FOR SALE: a pen, a stick, torn paper, and my sanity

So, yeah. It's been a day. Well, it's been a day after a day – you know? No? Okay, let's try this in English. Yesterday doled out heaps of epic suckage, trimmed with traces of joy, warmth, and a feeling that was less than failure but not quite success. After yesterday I craved desired required desperately needed a child-free, head-down, work-filled day. I sent this wish up to the heavens last night only to be greeted at 5:12 AM by the dulcet tones of a mildly feverish, crying five year old who had just vomited in her bed. Yes, it was going to be one of those days.

My first thought of the morning was "Fuck you, Monday!" followed by the ever-optimistic parental foolishness that I would make this day work. Yeah. Right. Spoiler alert: I called my mom before noon and attempted to bribe her into a babysitting gig, with a turkey burger (don't even get me started on my 7-day retrain-my-palette meal plan. No wine. There is no wine on this diet!!!). Despite my lackluster food choices, Nanny came to the rescue. That's not what I'm here to tell you, though. No. In the hours before I was rescued something terrible happened. I was robbed. Of my sanity. By a small, determined human with brass balls and a steel will. You'll never get me to swear to this, but today, today she beat me – and she wasn't even trying.

There she was, on the sofa with her fuzzy blanket, an array of snacks, the TV remote at her disposal and fresh off a game of Hello Kitty Bingo with mommy, when she fell into hopeless, sheer boredom. I had been in my office for 30 minutes slugging away at my deadlines when she could take no more. Driven to distraction by boredom and neglect, she made the pilgrimage to my office several times, okay eight times but it's not like I counted, over the next 30 minutes. Finally my first "work" hour was up and it was time for her lunch. Only, she wasn't interested in lunch. Oh, no. She had bigger plans. Commerce was her game, and she wanted to start bringing in the cash now. No waiting for a Memorial Day yard sale for this little Trump-wannabe. Today was the day she would sell things. Starting now.

She: Mom. Mom. Mom. MOOOOMMMMM!!!

Me: Yes, Spenser.

She: I'm ready.

Me: (arched eyebrow, too smart to be quizzical, smart enough to be afraid) Ready for what?

She: To sell things. I'm ready to sell things. For money. Now. You need to come outside with me and write me a sign.

Me: (slightly relieved) Ohhhh, well we're going to have a yard sale in a few weeks you can sell things then. That'll be fun. Right? Spenser? Spenser!

Too late. She was already outside, as the cool breeze forcing its way into my living room through the wide-open front door indicated. Yup. She was on a mission. A mission to rob me of my last shreds of sanity.

Me: Spenser. Spenser! Come back inside. It's lunch time. (pause) Um, sweetie? What do you have there?

She: Stuff to sell, Mom! I told you. Now, can you tell me how to spell "On Sale"? I want to write it on the sidewalk.

Me: I think you mean "For Sale". That's what you're selling?

She: (head held high, hands in her hoodie pockets, chest out) Uh-huh.

Me: Spenser, you have a stick. You're selling a stick?

She: What? People like sticks!

Me: And a piece of paper, a free pen from the bank, and one of your brother's foam darts.

She: Uh-huh. How do I spell my sign, Mama?

She crouched low on the sidewalk, her chalk at the ready as I said each letter aloud. There. Her work was done, and she surveyed it with a wide smile. Now, all she had to do was wait for throngs of people to come and buy her wares. She stood turning her head back and forth like a wind-up doll, searching the sidewalk for potential customers. What did I do? I went back inside to make lunch. I was hungry, I knew she was hungry, and what's more she was occupied. None of this lasted long, except for the hungry part – that managed to hang around for a while, like a bad penny.

I think about two minutes had passed – just long enough to make a PB&J and to start, for the first time, cooking a turkey burger. This, my friends, was the beginning of the end.

She: MAAAAWWWWWMMMM! MOM! No one is buying my things! Can you believe it?! No one is stopping. A lady was jogging, and she didn't even stop. She just kept running. She didn't already have a pen. Why didn't she stop?! I hate everybody. How do you spell "free"?

This last bit came out in one long run-on sentence. I was still processing what she said when...

She: MOM! How do you spell "free"?

Me: F-R-E-E

She: Okay. You may have to tell me that again. Wait, does free mean I still get money?

Me: No, free means you give someone something for no money. You just give it to them. Understand?

She: Yeah. Okay. I'm making a "free" sign. But I still want money.

I followed her to the door and looked out to the bottom of our short driveway. She had enhanced her display, dragging the little black, wrought iron table from the front porch to her "For sale" sidewalk square. On it, she had arranged her scrap of paper, pen, stick, foam dart, and (new addition) a red pencil and torn eraser. She frantically looked up and down the sidewalk one last time before she sprang into action. Grabbing the far end of the little table she began to drag it again, this time three squares to the left of where it first stood. She stopped, and looked up to see if I was there.

She: F-R-E-E?

Me: Yup, you got it.

Once again, she crouched low over the smooth concrete and carefully lettered a new sign onto the sidewalk. This time her letters were noticeably larger. Yes, that was obviously the problem the first time around – her signage was too small. Again I went inside, and again I attempted to cook lunch. All the while I heard her fish-mongering outside "Free stuff! Free stuff! Toys! I have toys! FOR FREE!"

After several minutes, enough time to cook a turkey burger but not garnish it, I went outside to check on progress. It was dismal. Yet, there she stood, a hopeful gleam in her eye. I couldn't understand why, until I turned my head to see a dog walker approaching from the left while a small boy and his father were converging from the opposite direction. Yes, this was it! She would make a sale, or give something away, or whatever.

She: FREE stuff! I have free stuff. Toys! Come and get a toy. It's free! But you can still give me money. Come and get your...stuff!

Her head volleyed back and forth between her approaching customers, toothy smile beaming, voice raising to staccato pitch. Yes! Here was her chance...but, no. It wasn't meant to be. The dog walker managed a faint smile, but never broke stride. The toddler on his trike slowed down, only to be shushed along by his father taking long strides as he offered a warm grin and a wave. But no one stopped.

I watched as her little pink-clad shoulders drooped, saw her fasten her stare on her purple flip flops as she picked at a small hole in the thigh of her leggings, above the large hole in the knee of her leggings. (Mental note, she needs new pants). She spun on her heel, her face fixed in five-year-old fury born of disappointment and hurt. I expected her to come trotting up the porch steps and into my arms, to bury her head in my belly and let out little sobs. Nope, not this girl. Swinging her arms, her fists clenched into tiny balls, she stomped up the stairs.

She: People stink! What's wrong with everyone? No one can stop?! NO ONE! Mom, really, WHO WOULDN'T WANT A FREE STICK?!

I swallowed a laugh and wound up producing a squealy, gagging grunt, which devolved into a wheezy cough. I had nothing – no words of wisdom or comfort. Really, I just wanted to eat. I was STARVING, having made it through five-plus hours on a cup of oatmeal and 1/2 a grapefruit. And no coffee. Did I mention there was no coffee on this diet either? Anyway, I thought about telling her a hard truth – to move product you have to have something people want, an item that's in demand, and preferably hard(ish) to find. Why does no one want a free stick? Because sticks are everywhere for the taking. They're sticks. Instead, I took the coward's way out.

Me: You need more foot traffic, that's all. Why don't you wait until about 3:00 when school lets out and try again? Tons of kids walk by here on their way home from school. Don't be upset sweetie. Just try again later. Come on, drag the table up the driveway a bit and come inside for lunch.

To my surprise, she listened. She took my crappy advice and came inside, where she proceeded to ignore her PB&J while firing off roughly 86 questions in rapid succession about why people suck and no one would buy free paper. Her words – "buy free paper."

There's really no end to this story. In fact, it's not even a story. It's just another moment, in another day that I cherish less than I probably should, and am more crazed by than I probably should be. I finally ate my turkey burger, my mom came over, I made my deadlines, time passed predictably. And in a few years, when Spenser is a tween and only talks to me when she needs a ride to a friend's house, I'll remember the day she tried to sell free sticks and paper. Only this time, instead of wanting the day – and all its demands – to end, I'll want to relive each moment of her desperately needing me to be with her. Knowing this makes it even more bittersweet.

xoxo,
g

In Which My Five Year Old Exclaims "Vagina! Yes!!!"

I've been reading a lot lately, both online and off, and I realize something: y'all are funny. Truly funny.A standout funny lady, IMO, is a Montreal fox named Tracey Steer. She's recently kicked out two blog posts over at (On Top of the) Mutherload that had me in stitches. Her inspiration for both posts were the confessions of her five-year-old daughter (Confessions of a Five Year Old Part I and Part II). Yes, it's true that kid stuff is often only funny to those of us with kids. AND it's also true that most parents think *their* kids are Chris Rock, when really they're somewhere between Larry the Cable Guy and the guy at open mic night with arm pit stains and a large mole on his chin, and the mole is funnier than he is. You get the idea.

A great thing about Tracey is she's funny as shit, and her posts are relatable. It's the kind of writing those of us who write strive for when we invite you into our mad little worlds. Lately, as I listen to my own kids, I secretly wonder if Tracey isn't their mom. Seriously. I'm often struck by how much our girl-children resemble each other, and by how dang funny – and trying – these children are. In the same ways. About the same things. Then my children open their mouths and conjure sentences worthy of Lenny Bruce, and I know they are mine. Like yesterday in the car, on the way home from school.

Me: How was your day, little one?

She: Good. It was good. No, it was bad. Part of it was bad. It sucked, mom. Is sucked a bad word? It shouldn't be. It was part good and part sucked.

Me: Yes, sucked is a bad word.

She: You say it.

Me: (eye roll) Yes, I do. But it's still a bad word. I'll try to say it less [NOTE: that's really all I got in the way of those promises, people]. Now, back to your day.

She: It was just a day. You know, mom, if Harry Potter was real I would so be Hermione and do magic and make Lukey give me all his treats and toys.

He: Hey! That's not fair! If you did that I'd put the Abra Cadabra curse on you.

Me: Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse from Harry Potter is Avada Kedavra. And that's not nice (sigh).

He: That's what I said.

She: I'd Avada Cadabra you first and then I'd take your toys. Awww, look a girl dog! She's so cute. Oh look, another girl dog!

Me: You know, sweetie, dogs can be girls or boys. Maybe those are boy dogs.

She: Naw, I saw their privates. I think I did. Boys have penises and girls have privates right?

Me: (eye roll AND deep breath) Girls have vaginas. Boys have penises. I guess they're all collectively called privates.

She: I don't know what that means. Another dog! Look, mom. Please let it be a girl, please be a girl...vagina, vagina, vagina...come on! (tilts head sideways for a better view) VAGINA! YES!!!

[AFTER A 30-second PAUSE]

He: You know mom, I saw that commercial again for those pillow pets that light up. $19.99 plus tax, and shipping and handling, whatever that is. BUT, if you buy two they will significantly lower the price. So, we can get two, 'cause you have two kids. That's gotta be a good deal, right? See. It's good to have two kids. You get a significantly lower price.

It's My Reality...and it Ain't Pretty

I have some shit to say. In fact, there's so much to say I think I could type for hours and never purge it all. And, really, you'd wander off long before you'd finished reading so what would be the point? This blog should be about more than my emotional regurgitation, though sometimes I wonder if it is, and if this post will lead me further from my goal or closer to it.

My goal. My goal? Do I have a goal? Does this blog have a goal? Shit, we're supposed to have goals by the time we get to our 40s, aren't we?

Crap, now I'm thinking about goals. Okay, the blog: hopefully it makes you laugh, makes you feel connected, lets you know that someone out there is feeling a way you may have felt, or are feeling, and can't/won't/don't articulate. I'd like to break through the façade, starting with mine.

We're so hooked on visage, aren't we? We post our best updates to FB, our best photos, best location check-ins, and leave the rest of it, the ugly reality, in our camera phones, unspoken and unacknowledged. We trumpet and herald our façades, sometimes with a wink and a nod, and sometimes whilst holding our breath and hoping that no one sees through to the other side of the looking glass.

Image courtesy www.newsday.com

The Stuebenville rape case. Wow. Hours and hours of façade flooded the news cycles. Legitimate, or heretofore legitimate, news sources are asking: Was it really rape? Yes, it was. Didn't the victim bear some responsibility? No. And oh no, what about those poor boys who have to register as sex offenders? They committed a sexual offense and that is the consequence. Why is the media pushing the painful façade of this case in front of us and asking us to embrace it, mourn it, perpetuate it, rather than allowing us to journey through the land of reality? Have we become so comfortable with façade that even our purveyors of truth, as Cronkite, Murrow, Arnett, and Agee once were, can no longer distinguish the difference?

Luckily, University of Oregon film student Samantha Stendal knows what's up, and made a video to show the rest of us, of THEM, how it should be. PS: 1.7 million views and counting – rock on Samantha and thank you for flouting the façade that so many have accepted as reality. 

Façades are everywhere. We need to take them down. Ten years ago Katie Makkai took us on her journey against pretty – and now Upworthy has put her front and center again. And she is more than merely pretty – she's pretty fucking awesome. Brittany Gibbons put on a bikini and wrote about it, posted photos, shared her vulnerability, and blew away her façade. Obviously, I'm not the only one thinking about this.

So, what's the point? Am I blaming the interwebs, demonizing social media, the media at large, advertising, the human ego? WTF am I saying here? Well, guess what, it's all about me. Isn't that always the case – it's all about us and our limited lenses through which we look at the world.

Here, in no particular order, are my realities that I've hidden behind a myriad of façades. I hope you read them all. I hope you ask me about them. I hope some of you can help me make some of them more of a reality. Yes, reality can be good. Shocking, but true.

My Realities

1. I self-sabotage. A lot. In fact, I have this down to a science. Sometimes I'm tempted to enter this as a keyword on the bajillions of job boards I frequent, just to see if anyone is interested in monetizing this skill of mine that I have fucking honed. In the good news/bad news category, my self-sabotage is more in my professional life than my personal life these days – that's what years of therapy will do for ya, I suppose. I know why I do it, I don't need to analyze it, and I don't need well-meaning advice, but thanks for the thought. I just need to stop. Is there a 12-step program for this? I need a glass of wine and a cigarette. Hmmm, maybe I'm not the support group kind of girl. 
2. I need a job and the last thing I want is a job. This is the life-mate of my current self sabotage. I've redefined my business offerings a few times over the last year, and it's brought modest success. I've also sponged off my parents and owe more than a few friends more than a few bucks. Yup. And guess what? This makes me an entrepreneur. Guess what else? I think I'm a shitty entrepreneur. I'm a good designer, sometimes I'm even great. I'm a damn good writer. That's right, I said it. But I'm a shitty entrepreneur. I'm too afraid to fail. I totally suck at selling myself. I spend way too much time in my home office and way too little "out there." And I don't know how to get better at those things, or if I want to.
3. I love the people I work with and for, and am now terrified that they will read this and pull every project I'm working on.
4. I want to write all the time – well, a lot of the time. Writing is fecking hard and no one in her right mind wants to do it ad nauseam. I want to be paid to write a lot of the time. I want to do more writing consulting with those in entertainment but I don't know where to start. I know a lot of people in entertainment and I secretly wish they'd hire me (at a ridiculously low rate which I'd accept in the beginning as long as I can feed my kids and buy health insurance) - oh by the way HINT, guys. Seriously. I'm a fast learner, I connect the dots quickly and I'm two steps ahead of most everyone – these are awesome assets in fast-paced industries where opinions change constantly if you let them. Thing is I feel guilty being paid to write stuff that I'm passionate about, so I get paid to write about shit I could care less about in a personal way. That's fucked up. I want to change it. Advice welcome here – and projects. Seriously, I'll curl your mother fucking toes. 
5. I've been laid off from jobs, fired, and otherwise judged. I think this is bullshit. I also think I failed. That's right – I failed. I did awesome for a while, then not so much. Fail. It's okay to fail, and we need to stop making each other feel that it's not while we post lots of inspirational shit about failure on our Facebook pages. Just stop it. That really pisses me off.
6. I still can't believe I'm a single mom. I did the rest-stop-drop-off again yesterday. Even after four years of drop offs and single-momedness, I had this moment of "Fucking hell, how did this happen?!" Again, I've analyzed it enough to know the mechanics of the failure, but sometimes I still can't believe in the actual event. Lies, betrayal, pathology, addiction – it's all in there, knitted together like a leper's coat. He doesn't wear the coat. Neither do I. My kids do, and that's just a crying shame. He and I fell through the rabbit hole and pulled our kids along with us. Unfair, unkind, and, sometimes, still unthinkable.
7. I want to help people. I want to spend time helping people, letting them know they're not alone in their despair, that they deserve to celebrate their successes, that they are enough, life can be good, we've all wallowed in our own shit – it will get better. My friend Ric Dragon asked me almost a year ago what my business plan was. I replied "To help people." He told me that was decidedly *not* a business plan. I, of course, argued with him. Well, I'm not making any money by helping people, just like I'm not earning a living writing about my passions. I'm putting this out there because SOMEONE has to have a need, a niche, a blueprint for me to follow to make these desires reality. 
8. People think I'm a manic extrovert, and I'm not. I hide a lot. I'm a survivor of sexual abuse. I'm a survivor of attempted self-harm***. Part of my seeming extrovertedness is a need to connect with people, and to somehow impart that you can survive anything. Better than that, you can flourish. I'm great speaking in front of hundreds, and I'm crap at a cocktail party. Invite me to a cocktail party of hundreds and I'm fine.
9. I want to launch a website to accomplish realities 4 and 7, and am totally paralyzed about where to start. I have the site architecture sketched out, content planned and created, people who said they'd advertise on it! Where do I start? How do I justify doing this instead of actively earning a living? Just do it? I. Don't. Know. How.
10. Sometimes, I think I should have figured a lot of this stuff out by now, and the fact that I haven't is my biggest failure of all. Sometimes I think that this self-discovery is my biggest accomplishment. I've always landed on my feet. I've grown professionally. I've done a lot in my career, and I'm proud. But I'm unfulfilled. So what, right? Isn't that the human condition? Well, is it? I don't want someone else to take care of me financially, I'm not looking to sponge off the universe, and sometimes a job is just a job. I think it should be more. I think it should be a calling. I think my skills are worth paying for and if I'm doing something I love then I'm a rock star. However, while I test this theory I have to feed my kids. This is proving a challenge.

Is this list brave? Is it something to be proud of? Is it even complete? I don't know. I thought I'd feel better than I do for writing it. I expected the catharsis to wash over me in waves, the nagging headache of the last hour to dissipate. 

I expected to feel accomplished. Instead I just feel naked. And not good naked. Not bad naked either. Just bare naked. You know what I mean? You've been here before too...right?

***(5:50 pm) Addedndum to number 8: hey guys, thanks to those who are concerned for me. The incident I speak about here happened more than 25 years ago. Teenage, childhood stuff. I am not in a place of self harm, and this is so not the point of the blog. In fact, I went back and added this bit in an experiment of total transparency. I hope that no one dwells here, on number 8. I mean, really, there are two more numbers and a photo after that one! xoxo

Parenting Auld Lang Syne

On any given day, USA

I’ve been a mom for more than seven years now, a drop in the bucket in the vastness of time, but long enough to have gotten the hang of it – as much as one gets the hang of this racket, and it’s a total racket I tell you! Anyway, it feels like after seven years of doing, well, anything you’ve graduated from apprentice to journeyman, and are on your way to master...or so it should be. I’ve gotta tell ya though, some days I’m not just an apprentice, I’m an apprentice embryo, and I’m still wondering just what the hell I’ve gotten myself into with this whole mom thing. Seriously.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids – in fact, let’s just agree now that we can presume, assume and every other kind of ‘sume that I LOVE MY KIDS. I’m glad I’m their mom, they are a part of me, they are the best part of me, and being a mom to these two humans is something I would never trade. However, and take this in, loving my kids has in no way prepared me for parenting. Not. One. Bit. In fact, I often feel like I belong to a club that I have no business being a member of, and I’m not sure if feeling this way makes me more of or less of a member. We all have doubts, I get that.

Still, I cannot help but feel there’s a final exam any day, and I’ve missed almost a whole year of classes. There’s a book I forgot to buy, a secret handshake I failed to learn. Someone must know something about all this and she’s just not telling me! Otherwise, this job is just too fucking hard and scary and why would anyone do it? WHYYYYY?!?!

There’s also this business of looking through my single-mom glasses, replete with baby-shit-brown-colored lenses. Awful, right? Well, it’s my lens, people – the only one I’ve got in fact. And I can’t help but feel this makes the whole parenting job harder. I lost half my crew at the beginning of construction and I still need to finish building these beautiful houses, on time, to spec and code, and with lots of upgrades...you get the idea. Whether or not my single-momed-ness has made this harder, it’s certainly created resentment and that’s the paper cut that won’t heal.

I tell you all of this to tell you this: I realize I’ve been parenting to the milestones, not the moments, and that my friends is one colossal mistake. You know what’s awesome about me? I don’t make mistakes once, not even colossal ones. Nope. I make them repeatedly to be sure that I’ve done it well. And for the last seven years I’ve mastered this particular error. How? By waiting for it to get easier. By thinking the next holiday/birthday party/vacation will be the moment I’ve been waiting for – the “A-HA this is why it’s awesome to be a mom, I totally get what I’m doing!” moment. Those moments do come, sorta. When they do, they don’t stay long; they are fleeting, halcyon days. And they’re harder too see through single-mom baby-shit-brown-colored lenses, I can tell you that.

In recent months as I’ve been pondering MY ENTIRE LIFE, I’ve made a conscious effort to relax my sphincter, lose the glasses and just be a mom. Yeah, I don’t know what “just be a mom” really means either, but I’m going with it. It was on one of these days that I really got the gist of this parenting thing (sorta). It helped that I had gotten a ton of sleep, albeit as the result of four days of zombie flu, but hey ya gotta take sleep as it comes.

On the fourth day, I de-crusted myself from my sweat-stained sheets and took a much needed shower. Now, as you moms know, showering while young children are awake is not a solo endeavor, and in my opinion should be a medal-level Olympic event. I’d clocked about two minutes of steamy, liberating, refuge when Miss Herself wailed her way down the hall and into the bathroom. I could see through the haze of the shower curtain and steam that she had her shirt awkwardly pulled over her head, one arm 2/3 of the way through the hole and sticking up at a 45 degree angle, the other clutching her dress as she dragged it limply behind her. She walked with a slight limp, the result of getting her tights on and up to her knees before the task became too demanding, and she abandoned it for her shirt, which also turned into epic disappointment, hence her waterworks outside the shower.

She: [sob, sob, sob] Moooooooommmmmyyyyy! I can’t get dressed. This is why I never choose this dress! I hate it. And my shirt and tights are broken!  

Me:[head poked outside shower curtain, water dripping from my nose and chin, shampoo running down my back] Oh, sweetheart! You’ve done such a great job. Tights take a lot of practice to get right, and look how much you did by yourself. And I know you love that shirt, but it’s getting small for you. Do you really need it under your dress?

She: YYYYYYEEEEESSSSSS! 

Me: [sigh] Okay, yes, of course you do. Mommy will be done her shower in just a few minutes and then we’ll get you dressed [note: I often refer to myself in the third person a la Kanye West when speaking to my littles. No, I don’t know why]. 

She: Nooooo, now! Please mama. I want to be dressed now and I can’t do it by myself and I...[sob, sob, sob] 

Me: Okay sweetheart come closer, we’ll fix this.

And with my arms and upper torso leaning awkwardly out of the shower, the rest of me tucked behind the curtain, I pulled on her shirt and her dress (I did manage to convince her to take the tights off for the moment). When we were done I looked down and saw several little spas of water pooled in a small semi-circle outside of the tub. I shivered as steam streamed into the hall and cold air flooded the bathroom through the open door, and my sweet baby girl looked up at me and smiled. “Thanks, mama!” she said, and then spun on her heel and ran off, swinging her tights in a wide arc over her head and leaving the door wide open behind her.

It was then, in that moment, that I knew the secret parenting handshake. These moments are the ones that make you a parent. The inconvenient day-to-day moments that aren’t about balloons and decorations, posed family photos, and guest lists. Those moments are parenting auld lang syne – forgotten in an instant, and as fleeting as a handful of confetti tossed in the air. My Little Miss may have loved her butterfly birthday cake, but she’ll remember the day mommy leaned out of the shower to help her get dressed for the rest of her life. And, with any luck, she’ll pass on that patience and kindness to those she’s lucky enough to love in the future. Hopefully I get a free pass for the next time I’m short-tempered with her...but I don’t think it works that way.

How does that handshake go again?

Authenticity

Authentic me, in a moment. No makeup,
hair brushed out while dry, no product, 
frizz flag flying high.

A lot is written about the importance of being authentic online, especially if you want to build a relationship with someone - your readers, new friends, clients, whomever. I think it's funny that we have to talk about being authentic online, as if it's different or less important from being authentic any other time in life. Granted, this conversation usually happens in relation to online advertising or marketing - and let's be honest, authenticity in advertising is more of a ploy than a practice - but still this has got me thinking.

I've been thinking a lot lately about motivation, and writing about it (more to come later). For example, I've started getting back to the good things in life - more exercise, less sugar (eventually no sugar), fewer calories per day. Why? It would be great if I could say "to be healthier" or "to feel better" - these may be side motivations, but the truth is I'm tired of my weight. I'm too fat. And I'm especially focused on this because my boyfriend is in great shape. There. I said it. I don't want to be the fatty with the hot boyfriend. So, I'm going to lose some weight. I'm embracing this motivation because it's honest, and I'm using it to my advantage. That's me at my most authentic.

And that's really the crux of this whole authenticity thing, for me anyway. Do people really mean it when they say it? Do people really want to know us, warts and all, or is all this fuss about a moderated authenticity, one that makes others more comfortable, makes other people feel better? I don't know, to be honest. I do know that authenticity, like other things, is easier with a bit of polish on it - after a good night's sleep, or landing a dream client, or booking an outrageous speaking gig - then authenticity is all about sharing good news.

What about when you have $20 in the bank and don't know where your next job is coming from? When you're fighting with your spouse and you doubt everything in your life? When you're frustrated with your kids and want to undo the parenting years for one taste of freedom? Is there room for that authenticity online, in a world where the words we create are committed to online archive, at the fingertips of every potential client, PTA-member and, gasp, your children, for their Googling pleasure? I think there is. Of course I do. I was born without a sensor and the one I've honed over the years is embryonic at best.

Scared authenticity, angry authenticity, depressed authenticity – these are the seeds of reaching out to others and opening up beyond our own rigid borders. In the end, it's really all about vulnerability – bare, bleeding, and scarred vulnerability. The cradle of our purpose lies within vulnerable authenticity. And I believe, in the deepest recess of my heart, that shared authenticity, even from the depths of the shit heap, will do more to heal and help not only the writer, but the reader, than the prepared, polished-good-news authenticity so many seem to share.

Last week I had $20 in the bank. My clothes fit too tight. I was scared, exhilarated, determined and depressed - all at the same time for hours on end. That was last week. The button on my jeans still strains against the stress of my belly today. Otherwise, things are looking up. And now, my kids are bitching at me to come play with them. Duly noted, it is their day. The rest of it, well one day at a time. In the present moment, life is good. Now I just need to avoid eating any cookies for the rest of the day.

This

2013: Let's Kick Some Ass, People!

Christmas 2012 has come and gone. I bought very few gifts. I baked a lot - well, a lot for me. I didn't write Christmas card, but I held you each in my heart and sent out a good wish for you all to have an amazing holiday. In short, I put my snark on the shelf, embraced smiles and good cheer, and had an amazing Christmas.

2013 is waiting patiently in the wings and while I'm enjoying this snowy, cold, post-Christmas Thursday, I'm looking forward to the adventures the new year has in store for me. And I'm not making resolutions, I'm making plans. I'm making wishes. I'm writing my aspirations in sand knowing they will shift with time. Mostly, I plan to kick ass in 2013 (warning: you will get sick of seeing me pop up all over the place - or you'll love it. Either way, I'll be there). How about you? What are your plans and wishes for 2013? Get out there and kick some ass!