As much as risking and jumping off faith cliffs may be scary - the thought of not growing, changing, exploring, having wild life adventures and finding real joy and real passion in all areas of my life is far more terrifying. Security is an illusion anyway. Personally, I feel much safer surrendering to the unknown. Things always work out - this I know. I also know that things always end up better, even if ridiculously different, than I first imagined. And, best of all, I know that when I let go and fall - I am caught. Every time.
Millions of people scattered across this planet, and floating around out there in Internetland, will go through the whole day, week, month, year… not being told that they are loved. But, you are not one of them. I’m telling you.
YOU ARE LOVED.
And it’s not because it’s my opinion, or religious responsibility, civic duty, a dare I was given or a woo-woo dream I had.
YOU ARE LOVED.
You are loved because you have worth that has nothing to do with the size of your car, house or bank account and you are loved because you have beauty that radiates far beyond the size of your butt or your gut. You are loved because you breathe. You are loved because you get up every morning – or not. You are loved because you exist.
You don’t have to earn it or fight for it or even believe it. It’s just a fact, plain and simple, you are loved. And it’s not because you obey and please and stay silent, or because you stick to the program or don’t ruffle feathers. It’s not because you think you so cleverly hide who you really are or because you bend over backwards in the ever-exhausting pursuit of perfection. You are loved because you are flawed and imperfect. You are loved no matter how many times you fall down and screw up. You are loved because you are human. You are loved simply because you are.
You are loved when you’re happy and courageous and generous and you are loved when you’re sad, scared and selfish. You are loved when you lift others up and when you let them down – when you make the world better and when you make it worse. You are loved when you’re an angel and you are loved when you’re an asshole. You are loved both despite and because of your issues, addictions, flaws and defects – whether real or imagined. And you are loved because those things that are real and those things that are imagined are one and the same. You are loved when you’re lost and you are loved when you’re found.
No matter what you have been told by yourself, your parents, children, family, friends, lovers, teachers, clergy, politicians and pool boys – you are loved. No matter what you think, feel and believe, no matter how you show up and how you behave and despite all evidence to the contrary, you are loved.
You are loved even when you are your own worst enemy, your greatest saboteur, your meanest bully and your darkest demon. You are loved because, underneath all that rubble and behind the greatest of illusions, you are your own best friend, greatest love, most loyal companion and fiercest protector. You are loved because you are the Teacher you’ve been seeking and the Hero you have been waiting for. You are loved because you are the Savior you’ve been in need of and the Gift you have wished for.
So, eat it up, drink it down, take it in, swallow it whole, absorb it, bathe in it, breathe it, sing it, dance it, celebrate it, get drunk with it, light the sky with it, wrap yourself in it, curl up with it, sleep it, laugh it, believe it and live it.
Okay, so last Monday night I had to go to traffic school. Yep. It was awesome. I was about to enter the room that was already filled with my fellow violators when my cell phone rang. I explained to my friend that I was walking into traffic school and that I’d have to call her back in a couple of hours. Now, my friend has smoked since we were in high school so, before I could say, “Seven miles over the speed limit,” she burst into the loudest, most incredible hacking grandpa-guffaw I have ever heard. It rocked the entire building so there was no way that every human in that echo-chamber of a room didn’t hear it.
After we hung up, I walked into the room and they all looked at me. I knew they heard the call and the laugh, they knew they heard the call and the laugh – and it was freaking hilarious. So, I decided to just be myself and engage my fellow humans. I waved and said, “Hi Guys! Anybody else get that awesome of a reaction about being here?” Oh my God, you should have seen the look of horror on most of their faces. A couple of women gave me half smiles before returning their gaze to the purses clutched tightly on their laps. The men looked as though I had offered them a lap dance in front of their wives. Rather than pursue that thread of humor and tell them not to knock something before they’ve tried it, I decided to sit down, shut up and read Bossypants. At least Tiny Fey would engage me in witty banter.
Seriously, we were all there - on the same planet, in the same country, in the same state, in the same city, in the same building, in the same room, in the same seats, for the same ridiculous reason – yet we sat there in utter silence for a good ten minutes without interacting with one another even once. Oh, how I wished someone would have farted.
Rewind to the previous week. My birthday. I did something unheard of and took the day off of work and my computer. I came back that night to over 500 email notifications of Facebook birthday greetings. It was cool, it was overwhelming, and it was time consuming – though deeply appreciated nonetheless. But, here’s the thing. Literally hundreds of those greetings were from people I don’t even know – they were fans of this, followers of that – yet they were sending me very intimate birthday wishes filled with Sweethearts and Loves. Men I have never met in my life leaving messages like, “Happy Birthday Love” and “Happy Birthday Beautiful, when can we get together?” – as though we are lovers or actual friends.
I have had friends ask me what I think of a certain person, or where I met a certain person, who insists that they are a friend of mine – people I’ve never met in my entire life. Turns out these people sent me a friend request on Facebook and, because I am on there to market the hell out of all the things I’m on there to market the hell out of, I accepted. Suddenly they are my friend for real. So totally weird. And so totally not true.
The Internet and social media are great tools for so many things but they really have replaced the need for developing so many skills required to be a normal social human being. Men that live in their parents basements and have never been out with a real live woman are suddenly dating machines because they send weird emails hitting on three dozen women a night. Honey, that ain’t dating, it’s stalking. And it’s creepy.
A quickly typed OMG or LOL and we think we’ve really connected with someone. I guarantee that if that room filled with my fellow Traffic School victims had housed computers there would have been witty banter, interesting conversations or, at the very least, we would have known one another's names.
We walk through this life that we are all experiencing together not making eye contact, not interacting in the slightest and doing everything we possibly can to avoid being touched or affected by one another in the least – then we get on line and drop our boundaries and our pants to strange faces on a screen. I just find it all very weird. And sad.
So, the next time you have the chance to smile, say hello, interact, or share a moment with a real live human please do so. You just might end up feeling a little more alive and real. You might make a friend that actually knows who you are or could honestly make your world a better place to be in – if only for a few minutes. Or at the very least, you might end up having a whole lot of fun being touched by someone other than yourself.
I love all the swagger that Barry has and sweet Robin just trying to keep up. When I was in third grade, my friend and I played house everyday after school and her husband was always Barry Gibb. My one and only nine-year-old true love? Little brother Andy. Now, however, re-thinking the Barry...
Can we please give a shout out everything going on with his pants???
At long last, Dancing With Crazy is officially available for purchase on it's New Website. The Kindle edition will be available on Amazon within a day or two and I am currently recording the audio book which will, also, be available soon. Books that were pre-ordered are being shipped through the end of this week and you will receive them soon.
It's so surreal. I have been working on, and through, this monumental project for so many years - preparing my guts to be public property, and it's finally time. It's finally ready or, more accurately, I am finally ready. Ready to be bulls-eye, cautionary tale and entertainer - excited that we can now have the types of conversations I have been dying to have with you. So, Internetland... let the shit hit the fan and the party begin!
Okay, I am usually NOT the last one on the Up To Date Train (and, no I had not seen “Bridesmaids” yet) so when I had a glass of wine last week with girlfriends and the conversation turned to anal sex (as most lovely, backyard, summer evening, heart to hearts do) and the subject of anal bleaching came up, I thought I had died and gone straight to comedy heaven.
Seriously??? We’re bleaching our buttholes now???
I raced home and immediately looked it up. Bleach Bum.com (clever title – I’ll give ‘em that) “Anal bleaching is one more way Hollywood celebrities try to stay younger. While rectal bleaching isn't for everyone, some people are interested in maintaining a youthful look...everywhere.” Hollywood celebrities are bleaching their assholes in an attempt to stay younger and get those prime, highly competitive, starring roles? I am sooooo calling bullshit on that one. I cannot imagine Jennifer Aniston and Sandra Bullock turning their “chocolate spiders” into vanilla crème puffs in an attempt to keep younger actresses like Amanda Seyfried from stealing their jobs.
I’m sorry, the only “celebrities” where this would have anything whatsoever to do with casting would be those of the porn variety. Case in point: Tabitha Stevens, the porn star in the video below, has had 6 boob jobs, 3 nose jobs, an under the nose implant, cheek implants, Botox & Collagen injections and has had fat transferred from her legs to her face. SHE has her butthole bleached. What does that tell you??? Porn stars are the ONLY people whose buttholes are on public display in broad daylight.
For the rest of us civilians who occasionally, while playing the game of sex, enjoy landing on Anal Play Island does it really matter? We know poop’s occasionally involved. We read the book. Everyone Poops. Yeah, we’re up to speed - we know where poop comes from and what freaking color it is. Now, on top of everything else, we’re supposed to obsess over “anal staining?” Good Lord.
I’m with Chelsea Handler. If a guy shows up at my door with anal beads and a flashlight, I’m like, what’s with the flashlight? Honestly, no one is looking that closely.
Bum bleaching is even being marketed to Bachelorette parties. Come on. Really? “Oooooo Debbie, let me see yours… Damn Karen, your rectum looks amazing! Not fair, Shelly’s is WAY cuter than mine...”
I laughed about it all week. But then I re-watched this video...
The statement “You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression” really hit me. What if the color and appearance of my rectum really does matter? What if, at first meeting, people really can tell that, not only do I still listen to Air Supply on 8-track tapes, but my back gate has NOT been painted white? What if I am the only one of my friends – nay, the only woman my future boyfriend has ever slept with, that still has a normal, human butthole? I will be undone!
If it’s that important then, dammit, I’m doing it too. But, Honey, I ain’t stopping at bleaching. I AM going to bleach it, tattoo it, affix it with jewels and stick a bouquet of flowers and a small Mylar balloon in it. Top that.
