

And then ask the next most useful question — what can I learn from this person’s accomplishments?

Because happiness and success in this highly digital world we live in…they’re oftentimes illusions and both slippery little fuckers.

My life got immeasurably better when I took the time to sort out what I truly wanted…

because most of the time, it had nothing to do with what the person I was envious of had.

Social media is a dangerous place to measure our success — because everything we write is categorically true even though it might be the world’s biggest lie.

And success to me…might not be success to you.

Fuck yeah, rhyming.

Why happiness and success are slippery fuckers.
Click To Tweet

OR

Why social media is a dangerous place to measure your success.
Click To Tweet

Hard Truth 212: Fuck You, Yoga

First — I categorically hate yoga. Yoga makes me angry. I hate the smug little Lululemon asses in their downward-facing-oh-you-didn’t-spend-$120-on-yoga-pants?-dog in front of me. I especially loathe the people who say, when I say that yoga makes me angry:

Wow. You really need yoga.

Go shit in a singing bowl.

Now that we all understand that I categorically hate yoga…

In October, I was bound and determined to lay aside my biases (which are even more lengthy than the few mentioned above) and go do some Bikram yoga. I like the hot room. I like the merciless instructor. I basically like Bikram because it’s about getting shit done and having no fucks in a 105 degree room and letting your bullshit melt away in a pool of I hope they have people to wipe THAT up (they don’t) for 90 minutes.

What I hate about Bikram and hot yoga in general is having to smell some dude’s lavender-scented ballsac for 60 to 90 minutes. I hate having to see it even more, and yes — it’s happened.

Men – don’t wear Daisy Dukes to yoga. Corral your gents in a…well, anything.

I digress.

So, in my suck-it-up style of dedication to doing Bikram for 30 days, I bought a new yoga mat and a nice hot yoga mat towel. I chose blue because if I’m going to hate something, I might as well like the color while I hate it.

My mat arrived right before I had to leave for rehearsal so I brought it inside and left.

This is what I came home to:

Hippopotamus (yes, that is my big dog’s name) had eaten the end off of my brand new yoga mat like it was a bacony treat. Perhaps he thought it was a Subway sandwich.

This was the universe telling me — hey, Erika? Stop doing shit you hate. Yoga isn’t for you.

I listened. Fuck you, yoga. And fuck that blue half-eaten mat especially. And good dog.

Until yesterday.

See, yesterday — I decided to go to yoga. On Saturdays, my show has a 2pm matinée and an 8pm evening show, which means between 3:30-7pm, I’m free as a bird. It’s not really enough time to go home, but it is enough time to do something and eat dinner. Yesterday, my something was a yoga sculpt class a short train ride away from the theatre.

Yoga. Heat. Weights. Yeah, these people aren’t fucking around. I’m in.

So, I grab my half eaten blue yoga mat and catch the bus to the theatre for the matinée. I sent a couple emails, looked at Facebook and HOLY SHIT — I MISSED MY STOP TO TRANSFER. Apparently, the 22 bus in Chicago was running at warp speed yesterday, so I launched myself off the bus one stop past my transfer and luckily, my transfer bus was rolling up. Up and onto the bus. WOO! Adulting, I can do this. I wander to the back, take my seat…

Wait. Where’s my yoga mat?

Mother. Of All. That is FUCK.

My blue yoga mat was heading south on a CTA bus. And if you’ve ever lost anything on a bus, you know you’ll never see it again.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Deep breath. Well, fuck it. And yes, this is a lot of fucks in a very short time span but not only was I going to do yoga, but I was going to use my half-eaten blue mat and now I’m a bit sad because if nothing else it was a nice color and IT IS NOW HEADING SOUTH ON A BUS AND I AM HEADING WEST ON ANOTHER BUS FUCK YOU, YOGA.

I did the show and had forgotten that yoga mats are props in the show. Heyo! So, I talk to the stage manager and grab one of the mats off stage and head to the train, proud that I had hacked my lost yoga mat and now, I would be going to a yoga class BECAUSE I CAN DO THIS. Fuck you, yoga. You will not stop me. I will see your chair pose and raise you a table for eight and a centerpiece, motherfucker.

I hop the train and ride 3 stops, exiting on the Brown Line Western stop. Google Maps tells me to take a right on Western and a left on Lawrence. This will deliver me — early, even — to the yoga place. I start walking.

Wait. Where’s my yoga mat?

Mother. Of All. That is FUCK.

Seriously?

This is happening. I realize my yoga mat is still riding on the Brown Line and I…am not.

Now, not only have I lost TWO yoga mats in four hours, I have lost a yoga mat that is REQUIRED for our show that evening and that did not belong to me.

This is a special level of stupid that in all my 43 years, I had never before achieved. ALL I WANTED WAS FOR MY HIPS AND LOWER BACK TO HAVE THE SAME FLEXIBILITY AS DONALD TRUMP’S MORAL COMPASS AND I AM BEING PUNISHED FOR TRYING TO NOT HATE YOGA.

I just stood on the sidewalk in the dreary yet warm Chicago afternoon trying to find another word for “idiot.”

I failed.

So I walked to the yoga studio. I open the double doors. I approach the counter and three lovely young women with skin glowing like only a 20-something’s skin can are standing and chatting.

“Hello. I have a reservation for the 4:30 yoga sculpt class. I also need to buy a mat.”

They ask if I’m new to yoga.

“No. I’ve just lost two mats in 4 hours and I need to replace the second one because it’s not mine and it’s a long story.”

You’ve lost TWO mats?

“Yes. I left one on the bus and one on the train. I’m completely fucked when it comes to yoga mats today.”

They just stare. I can only assume it’s because this woman standing before them has lost two yoga mats in four hours and has just dropped the f-bomb in a place of spiritual serenity. This woman needs yoga.

Wow, one of the girls says. That’s a…terrible kind of day.

“Yeah. How much is that one?”

$25

“Ring that up.”

I get rung up. So, let’s take inventory here, shall we?

I’ve lost two yoga mats in four hours — one on the bus and one that didn’t even belong to me on the train. I’ve proven myself an irresponsible adult that cannot even hold onto a rolled, cylindrical object made of foam. And now, I am on my THIRD yoga mat in four hours.

It is paid for.

They direct me to the ladies’ locker room. Understanding how shitty my three-yoga-mat-day has been, they tell me my studio is open so I can go…calm down. I thank them. Grateful to have arrived at my yoga destination and ready to have the shit kicked out of me me by some heat and some teeny tiny weight, I head to the locker room.

At which point, one of the girls come running after me with my THIRD blue yoga mat in hand.

You forgot your mat.

Of course I did. Just…of course.

I go to the class and am reminded for an hour just how inflexible I am and how good it feels to sweat and I am working HARD AS HELL just to begrudge those two other yoga mats that are exploring the greater Chicago area in the delightful climate control of various CTA vehicles. Fuck you, yoga. I DID YOU AND I DID YOU ON THIS BLUE MAT.

I emerge. I am recharged. I lovingly roll up The New Blue Yoga Mat and retreat to the locker room, where I am in desperate need of a shower.

And now, I’m terrified.

What if I lose this mat? I mean, I have an 18-minute trip between this studio and the theatre. I have to get something to eat (goddamn, I am hungry) and that means there are TWO possible places I could leave this yoga mat in the next hour and a half.

I get undressed and hop in the shower and the whole time I’m showering, I’m on the verge of a panic attack about someone taking my mat which is in one of those open-cubby-style “lockers” in the locker room, about 25 feet away from my wet, shampoo-y self.

When I’m done with the shower, I don’t even bother to dry off and wrap my towel around me, leap OUT of the shower and (literally) run to the cubby area to see if the mat is still there.

Still there. Sigh of relief.

I towel off, get dressed and head over into another part of the locker room to blow dry my hair.

Away from the yoga mat.

At this point, I become the kid whose bedroom is on the second story of the house on Christmas eve. I wash my face, sneak around the corner to keep tabs on the yoga mat.

Still there. Yeah, you are, you little blue fucker. Good mat. STAY.

I blow dry my hair. Some.

Sneak around the corner. Mat’s still there. Goooooood mat.

If there are security cameras in that locker room, they are hoping I never come back because my locker room behavior — had it been at an airport — would have earned me a closed-door meeting with Homeland Security.

Alas, I am ready. I gather my things and wrap my arms around my Blue Yoga Mat #3 and head out into the Chicago evening, destined for the train. I board the train, refusing to release the yoga mat — as this had been my previous error, setting it on the seat next to me. I ride three stops, squeeze my yoga mat extra tight like it’s a friend my heart has yearned to see for years, and I climb down from the platform and head to get some dinner.

I chose a seat at the bar where Blue Yoga Mat #3 could ride shotgun with my fish tacos. For 30 minutes, I don’t take my eyes of that fucking Blue Yoga Mat. I don’t care if it smelled like fish tacos — I wasn’t losing this one.

I pay my tab, ask myself no fewer than four times, “Do you have the mat? Yes, you’ve got it. You sure? Yep. Right here. Wait — this mat? Yep. Got the mat, you paranoid nit. Now get your ass to the theatre.”

So I do. I get my ass the two blocks to the theatre, walk in, and place the yoga mat all rolled up on the shelf where it is set with the others at the top of the show. I find the stage manager and explain to her how much of a inarguable tool I am, having lost the show’s mat but never fear — it has been replaced by a relative TWIN!

And the show goes on.

And I still fucking hate yoga. But fuck you, yoga. I got you done. And it only took three mats to do it.

Today’s hard truth? When someone shows up, give them credit for showing up because you never quite know what it took for them to show up in the first place.

And give yourself more credit for showing up. Because yesterday, I could have quit at the first mat.

F*** You, Yoga: A Lesson in Showing Up.
Click To Tweet

OR

How I lost 2 yoga mats in 4 hours — a (ridiculous) lesson in showing up.
Click To Tweet

 

Hard Truth 211: The Protective Chocolate Outer Coating

When I was a kid, I loved Twinkies. Or, whatever off-brand rendition of the cream cake that happened to be in our pantry at any given time. They were teeny, tiny, hand-sized cello-wrapped bits of happiness.

And they were yellow. I liked things that were yellow.

One day, my overactive imagination took its usual course and convinced me that the minute I opened the Twinkie, germs would immediately get sucked into the yellow spongy goodness, rendering that greasy, creamy center just a blob of bacteria waiting to infiltrate my body.

Which is why I stopped eating Twinkies and switched to Ding Dongs. Because they had a protective outer chocolate coating to keep the germs from laying waste to my snack cake.

A) I know the above is shitty logic and not at all biologically/scientifically sound

and

B) Today’s hard truth is about the protective chocolate outer coating.

On Thursday, my birthday, my day started off grand. And then, it slid off the rails. My phone rang, a conversation ensued, tears rolled, my heart sank.

Fuck, fuck, and fuckity.

Not only was it my birthday — but I had a class to get to and that class meant I had to be emotionally present and I had to get my gods to daycare and the guy staying at my house had lost his set of keys and it was my last fucking set of spare keys and this call was just eating me alive and I hadn’t showered and goddammit. Seriously?

Me: THIS IS HAPPENING NOW?

Universe: Yeah. Was this not convenient for you?

Me: NO. NOT IN THE SLIM-ASS SLIGHTEST.

Universe: Oopsie. I’m going to go get some coffee. You want?

Me: (yes)

In-con-fucking-venient. That was my morning on December 10, 2015.

There was a part of me that had broken. A part filled with hope. A part that was sad and remorseful and the part that had to get the dogs dealt with and .

So, I did what I always do: I put on my protective chocolate outer coating and I took the dogs to daycare. I made a call to attempt to sort some shit out. I put on some clothes, threw some dry shampoo in my hair, and I called a taxi to take me to class because I was fucking late.

Well, Thursday got sorted out. But then there was still Friday to go to. A second day of my acting Master Class (easiest way to describe it) and this meant I had to be on my shit because our coaches don’t pull punches — and don’t expect us to, either.

And 3/4 of the way through class, I broke down. I was so goddamned frustrated because I was stuck between what I was doing and what I wanted to be doing.

I was stuck in my protective chocolate outer coating — the coating I put on when everything isn’t good but I need to show the world everything is good even though it’s not.

Because here’s one truth: when it’s your birthday and people start asking you how your day is going, no one wants to hear that it’s kind of a shit show.

That’s because when people ask you how you are, they don’t want to know the truth. And so over the years, our chocolate outer coating gets thicker and thicker. With every ounce of Life Bullshit that waltzes in, we pour another ladle of chocolate on our protective outer coating.

The world sees Lindt.

We, in the meantime, feel pain.

And unless we find a safe place to bust that shell open (remember Magic Shell? OMG OMG OMG), it just keeps building up.

The ME that people SEE versus the ME I want to BE.

Pretty truffle in a glass display case versus the gooey, hot mess of a human in the center.

Perfectly shaped, artificially-flavored, “chocolate”-coated Ding Dong, questionable creamy contents inside.

My art — my performing and writing — are my safe place. They’re where I get to be messy. Me. They’re the last place I have to apologize, even when people get offended by something I’ve said (which happens pretty much every day I dare hit the “publish” button).

Where’s your safe place?

Where’s the place where you can let go of everything you’re supposed to do and feel and say (your protective chocolate outer coating) and just…be the ooey, gooey, and highly suspect cream filling?

And on Friday, that place was my Master Class.

And after the meltdown happened, I was so…drained. Physically, emotionally. And that’s normal.

Because it’s tough fucking work to carry around that heavy as hell chocolate shell all the time. When it falls away, you feel lighter — because you are lighter. And I don’t know about you, but I want a nap. A glass of wine and a nap. Because sleeping with the shell on is hard work, too.

It’s taken me a long time to realize that I actually HAVE a protective chocolate outer coating (PCOC). I just thought that was me.

But it wasn’t.

Once I realized I had the PCOC, I started learning why it was useful. Because the truth is that not everyone needs nor deserves access to your ooey, gooey hot mess of a center. The folks in the boardroom or on the conference call or checking you out at the supermarket don’t need the ooey, gooey center most of the time.

But we all need a safe place to let that PCOC fall away and just…be honest. Not apologize. (If you’re new here, I did a whole TEDx talk on the subject. Drink moderately and watch that here.)

So today, maybe ask yourself how thick that PCOC of yours is and whether it’s in need of a good smack with a spoon.

Because, baby — you don’t have to always be That Person.

It’s okay to be You. And in fact, You are a whole lot more interesting — your hot, messy, gooey and weird inside — than anything coated in chocolate, shielding itself from the Real Shit of the world any day.

A bit about your PCOC (protective chocolate outer coating)
Click To Tweet

or

Something about Twinkies and Ding Dongs and why we don’t let the world see our ME.
Click To Tweet

Hard Truth 210: Meet Clark Kent

On April 29, 2015, I had a date.

A first date.

Worse, actually. A first internet date (FID). The culprit was a fellow inmate at Match.com. A seemingly nice looking fellow who had adequate pictures and a profile that had some thought put into it. He made a remark about yoga and his hips that made me laugh.

We’d set a date.

He’d listed off a few places to meet and I selfishly chose the one that was an 8-minute walk from my house. Well, not entirely selfishly. I’d been prone to saying shit like, “Wherever you want to meet is fine” and ending up driving for 45 minutes to the South Loop here in Chicago only to realize Guy In Question lived (literally) in the high rise next door.

So forgive me. I picked the bar that was an 8-minute walk from my house.

As we exchanged a final pre-meeting email, I signed off with a line I thought was ever-so-clever:

See you then. I’ll be the redhead.

Clever. As. Fuck. Amiriiiite?!

Email in my inbox from him, five minutes later:

Good. I’ll be the guy who looks like Clark Kent.  

Har-har. The glasses. I get it. I don’t think I sent an email in return.

Along comes April 29, the “matching hour” was 7pm. Eight minutes after leaving my front door, I arrived at Rogers Park Social – a darling little neighborhood purveyor of adult beverages. I step inside, scan the room, and there he was, sitting at the bar.

Fuck me if he didn’t look like Clark Kent.

I was left to hope that the personality matched the package.

Because what every gal is hoping when she shows up for one of these Internet First Date things is that she’s what he’s looking for…

In that profile of his – where he was so sure of who he is and what he wants.

And we just hope that he’s not looking for That Girl.

You know – the one who can roll out of bed a mess and still look Cindy Crawford from the late 80s.

The girl who can eat 4 pancakes, a croissant, and hash browns – all washed down by 2 mimosas at brunch and still look like Scarlett Johanssen.

Because I’m not That Girl.

And the moments walking into a First Internet Date are always filled with a mixture of doubt (because you know you’re Not That Girl) and hope (because you just might be THE Girl).

So, two hours later, I’m one dirty martini in and what I really fucking need is some food because I only figured this thing would last an hour like all the other First Internet Dates (FIDs) do and I’d usually be home by now, eating a Trader Joe’s Caramelized Onion and Gruyere Tart, hot out of my oven.

Because SWANK.

But I’m hungry. So Clark Kent graciously pays the tab and I wander us awkwardly (because this is going well, right?) over to a local grill where I proceed to order buffalo fries.

Because (1) DELICIOUS

And because (2) STARVING AND I AM NOT EATING A BURGER IN FRONT OF THIS MAN JUST QUITE YET.

The fries arrive. I invite him to have one.

He unabashedly ascertains that these fries are, without a doubt, in the Top Five Worst Foods He’s Ever Tasted.

He says this with no shame, and there I am, shoving shitty buffalo fries into my gullet and laughing at the unbelievable audacity of a man telling a FID his honest opinion about her suspect food selection.

We (I) eventually abandoned the basket of fries and wandered down the street to another venue. Three hours in.

He’s still here.

My jaw hurts a bit from smiling.

Him, a gin and tonic.

Me, a lemonade. The request alone made the waiter wince. Fuck off. I like lemonade and refuse to be shithoused on my First Internet Date with a man who looks like Clark Kent.

We each get to the bottom of our glasses and as it’s a Wednesday, it’s a literal school night for me and an air-quote school night for him. Our empty glasses sat steps away from the El stop that would take him 2 stops down to his house.

I’m a five block walk away. And he offers to walk me home.

Me: Oh, you don’t have to do that. The train’s right here.

Him: I know. I’ll walk you home.

Me: It’s a 10-block round-trip walk to walk me home.

Him: I’ll walk you home.

You know the moment, as a woman or man, when you’re out with a woman or man or person-thing you’re having a fine time with and you realize that they’ve offered to do something because they want to steal 10 more minutes with you and you’re being an idiot by saying – hey, noooooo you don’t have to do that I am fine and can take care of my damn self yo!?

That moment? Sound familiar?

This was me, realizing I was sitting next to a man who was offering to walk 10 blocks out of his way…just to walk me home.

So I said yes.

And for five blocks, we walked close to one another. Not holding hands, but I realized that I liked the way his arm brushed mine every now and again. The first block or two was all nervous chatter (from me) and then voices fell silent.

We walked up to my front gate and I made some dorky gesture to my balcony, mentioning (obviously) my orange curtains.

He said he would like to see me again. And on the very end of that statement, he punctuated it with a “soon.” It was like the final staple you’d put on a paper you were handing in, because that fucking staple meant that bitch was D-O-N-E.

Soon. I said I’d like that.

And then he reached forward, gently grabbed by coat, pulled me toward his chest and laid a kiss on me that made me forget…

Well, pretty much everything.

I don’t remember what I said after that, but I do remember Clark Kent telling me goodnight and turning – walking back the way we came, back down that sidewalk towards the train that would deposit him safely back at Wayne Manor.

And that night, I stood looking at myself in front of the mirror in my bathroom…

And all I could do was smile.

I can’t speak for him, but since that day in April, I haven’t seen another man. On our second date, we realized that – not only had I almost bought a condo in his building, but one of my conservatory classmates and his wife were his landlords.

We realized over multiple conversations that we both lived in Denver – just a few miles from one another – at the same time. He left in 2010. I left in 2013.

It was all a delightful kind of weird.

And today, his name is Philip.

He’s my dork. He’s the man who’s never asked about Jason, but said that if I ever feel like talking about him, he’d be happy to listen. He’s the guy who saves the Sunday Arts & Leisure section from the New York Times for me (because it’s the only section he doesn’t read and that’s AOK by me). He’s the man who’s seen me break down completely only to be so lit up with joy that the Fourth of July could cancel its fireworks display. He comes to every show I’m in and has no problem telling me he didn’t much care for a play we just saw together.

He’s seen me laugh (and made me laugh) to the point of tears and we’ve shared moments between us that have brought one another to tears.

Because we’re both stoooopid humans who have 40+ years of baggage and life and bullshit each that we’re trying to navigate without breaking one another’s heart.

And Philip is the best part of today – my 43rd birthday.

To me, he’ll always be Clark Kent and I hope you understand why he’s been Clark Kent around here for so very long. I’m very protective of him. Because he’s fallen in love with a woman who lives out loud doesn’t mean he has to give up any part of himself in that heartfelt bargain. And can I just tell you…

It’s really lovely that he’s nowhere to be found on social media. I mean, no Facebook account. No Twitter handle. Nada.

Finally, I have a man who hasn’t seen “the latest video.”

Who has no real working knowledge of hashtags.

Who doesn’t see all the jackassian comments some folks leave on my Facebook page.

It’s lovely to have met a man who’s met the woman – my me – and knows only as much about the persona that social media demands as he sees in my blog (which he does read from time to time).

So today, for my 43rd birthday, I have a birthday wish for each of you wondering when your Clark Kent (or Lois Lane, as the case might be) will come along because you’re sick as shit of dealing with the Lex Luthors and Cat Women (Womans?) of the world:

I spent 30-something years thinking I was broken. That there was something so tragically wrong with my ME that no one would love me. With each year and asshat that passed, I just knew that I would be staring at myself and a pile of shelter animals in the mirror one day, having missed out on something – or someone – that could have made my life better…

And it was all because I was broken. And unlovable.

If you’ve been around my ‘hood for awhile, my writing reflected all of this. It was angry. Angst-filled. Mean. Shitty at times. I was a professional asshole.

Because it’s hard to believe you’re anything but broken when things keep happening to tell you that you’re broken. Time and time again.

And then I met Jason – the first man I’d ever met who took me as I am. Good, bad. Funny and not-so. He called me on my bullshit and never asked me to change. He died.

I spent four years Back to Broken – destroying myself in every way I knew how, yet hiding every bit of that from everyone. Including you.

But here’s the part where I tell you something magical happened. That one day, something shifted and I realized WHAT I DESERVED and WHO WAS WORTHY OF MY HEART.

That didn’t happen. I can tell you what did, though.

Through four years of being alone and nearly drowning in the darkest, most turbulent ocean my soul had ever seen, coming close to checking out of the human race at the 12-mile marker on a 13-mile run – I got to know the girl I was alone with.

Me.

And I started to be honest with myself about what I wanted out of this life. Out of a partner. I re-evaluated my “friends” (read: mostly assholes, just like me). I realized that I liked a lot of what this girl – me – had going on in her heart.

I just really fucking hated what she had going on in her life.

And it’s been a long road back – from feeling broken and unlovable to looking at Philip and wondering every day what I did to deserve this salted caramel-flavored unicorn in my life…this man with one kidney and a heart bigger than any human should ever possibly be allowed…this man who disses my buffalo fries and can tell you more than you’ve ever wanted to know about Humanities and who WRITES THE FUCKING SAT (like, the real SAT test) FOR FUCK’S SAKE (srsly).

It’s been a long and shitty yet glorious road.

And it took me all this time to realize that finding a partner whose weird matches mine…was WORK.

That learning how to BE someone partner when our weirds finally collided…was WORK.

And that he and I have a lot of work laid out before us that we’re not yet aware of and I guarantee you that he’ll likely find more joy in grading student papers from his first-year college students than he will in dealing with my layers of bullshit that have still yet to emerge and I will continue to be annoyed with how he pays cash for everything and never uses his fucking debit card like a normal human being. I mean, for shit’s sake, he had a BLACKBERRY until about 2 months ago with a limited data and text plan!

My wish for you, on this, my 43rd birthday, is that you realize that you’re not broken.

You’re not unlovable.

You’re just fucking WEIRD.

And you were put on this planet to be appreciated by some weird motherfucker you just haven’t met yet.

I’m just glad I didn’t hit the exit button a few years ago – because I was damn close several times – as I’d have missed out on this glorious Clark Kent of a man who makes me feel like the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world even when I know a panel of 9 out of 10 dentists would say I sound completely dumb and look like total shit.

He’s my 10th dentist. And I fucking love him so ridiculously and completely.

On Tuesday, Phil took me out to dinner for my birthday. I snapped a few photos of us — and have included one from a previous and rare Phil-and-Erika on-camera moment. Enjoy meeting Clar…er, Philip.

If you’re having trouble seeing the gallery in your email, go ahead and click through online right here.

#bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_standart_thumbnails_0 * { -moz-box-sizing: border-box; box-sizing: border-box; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_standart_thumb_spun1_0 { -moz-box-sizing: content-box; box-sizing: content-box; background-color: #FFFFFF; display: inline-block; height: 90px; margin: 4px; padding: 0px; opacity: 1.00; filter: Alpha(opacity=100); text-align: center; vertical-align: middle; transition: all 0.3s ease 0s;-webkit-transition: all 0.3s ease 0s; width: 180px; z-index: 100; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_standart_thumb_spun1_0:hover { -ms-transform: scale(1.1); -webkit-transform: scale(1.1); backface-visibility: hidden; -webkit-backface-visibility: hidden; -moz-backface-visibility: hidden; -ms-backface-visibility: hidden; opacity: 1; filter: Alpha(opacity=100); transform: scale(1.1); z-index: 102; position: relative; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_standart_thumb_spun2_0 { border: 0px none #CCCCCC; border-radius: 0; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #888888; display: inline-block; height: 90px; overflow: hidden; width: 180px; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_standart_thumbnails_0 { background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.00); display: inline-block; font-size: 0; max-width: 576px; text-align: center; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_standart_thumb_0 { display: inline-block; text-align: center; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_standart_thumb_spun1_0:hover .bwg_title_spun1_0 { left: 0px; top: 0px; opacity: 1; filter: Alpha(opacity=100); } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_title_spun2_0 { color: #CCCCCC; display: table-cell; font-family: segoe ui; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; height: inherit; padding: 2px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #888888; vertical-align: middle; width: inherit; word-wrap: break-word; } /*pagination styles*/ #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .tablenav-pages_0 { text-align: center; font-size: 12px; font-family: segoe ui; font-weight: bold; color: #666666; margin: 6px 0 4px; display: block; height: 30px; line-height: 30px; } @media only screen and (max-width : 320px) { #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .displaying-num_0 { display: none; } } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .displaying-num_0 { font-size: 12px; font-family: segoe ui; font-weight: bold; color: #666666; margin-right: 10px; vertical-align: middle; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .paging-input_0 { font-size: 12px; font-family: segoe ui; font-weight: bold; color: #666666; vertical-align: middle; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .tablenav-pages_0 a.disabled, #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .tablenav-pages_0 a.disabled:hover, #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .tablenav-pages_0 a.disabled:focus { cursor: default; color: rgba(102, 102, 102, 0.5); } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .tablenav-pages_0 a { cursor: pointer; font-size: 12px; font-family: segoe ui; font-weight: bold; color: #666666; text-decoration: none; padding: 3px 6px; margin: 0; border-radius: 0; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; border-color: #E3E3E3; background-color: #FFFFFF; opacity: 1.00; filter: Alpha(opacity=100); box-shadow: 0; transition: all 0.3s ease 0s;-webkit-transition: all 0.3s ease 0s; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 .bwg_back_0 { background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #000000 !important; cursor: pointer; display: block; font-family: segoe ui; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; padding: 0; } #bwg_container1_0 #bwg_container2_0 #spider_popup_overlay_0 { background-color: #000000; opacity: 0.70; filter: Alpha(opacity=70); } .bwg_play_icon_spun_0 { width: inherit; height: inherit; display: table; position: absolute; } .bwg_play_icon_0 { color: #CCCCCC; font-size: 32px; vertical-align: middle; display: table-cell !important; z-index: 1; text-align: center; margin: 0 auto; }

 

Hard Truth 209: Why Thinking Big is Fucking You Big Time

Think big.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told this in my life.

Thing big. You’re not thinking big enough.

Like my big thinking is getting even bigger and it’s still inadequate, making it pretty much on par with my previous level of mediocre thinking.

Way to go thinking — FAIL.

It took me a long time to realize it, but thinking big is the thing that’s fucked me the most in my life.

So today’s hard truth is about thinking big and why it’s fucking you big time.

The Good Intentions

There are plenty of good intentions behind encouraging someone to think big. First off, there’s the power of shattering limits. Taking “no” out of one’s vocabulary and replacing it with “what if.” Both awesome things.

Then there’s the fostering and nurturing of dreams — you know, those things we all had before we became too busy being adults. Dreams are where we escape to when adult shit gets hard (read: ALL THE DAYS). Encouraging someone — and ourselves — to think big gives dreams a place to grow because another hard truth is that the shit we can dream up is generally way more amazing than the adult shit we have to deal with every day.

The Problem with those Good Intentions

But the flat-out problem with those good intentions behind thinking big is that they’re designed to fuck us.

No lube. And not even a quick wham-bam and you’re back to making sugar cookies in the kitchen before the kids come home from Robby’s house kind of fucking.

No. It’s a slow fucking. Still no lube. Because the shit we can dream up while thinking big and the shit we’re able to accomplish each day are two vastly different things.

See, I can dream up being an in-demand, award-winning actor who makes her home in New York.

I can dream up having a personal brand followed, loved, and shared by millions.

I can dream up creating a course that’s a bestseller and gives me the kind of passive income I’ve always wanted so I can travel the world.

But the bitch of it is that I have no idea how to accomplish those BIG THINGS.

Each day I wake up and look at the result of my big thinking and think, “Well, shit. I’m still not there. I’ve been at this for days/weeks/months/years and I’m still not there. This shit is never going to happen.”

And that right there is thinking big fucking your big time.

And I can tell you that every client I speak to in a Buy Me Coffee session is currently pants down/skirt up, bent over their big thinking.

The KNOW what they want.

They just don’t know how to get there.

Dear lord in heaven don’t I know how this feels. Because thinking big isn’t going to get us anywhere.

We have to think smaller.

Think Small

I’m not telling you to stop dreaming. But here’s a good place to tell you how I feel about the word “dreams.”

I think it’s bullshit and needs to be dropped from your vocabulary. Stat.

Why? Because we’re taught that dreams are something that happen in our noggins. They’re imaginary. Unattainable.

So I replace the word “dreams” with “wants.” What are my wants?

Suddenly, they’re within reach, thanks to a little game of semantics. Undoing the head fuckery does wonders for getting shit done.

Now that you wants instead of dreams, you can ask a better question:

What can I do to get one step closer to my wants today?

The big goal is out there, but now you’re thinking small.

It’s like when a basket of sweet potato fries arrives at your table as an appetizer. First, let’s talk about how dumb it was to order a basket of sweet potato fries as an appetizer, knowing full well you were going to inhale the entire thing like a coked-up frat guy in a double popped collar in 1986 (this douche).

The bottom line is that you annihilated that basket of fries, fry by little fry.

That’s what your wants NEED — your annihilation of an associated to-do list, fry by little fucking fry.

Now, instead of going to bed each night depressed because those dreams are never going to happen and you’re no closer to achieving them than you were however long ago…

You’re 38 fries into your basket of Wants and you can finally see the bottom of that motherfucker, grease stains and all.

The Results

The results? Well, I see them every day.

I manage my life — and my client’s projects — fry by fry.

And each time we assess where we are, we’re closer. Shit gets done.

Your dreams have become wants.

The wants became baskets of delicious sweet potato fries.

And each day, we eat a fry or seven out of the basket until we get to the bottom.

Your pants are back up, your skirt is back down. Your Big Thinking got reeled in and broken down into steps you can actually manage.

Because the truth is — dreams aren’t manageable. They’re ethereal.

Big Think isn’t manageable, either. It’s waiting to fuck you because we can see it — we just can’t reach it. We get frustrated when we’re working so hard…

But we’re not working with purpose. With focus.

And that’s because thinking small is your Wants’ best friend.

Because when we can measure incremental successes, the world (our businesses, our lives) is a much easier place to be happy in.

Why thinking big is fucking you big time.
Click To Tweet

or

Why you need to stop calling your dreams DREAMS.
Click To Tweet

Hard Truth 208: This Fucking Guy

Yesterday, I spent the morning at the last place you’d expect to find me and my foul mouth: at an all-girls Catholic High School.

No, the building did not spontaneously burst into flames.

I’d been invited out to talk to a theatre class about being a working actor. We talked about everything from casting diversity to how much headshots costs to what all these tattoos on my arms mean (a story they seemed to enjoy).

I even got a photo with the group.

And the time came to leave. As I climbed into my friend’s car for the ride home, my housekeeper* texted that she was going to be about a half hour early…which meant that I wouldn’t be home to let her in because the keys in my lockbox are currently being used by a houseguest and fucking shit it’s 30-something degrees outside and I can’t let her stand out in the cold until I get there.

* On the subject of the housekeeper: I do not care how pretentious this sounds. When Sandra comes to my house, she does an amazing job and I swore that I would spent my time doing shit I loved and let other people do the shit I didn’t love doing. This is why I pay to have a housekeeper come over and use magical unicorn spray on my house because she’s good at it and I’m good at paying her and I don’t know what I’d do without her. It is the best $130 I spend each month, hands down.

So in a panic, I called Clark Kent. He has keys to my house (which was kind of a big deal when that happened). He also lives a 7-minute bike ride from my house and could get there a lot sooner than I could.

I explained the situation.

“Now?” he asked.

Yeah, like now. Can you go now and let her in?

There was a moment’s pause and he simply said, “OK. OK. I’m on my way.”

We hung up.

About 40 minutes later, I arrived home, running up the stairs to make sure Sandra had been let in AOK. I walk in, she’s there, yaaaaaaaaaaaaayandwherearemydogs?

Seriously — where are my puppies?

Sofa: not on the sofa.

Crate: nope.

My bedroom (which is totally off-limits): nope, nope

PANIC.

“Sandra, did (Clark Kent) take the dogs out for a walk?”

Yep.

So, let me get this straight — Clark dropped what he was doing to ride a bike 7 minutes in 30-degree weather over to my house to let the housekeeper in and then decided to take the dogs for a walk, too?

Yep. He did.

So I went into the bathroom and cried. If we’re being honest, I pee-cried because you can do both at once and I really had to pee.

I was just at a loss and it had been a long time since a wave of gratitude had washed so completely over me that I was drowning in tears.

This. Fucking. Guy.

When I was done pee-crying, I cleaned up the mascara streaks and went to grab some lunch out of the fridge. Soon after I’d scarfed my food, in come a pile of puppies and The Man (which is what the dogs call him in my mind) through the back door.

I get up, walk over to him, and bury my head in his chest and just say thank you.

As today’s hard truth is that, no matter what you think your dream relationship will look like…

Sometimes it looks like a man riding a bike for 7 minutes in freezing weather to come let your housekeeper in, only to decide to take your dogs for a walk in the freezing cold without even being asked to.

And today, I can tell you this:

I’ll gladly trade every dream of a kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower, every Friends-like fountain moment, every Hollywood-conjured you-had-me-at-hello moment for the chance to wrap my arms around a freezing cold 6’2 dork standing in front of me wearing that stupid plaid hat that makes his head look like a penis because this fucking guy…

yeah.

This fucking guy stole my heart and made me pee-cry.

The man who made me pee-cry (by Erika Napoletano)
Click To Tweet

or

This f***ing guy made me pee-cry
Click To Tweet

Hard Truth 207: The Luck Jar

A year or two ago, I bought a piggybank dressed up like a princess — complete with tutu and tiara.

Say hello.

She’s my Luck Jar. Her name is Tulip.

I fill her up with all of my change and found money. I never thought it would be true, but there’s a shit ton of found money on the streets of Chicago.

Each year, on the week before Christmas, I empty the Luck Jar into a giant ziplock freezer bag and put it in my purse and I carry it around until I find someone who needs it.

With the startling homeless population in Chicago, it’s not hard.

I hand whomever it is the bag and say one thing:

I got lucky and found all this money this year. That means it wasn’t mine to begin with. So now, I’m passing it along to you. 

Find a penny, pick it up, because what’s in your hand, is someone else’s luck.

See, the things is, I never miss this money. I don’t remember that I have it and until today, I’d pretty much forgotten about it.

Like I do all year.

And there have been years where I would scrape together any bit of change I could find, just to have food to eat that week and make the rent for one more holyshit month I made it.

Today’s hard truth is about your Luck Jar…and whether or not you have one. And frankly, what’s in it.

 

Because some years, it sure as hell isn’t money.

And some years, it sure as hell isn’t time.

But we always have something to give.

Love, a smile, a hand reaching down to help a stranger up onto the bus, our seat on the train, a tissue from our purse, a nickel to help the person in front of us in line, an idea, an experience, a sympathetic and knowing glance, a joke to diffuse a situation where your significant other is on the verge of a significant meltdown…

There is always something.

And at a time of year where it’s buy, buy, buy — I’m going to do one little thing to make the world a better place by changing those words to give, give, give.

Because if I can’t do that…well, I should just fucking quit now.

Find your Luck Jar. Think of what you have to give. And no matter what it is — there’s a soul out there who will never forget you for being brave enough to give it.

The Luck Jar — do you have one?
Click To Tweet

or

Why I shove money into a pig even though I don’t get bacon.
Click To Tweet

Hard Truth 206: Gift Giving Doesn’t Have to Suck (a quirky guide)

Why am I publishing a gift guide as one of my hard truths?

Because I hate shopping. Haaaaates it, precious. And what I hate most is thinking that I need to get someone a gift and being relegated to the stores and places I know only to get this person I care about some mass-produced piece of utter China-made shit that’s going to find its way into a Goodwill donation bag by their back door within 4 months.

Today’s hard truth is: sometimes help comes when you don’t ask for it.

I reached out to two of the smartest people I know — Jessica Watson of JWatson Creative (a savvy digital design boutique out of Baltimore) and Aliza Stein of A Freaking Great Company (she’s my Chief Get Shit Done Officer and runs a sexy brand design studio out of Alabama) — and together, we’ve put together a quirky little holiday gift guide for you.

Here’s the best part: we’ve bought from every one of these shops PERSONALLY.

We have NO afilliate relationship with them. We just love their stuff. And affiliates aren’t bad — we’re just being on the level by saying we get nothing if you buy something.

So without further adoo — here’s the ultimate, short guide to unfucking your holiday shopping from three ladies who refuse to let you give shitty gifts.

Emily McDowell Studio

One day, I got a box in the mail and this amazing tote bag was inside:

From there, Emily McDowell had my heart (and thanks, Jessica, for the bitchin’ gift). Emily McDowell creates irreverent, badass gifts for people with a personality along with what are quite possibly some of the most laugh-inducing holiday cards (and cards for all occasion). I would totally motorboat the creative bosom of Emily McDowell.

Follow her Facebook page where she’s doing some flash sales as of late and get thee to a destination where you can get someone this truth-dishing mug stat.

Shop mugs

Shop tote bags

Leccare Lollipops

I AM SORRY BUT I CANNOT HEAR YOU OVER THE DELICIOUS. Jessica first sent me a set of 4 of these suckers in one of her quarterly client mailers (hint: Jessica delights her clients quarterly with treasures she finds — it’s cost-effective and thoughtful). I’d be lying if I said I didn’t eat them all in a single day. LYING LIAR PANTS LIAR.

My personal favorite flavors are the Salted Caramel (jesus…), the Blood Orange & Ginger (sweet baby jesus) and the Pumpkin Spice (oh shitballs).

Now, when you order, be aware that they have lollipops AND lolliTOTS — the TOTS are smaller than the regular lollipops. Your’e welcome.

Shop gift boxes/samplers here

Shop seasonal flavors here

Here’s a badass gourmet lolliTOT Sweet & Spicy gift set

And here’s a neat-as-hell Sweet & Salty gift box

Wondermade

Hello, bourbon marshmallows. Well, it’s really HOLY SHIT, GOURMET MARSHMALLOWS. Shut up for a minute because I’m about to blow your Swiss Miss pathetic memory of marshmallows mind.

There’s a Boozy gift set, complete with marshmallows in bourbon, gin, beer, and Fireball.

There’s a Winter Flavors gift set, including bourbon (OF COURSE), peppermint, eggnog, and sugar cookie flavors.

There’s no corn syrup (gross) in these suckers, either.

Just shut up and take my money.

Otherwild “The Future is Female” Shirt

Click through and read the story behind this shirt. SRSLY.

The shirts are available for pre-order and a sweet card from Emily McDowell with a printed picture of the shirt inside would make fro one bomb-ass gift. Oh — and 25% of the proceeds from the shirt go to support Planned Parenthood, which makes it ever better (especially if you live in a red state). Perhaps the most perfect t-shirt of all this holiday season.

Order yours here.

Dupco Upcycled Cashmere Accessories

I met Debbie at the One of a Kind Show in Chicago this past Friday and purchased two paris of her upcycled cashmere fingerless gloves as gifts for my boyfriend’s mom and sister. They’re so buttery soft, come in color combinations ranging from sweet to funky, and are incredibly well-made! Debbie hand-sources discarded cashmere goods, washes the cashmere (natch) to make sure it’s ready for its second act, and then modifies the goods into these sweet reversible cashmere fingerless gloves, scarves and headbands.

I took these pictures at her booth this weekend (and forgive the lighting — conference hall flourescents are a bastard).

Fingerless gloves are $45 and seeing as how they’re two pairs in one, it’s a steal AND you’re supporting an independent artisan. Fuck yes.

To order, contact Debbie directly at dupcodeb@yahoo.com — she’s doing multiple holiday gift shows right now and has all of her wares with her and NOT in her Etsy shop. She’ll be happy to send you pictures of the styles/colors she currently has and arrange for a cuddly gift to be shipped right to you!

PS: for sizing, it really is one size fits most on the gloves. They’re also a perfect fit to wear as warmers over another favorite pair of gloves!

Burtons Maplewood Farm

Totally legit maple syrup + booze = TAKE MY MONEY. I met these guys at the One of a Kind Show in Chicago this week as well and sampled some of their sweet-ass wares. Just…jesus, just buy it, okay? An ideal gift for the dude who loves his brunch and appreciates fine booze — their booze-barrel-aged syrups are straight out of Indiana and available in Koval Whiskey, High West Bourbon, Breckenridge Bourbon, Pritchard’s Rum, Kentucky Bourbon, and Starlight Brandy.

Be the unicorn that delivers a fine-ass breakfast experience here.

Hey, man – I like your…

Finally — an irreverent gift you can give him in front of his Southern Baptist family.

Grab it from Four Letter Word Cards on Etsy.

I also love that Four Letter Word Cards has a Kinky/Poly section as well as LGBTQ-specific cards.

I’m kinda in love with this…

Texts and Someecards are cute, but this is beyond baller. Personalize a wallet insert that your beloved can carry with them everywhere. It’s like a text that you put a super duper lot of thought into and couldn’t accidentally delete when you’re drunk or dunked your phone in the toilet while you were out that one night in…oh, wait. We said we weren’t going to talk about that.

Order yours here from RameWorks for $25-$55 (depending on how much of a wordy motherfucker you are), is available in both copper AND aluminum (I love saying that word), and ships from Louisiana, USA.

For the Last-Minute Louie (or Louise)

My friend Tamsen sent me a Gift Rocket earlier this year and my socks were knocked off. Because basically, gift cards are lame and they say, “Hey, I couldn’t care enough to figure out something that might delight you, so I’m hitting the FUCK IT button on your gift. Happy Holidays!”

Gift Rocket has a minimal $4-something fee and you can send anyone a digital gift of straight up cash. They can then redeem it for a gift card of their choice OR have the fund transferred directly to their bank account. What I like best is that you can suggest how they use it — which means you can kind “build” an experience for someone that a typical gift card wouldn’t be able to deliver. Like this:

Hey Susan –

I know it’s been a rough year. So maybe you’ll use this Gift Rocket to buy yourself a sweet pair of sneakers so you can walk over to FedEx Office and have 25 pictures of that asshole Richard blown up into posters. Then, you can take those pictures to the Belmont Red Line El stop and throw them onto the tracks, watching Richard get run over my the same size train he ran over your heart with when he fucked his secretary in Mexico. When that’s done, we can meet for dinner at Kumas and scarf a burger surrounded by bikers who will think you are one hot number.

Don’t get out of bed…just send a Gift Rocket here.

Holy Sh!t – these gifts don’t suck. Check out this badass gift guide for the holidays.
Click To Tweet

or

The best fucking gift guide for people who don’t want to give shitty gifts this holiday.
Click To Tweet

Hard Truth 205: On Stopping

I’m writing a post a day in celebration of my 43rd birthday month. If you’ve been abducted by aliens and have your phone with you, you can pass the time in that white holding cell by reading the whole series here. Because aliens have wifi, natch.

This year, I started sleeping in. Or rather, I started learning why to sleep in.

Which is pretty contrary to the fact that it’s 6:53am on a Saturday and here I am, writing a fucking blog post.

But I get what I call “busy brain.” I roll over in bed, start thinking, and off the brain goes to the races. Which is okay some nights/mornings. Others, it sucks more than the line at the DMV.

Today’s hard truth is about stopping…and why we don’t. And much about why we need to stop more often. And it’s short.

Because this morning, I felt his foot wrap around mine as I was drenched in a hazy mist of not-quite-awake. I moved over, laid my head on his chest, and laced my fingers through his. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was close — and there are times where close is much ore important.

I was about to roll over and get up, and then I heard his heartbeat.

Whup, whup, whup…

And I laid there, still, in that not-comfortable-but-close position for another 15 minutes.

Because it’s important to stop.

Since I started my own business eight years (jesus, really?) ago, there’s only been one time I stopped — and it was the day that Jason died. Everything stopped. But soon after — days, even — I kept going.

Going and going and traveling and books and writing and clients and, well, really anything to keep from feeling anything of substance.

I spent a lot of time crying. Drinking. Smoking (everything).

But I kept going.

And when I came out of that 20-month cancerous reverie, I still kept going. I moved, I worked, I took planes and trains and automobiles to speaking engagements hither and yon. I still drank (because VODKA). I got up daily to go to the gym at 5am and I kept going and going and going.

Segue: You know the feeling you get when you’re in the passenger seat and someone else is driving? I mean, once you get past their shitty driving because hey, you might be as shitty driver but at least you know your shitty and you’re not this kind of shitty.

That feeling you get when you see a building and think, “Jesus, is that new?”

No, it’s not new, you asshole. It was built in 1924 and you pass it 4 times a week when you drive downtown. You just haven’t slowed* down enough to notice it before.

*right here, I actually typed “slown” which isn’t a word, but it should be.

It’s worth it to slow down because everything worth seeing is probably waiting to be seen by you.

Like the people you love.

Like the colleague sitting in front of you sharing a problem they need solved or simply relating the stupid argument that she had with her husband this morning.

Like your love — you know, the one who’s stuck by you while you’re so goddamned busy. The one seemingly content being in your periphery but they’re not and what they truly want is to be seen by you. Taken in. Heard. Loved.

It feels good to be heard and not just stared at and nodded to because you’re one more fucking thing that someone has to deal with today.

And once this is done, I’ll crawl back into bed with Clark Kent and wrap my feet around his. I’ll drench myself in the warmth he kicks out under the covers because baby, it’s cold outside. I’ll move the asshole cat who likes to sleep right the fuck in between both our pillows with his head pointed toward the dashboard like he’s a Fiat that just parked in the garage for the night and I’ll get close enough to hear him breathe.

Because after 42 years on this planet, I can tell you this: there is little in this world that cannot wait when a worthwhile human being is standing/sleeping/laying before you, ready to be seen.

I spent so much of my life being an asshole and I’m sure there are plenty of folks who still mistake my blunt-as-hell for fuck-right-off. The most asshole thing I’ve ever done is willingly miss out on every moment I’ll never have because I was too busy to stop and let it happen.

Now if you’ll excuse me, brain is empty. Your box is filled. Day 5 thoughts complete.

I’m going to go stop next to the human being who keeps me going because life is better when we’re still…together.

It’s probably why we’re still together.

Life’s not passing you by. It’s waiting to be SEEN by you.
Click To Tweet

Hard Truth 204: The Thing I Wish I’d Learned About Men

He was beautiful, inside and out. He sat across from me at a dimly lit table and from the moment we each sat down, the conversation just rolled. I laughed, he liked it. I countered, he laughed. Food came, I’m sure it was stuck in my teeth. I hated to get up and go to the bathroom because surely, right there, that’s where the reverie would end because he’d see my ass as I walked away. It’s a nice ass, and on the eve in question, it was bound in Spanx, but it’s never been described as small.

But I got up, went to the bathroom, came back, and a few hours later, it was time to go.

Him: This was lovely.

Me: Yes, it was. I was honestly expecting it to suck more.

Him: Me, too! So, when can I see you again?

Me: Well, it’s a crazy week, but I could do tomorrow or Saturday.

Him: How about you book me for both?

I drove home in the brutal cold that is a Chicago winter, parked my car, and didn’t have a single shit to give that I was walking 6 blocks in high-heeled boots across ice and snow to get to my front door.

Today’s hard truth is mine — it’s what I wish I’d learned about men a long, long time ago.

People will show you who they truly are, and in short order, if you just give them the chance.

Because this guy? Batshit fucking crazy.

When I walked into his condo later that first week, it was stark white. I mean, everything was white. If he’d had a cat, it would have been white. My first honest-to-god response was, “Holy shit, is this where they filmed American Psycho?”

But I marveled as he took me on a tour of his lily (white) pad, describing the renovation and his commitment to having a minimalist home.

Seriously. There was nothing on the counters in the fucking kitchen. Nothing. Not even LINT. Now, my kitchen counters aren’t the DMZ, but they have kitchen things on them. Like my partner-for-life Nespresso machine, a blender, and a thing that holds my cooking utensils. Maybe a dish I hadn’t put in the dishwasher yet. And a spoon. Oh, and there’s the dishtowel. And some mail (shit, did I even open that?) and a box from Birchbox and a knife and what the fuck is that…?

You get the idea.

And he drank. Every time we were together, it was 4 glasses of wine. At his place, the bottle. I wasn’t drinking at the time, so I noticed. And then, it was his hot/cold approach. And then it was the day he told me a story of turning around and yelling at a small child on an airplane with a gleam of pride in his eyes. Then it was the time that passed between calls and text that grew from a jovial banter spanning a no more than an hour…to days.

And then finally, a month and a half later, it was over. After telling me a week before waking up next to me that — this morning, right here — was one of the best mornings of his life, he says (over a call he SCHEDULED with me to which I’m like, well, by all means, get me on your calendar because there’s nothing like a scheduled dumping, amiriiiite?) that he’d been thinking about us for awhile now and he likes me but he just doesn’t see this thing between us going anywhere.

In retrospect, I should have stopped at the American Psycho condo.

Hindsight is always 20/15, isn’t it?

A dog turd in a Tiffany’s box is still a turd, baby.

I think there’s a part in all of us that makes us want to see the best in people. Or at least, we find a way to tell ourselves that these few good things about a person we’re interested in comprise the better part of the person.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve rationalized myself into staying in more things that made me feel bad than I can count.

Long after a man’s shown me who he is, I’m still there.

I’m there because I’m sick of online dating.

I’m there because maybe he’s just not a great communicator and I shouldn’t expect someone to text my rapid-fire-finger self back right away. And who really calls someone back the same day?

I stay because there’s a part of me that thinks that this is what a relationship is really like and maybe Hollywood movies have me thinking there’s a fairy tale that doesn’t exist and I should just deal because yes, it’s reasonable to sleep at his house every fucking time even though I have 2 dogs and a cat and he’s allergic to the cat.

I stay.

Or rather, I stayed.

Yeah, you’ve stayed, too.

We stay for a lot of reasons. But I think the reason we stay is because there’s one thing we want and we’re hoping that, in the ashes that surround each of our mildly tragic lives burning around us, there are embers of hope…

that we will be loved.

And what I didn’t realize is that by staying in the hopes that I would be loved, I likely never would be — by him, at least.

We can’t stay hoping that things will change because the thing that needs to change is how someone else feels about us and — as a retired career “fixer,” I can tell you this:

it’s pretty fucking impossible to change how someone feels.

But I stayed. And you stayed, too. We wanted to see the best in the person standing before us because there’s a smile in our souls when we walk through a door on someone’s arm. There’s an iota of validation that is oh-so-sweet when you can use the we and us in conversations instead of the ever-so-tired I.

We stay.

And today’s hard truth…well, maybe it’s less about how someone will show you exactly who they are if you give them a chance and more about…going.

Learning to go.

Because what we leave behind makes room for the good stuff.  The good ones.

And when we each lead lives so busy and full of stuff and things and each day we wake, hoping that this will be the day that we are truly loved — we’ll never be loved if our lives are filled with people and partners who aren’t good for us.

They can be good people, but that doesn’t mean they’re good for us.

I mean, think about THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY. The one you cried over for hours days in high school or college that you swore you’d love for the rest of your life. Today, you see them married. With kids. And you look at what they post on Facebook (because naturally, you’re Facebook friends because SEE HOW AWESOME MY LIFE IS WITHOUT YOU?!) and all you can think is, “Holy shitsnacks — you’re exactly the same.”

Good people. Just not good for you.

So if I can leave you with one wish today, it’s that you learn — or have already learned — how to go. How to make room in your life for the people that deserve to be in it and let the others find their brand of weird.

Because when we learn to go, we just might stumble into the person worth staying for — and the best part of all?

There will be room when he or she shows up.

As there’s one thing I can tell you — the good-for-you people can smell someone with a life filled with bullshit from a mile away. And they have no problem leaving that shit behind.

Way, way behind. Because there’s absolutely no room for them in that inn.

The obvious-as-hell thing I wished I’d learned about men (and dating) sooner
Click To Tweet

or

You can put a dog turn in a Tiffany’s box, but honey — a turd’s still a turd.
Click To Tweet