Mojo Mama

Grateful for the Gunk

2011-11-22T12:21:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Day 2011 is two days away, and gratitude is on the minds and in the hearts of many. Yes, it's easy to be grateful for our loved ones, home, job, and yummy, fattening food. (Can I get a witness on stuffing?!) But, this time also offers us an opportunity to show gratitude for the crappy things in our lives, for they are often our greatest teachers. On this Thanksgiving holiday, I am grateful for the following yuckies:

* My super-fugly, pumpkin-colored stretch pants from Chadwick's of Boston, which remind me that one should never compare oneself to another (or buy pants from a discount catalog)

* Mom's passing, which reminds me to fully appreciate each day that I have been given

* Snowstorms in Minnesota, which remind me how friggin' incredible the summers can be

* Sprouting pimples at 42 years of age, which remind me when I have had more Starbucks than a human should possibly consume

* Struggling with paying bills, which reminds me how fortunate I am to even have bills; there are people on this planet who don't have food to eat much less an overdue Wells Fargo credit card statement

* My alcoholic ex-f@#$buddy that treated me like shit, who reminds me that I deserved a whole lot better (and got it)

* So-called personality conflicts with insecure ninnies, which reminds me that I don't have to take on other people's drama

* Computer crashes and broken routers, which remind me that life isn't about typing on a keyboard or staring at a screen

* Not being able to do the 'crane' pose in yoga (yet), which reminds me that I have come a long way from not being able to do any pose but Savasana

* My daughter's perpetually-dirty room, which reminds me of her creativity and individuality (and ingenious ways to hide candy wrappers)

* My smallness, which reminds me of what I still need to work on

Happy Thanksgiving, and celebrate your gunk, everybody!! It's what helped create the Beauty That Is You.

Downsizing My Hoop

2011-11-10T11:19:00.000-08:00

Today was a momentous occasion: I hooped with my ten year-old daughter's hula hoop.

For those of you who aren't hoopers, you may say, "Big Whoop!". But, trust me. It IS a big friggin' whoop. I started out hula hooping over two years ago with a ginormous, heavy-as-hell hoop that was almost as tall as I was. When I first began, I couldn't keep that thing rotating around my larger-than-average girth to save my life. However, after swaying, shimmying, swearing, circling, and slamming for two long years, I am now able to hoop for an hour with a teeny, tiny, light-as-a-feather dance hoop that is suitable for a petite elementary schooler.

I LOVE LOVE LOVE it!!! The lighter hoop makes it easier to do crazy tricks like over-the-head tosses, around-the-body spins, and fun finger-hooping. (Yes, finger hooping.) I can't wait to practice it again tomorrow, as I know it will only get easier (as everything does when we just keep at it.)

I am eternally grateful to my darling daughter for lending me her sparkly dance hoop, and if she wants to get it back, she'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hoopy hands.

Kardashian-Free Living

2011-11-02T13:42:00.000-07:00

Below are things I don't give a damn about:

* Kim Kardashian's wedding
* Kim Kardashian's wedding guests
* Kim Kardashian's wedding dress
* Kim Kardashian's tropical honeymoon
* Kim Kardashian's 72-day marriage
* Kim Kardashian's husband
* Kim Kardashian's divorce
* Kim Kardashian's pre-nup
* Kim Kardashian's wedding ring
* Kim Kardashian's reality show
* Kim Kardashian's recording career
* Kim Kardashian's handbag collection
* Kim Kardashian's bubble butt
* Kim Kardashian's sisters
* Kim Kardashian's dancing brother
* Kim Kardashian's mother
* Kim Kardashian's father
* Kim Kardashian's father-in-law
* Kim Kardashian's tweets
* Kim Kardashian's teets
* KIM KARDASHIAN

I hope for this woman's sake that she unplugs from the ridiculous media machine that has created her. Maybe then she'll have a fighting chance at true happiness.

I certainly will be happier when I see less of her.

Visions of Reese's

2011-10-31T07:25:00.000-07:00

Today is Halloween, and I have not eaten ANY sugar in six weeks. It hasn't been too terribly difficult, except when I was at the ATL airport yesterday. Terminal C posed particular challenges as I could literally smell the various chocolate balls of heaven from The Grove shop located seven gates away. I don't know if I'll break into my ten year-old's plastic pumpkin when she is looking the other way, but if I do, here are the Top Ten yummies that I will seek out:

10. 3 Musketeers (soft, nougat-y goodness)
9. Snickers (frozen Snickers was my mom's favorite naughty treat - makes me think of her)
8. Skittles (can't get enough of the rainbow, plus it's made with Real Fruit!)
7. Milk Duds (kick it old school while flipping off my dentist)
6. Pixie Stix (colorful straws of sugar!)
5. M&Ms Plain (if only I could have some ice cream to go with them)
4. Twizzlers (diet candy for when the guilt becomes too great)
3. Butterfinger (didn't think I'd love it, but I do. Oh, how I do.)
2. Snyder's pretzels (salty treat is a nice change; cleanses the palate for more sugar to come)
1. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (Halloween candy the way God meant it to be.)

My mouth is watering at the thought of all of these delectable ditties. Maybe it's enough to just imagine what they would taste like.

Maybe.

What's your favorite Halloween treat? Have I left something off the list that should not be ignored?

Drum Circle Hooping

2011-10-30T08:01:00.000-07:00

Hey there!

It's HoopWoman here. I just finished a whirlwind trip to Sarasota for a combo of keynote work and friend play. Last night I went to the Nokomis Beach Drum Circle with my buddy Vanessa and carried Betsy, my badass hoop, along with me. When the powerful rhythms started, my booty started to shake without any conscious decision-making on my part. After just a few minutes, Betsy and I nervously stepped into the circle and started to groove.

While I'm certainly no Spiral or Brecken, I'm still pretty damn proud of not only being able to hoop, but I also have the stones enough to get up in front of a crowd of strangers and hoop like no one is watching. In a bikini top. At 42 years of age. We should everything in our lives like no one is watching. That's where the juice is.

How Do I Start Up Again?

2011-04-26T13:26:00.001-07:00

Hi. This is Theresa Rose. Remember me? This is a big shout-out for you 13 beautiful souls who actually subscribed to my blog a thousand years ago. Now, let's get on to business.

I am going through some major changes in my life, and I am acutely aware of my need for journaling as a form of therapy and healing. Resuming a regular writing practice has been dancing around the periphery, but LogicGirl kicks in and says, "No! You're too busy! You gotta make those calls, send those emails, blah blah blah!" Yet, writing finds its way back into my heart. I have been living vicariously through Jason Mraz's blog. The man is a certifiable genius. I caught up on several of his blogs (since I hadn't given myself time to enjoy them - Enjoy life?! What, are you crazy?) and felt pangs of jealousy swoop into my noggin as I watched him take opening the kimono to a whole different place. (Insert tired-ass, type-A need to edit what I've written so far but am plowing through anyway because it's a blog, dammit, and I can be messy if I wanna.)

Folks, this is what happens when a writer doesn't give herself permission to write. She goes insane on the very first paragraph. Well, you can count yourself lucky that you (if you are even reading this and haven't thrown me into Junk by now) are one of a baker's dozen of like-minded individuals enjoying the bits-and-bytes bonding with a raving ninny.

Because that is what this blog is about to turn into.

I want to write about our struggles and the fears, but I also want to write about the victories and moments of Grace. I hope I can look beyond my fear of "what will they say about me?" and "will this negatively impact my chances for new business?" and just plow ahead. Is this the moment where I finally step into the 'integrity' I talk so much about? Can I finally accept that I am a spiritual teacher, and TRUST? Is it OK to talk about Spirit?

I'm sorry if this is rambling. Many of my posts may be. But here is what I'm thinking...if I just go into my heart and type my truth, then everything will work out the way it needs to. I do trust that I can share what I need to, and there will be no judgment - from God, from strangers, from friends and family, from clients and prospects, from me. Well, at least I can control the last one.

I will not judge myself.

I will not judge myself.

I will not judge myself.

I will not judge myself.

Maybe if I continue to write it a la Bart that it will get in there. It's getting better.

That's it for now. I'm glad I returned, and thank you. May your day be filled with tons of love.

Following Directions

2010-04-16T11:28:00.000-07:00

When I perform my most popular keynote speech, "Finding Your Mojo: The ABCs of Living in Abundance, Balance and Creativity", one of the first mojo busters I describe is Ignoring the Signs. It's time for me to follow my own advice.

Over the last few years, I have been doing what I thought I needed to do to be a successful author and speaker. I have performed book readings at countless bookstores, conducted a monthly women's discussion group both in Florida and Minnesota, facilitated meditation circles and healing workshops, and took any other opportunity presented to me to get in front of people. Ever since Opening the Kimono was published, I have performed free speaking engagements whenever possible in exchange for the opportunity to sell books and audiobooks afterward. I had been in training and facilitation roles for several years, both in my corporate and alternative healing days, but I had not yet broken into the land of the "paid professional speaker".

Boy, have things changed.

Over the last nine months, I have worked my cajones off to get recognized as a bonafide speaker, worthy of commanding a decent fee for my services. It has been incredibly difficult to break into this industry, especially in the midst of the worst economic downturn in my lifetime. It turns out that being a professional speaker involves a helluva lot more than just being good on stage; you also need to be an expert at sales, marketing, customer service, and business administration. You need to have an appealing, professionally-designed web site, a killer four-minute demo video, the ability to write compelling marketing materials, the courage to pick up the phone to call (and call and call and call and call) strangers to pitch them about your work, and most importantly, possess a thick layer of skin that will help you survive when you get pierced by the word "no" time and time again. The sales cycle is long, the competition is fierce, and the budgets are tight. Simply put, speaking ain't for sissies.

During this challenging time of growth, I had been relying on local events to keep me connected with people, sell a few books, and get my name out into the community. When we first moved to Minneapolis, my small events were going well, but I was not finding success with the larger keynote programs I was trying to secure. Yet, over time, the tides have turned. Over the last few months, I have seen a dramatic drying up of my small events, e.g. no one showing up for my free women's discussion group, three people showing up for my guided meditations, and workshops getting canceled due to lack of participation. At the same time, I have seen an explosion of interest in my major keynote programs - events where I am speaking in front of several hundred participants. Just this week I did a keynote at the Sheraton Bloomington Grand Ballroom for over 400 people. In a few months, I'll be performing "Finding Your Mojo" for 600-800 people, and I am in the final selection round for a Fall event that would be give me the opportunity to present in front of THOUSANDS of women. Prospective clients are sending me emails telling me that they want me for their next big function, glowing testimonials are opening doors to new gigs, and several national speaking bureaus have chosen to represent me.

Here's the irony. Two weeks ago, I had to cancel my monthly local chakra meditation at a neighborhood apartment complex because the door to the party room was inadvertently locked. It wasn't a major catastrophe, as only a few people showed up anyway. I have also decided to permanently cancel my Club Kimono Discussion Groups due to lack of participation. Finally, I am scheduled to do a workshop this Saturday at a local yoga studio that looks like it will cancel too due to poor registration. Talk about reading the signs!

At first, all I could think about was the personal sting of rejection that the "failure" of my local events brought about. It hurts when you get all gussied up to host a meditation or discussion group, pack up your car with books and flyers, drive to the venue, and wait for people to arrive. And wait. And wait a little longer. With each passing moment where no one walks in the door, a little more of my self-esteem was chipped away. Why? Why didn't they like me anymore? What was wrong with me? How come no one was showing up? WTF?????

Then I reminded myself of my Mojo Buster #1: Ignoring the Signs. In my presentation, I talk about how we lose our mojo when we constantly ignore the signs from The Universe (aka Spirit) to do something different. When we ignore them, the physical indicators will get louder and more unpleasant until we recognize the underlying message and act upon it. Eight years ago, I received a crystal-clear sign from Spirit that I was no longer going to be a Corporate Climber. The unmistakable sign was that I got laid off. Twice. Afterward, I could not find a comparable position no matter how hard I tried. In hindsight, I realize that I was patently unsuccessful in finding another job was because I wasn't supposed to. The Universe wanted me to move in a whole new direction -- alternative healing -- and I needed to have it slapped across my face for me to pay attention. Fast forward eight years later, and I am grateful beyond belief that I received those unpleasant signs.

I now find myself in another major transition. My life as a local healer is over, at least for now. Spirit is slamming doors shut left and right while opening others for me to walk through. I believe that Spirit has put an end to my local events so I don't need to let people down when I'd inevitably need to do it down the road. My calendar is already getting full with major keynotes, and my Club Kimonos and Chakra Meditations simply wouldn't be able to fit around them. There is a part of me that is saddened by this loss, but I also know that it is the natural next step for me.

One of the toughest challenges I face as I traverse this exciting new path is the acknowledgment of Bigness. It's a little uncomfortable to accept the fact that I am now being handsomely paid to get up in front of hundreds of people and...talk. There is a part of me that feels like I don't deserve this kind of success. A little annoying voice whispers in my ear, "Who do you think you are, Miss Fancy Pants? Do you really think that you are good enough to do this job?" It feels like trying on a luxurious, beautiful outfit at your favorite store and feeling enormous guilt for even bringing it into the dressing room. Yet, here I stand, wearing the outfit.

When I was freaking out before going on stage at the Sheraton this week, Michael took me in his arms and reminded me that I was BORN to do this. He's absolutely right. I've prepped for this moment ever since I was a child when I stood in front of my mirrored closet holding a microphone/hairbrush in my hand and performed for my enraptured stuffed animals. My current profession is a glorious combination of teacher, preacher, actor, and cheerleader -- all of which I have joyfully performed -- and I am finally accepting that I have gotten what I have been asking for. I am ready to accept my role as Bringer of the Mojo, even if it occasionally tweaks me (and a few others around me).

Thanks, Spirit, for being my Cosmic GPS. I understand that I have finally arrived at my destination: Joy.

Whales vs. Mermaids

2010-04-07T06:42:00.000-07:00

I received an email from a friend recently who passed this story along. I thought it was brilliant, and believe it was blog-worthy. Kudos to the anonymous author!

*****************************************************************

Recently, in a large city in France, a poster featuring a young, thin and tan woman appeared in the window of a gym. It said, "This summer, do you want to be a mermaid or a whale?"

A middle-aged woman, whose physical characteristics did not match those of the woman on the poster, responded publicly to the question posed by the gym:

To Whom It May Concern,
Whales are always surrounded by friends (dolphins, sea lions, curious humans.) They have an active sex life, get pregnant and have adorable baby whales. They have a wonderful time with dolphins stuffing themselves with shrimp. They play and swim in the seas, seeing wonderful places like Patagonia ,the Bering Sea and the coral reefs of Polynesia. Whales are wonderful singers and have even recorded CDs. They are incredible creatures and virtually have no predators other than humans. They are loved, protected and admired by almost everyone in the world.

Mermaids don't exist. If they did exist, they would be lining up outside the offices of Argentinean psychoanalysts due to identity crisis. Fish or human? They don't have a sex life because they kill men who get close to them, not to mention how could they have sex? Just look at them ... where is IT? Therefore, they don't have kids either. Not to mention, who wants to get close to a girl who smells like a fish store?

The choice is perfectly clear to me:
I want to be a whale.

P..S. We are in an age when media puts into our heads the idea that only skinny people are beautiful, but I prefer to enjoy an ice cream with my kids, a good dinner with a man who makes me shiver, and a piece of chocolate with my friends...
With time, we gain weight because we accumulate so much information and wisdom in our heads that when there is no more room, it distributes out to the rest of our bodies. So we aren't heavy, we are enormously cultured, educated and happy.
Beginning today, when I look at my butt in the mirror I will think, 'Good grief, look how smart I am!'

Opening My Kimono in 2010

2010-03-17T11:56:00.001-07:00

I no longer want to write, I NEED to. My life depends on it.

The last eight months have been one of the most difficult periods in my life. My husband Michael and I have found ourselves in the unenviable position of struggling to find gainful employment, shortselling our home in Florida, having to move out of our rented home in Minnesota and into a small, two bedroom apartment, and fighting off creditors that are starting to bang on our door. Long story short, we are running out of money.

When I was in college, I learned about a psychologist named Abraham Maslow and his theory that human behavior is dictated by a hierarchy of needs. On the bottom level of the pyramid, one strives to have basic, physiological needs met, those of breathing, water, sex, food, and shelter. Once those needs are met, one has the freedom to move up the pyramid to the second level in an attempt to meet safety and security needs. Once those are met, we move upward to focus on love and affection. If those are satisfied, we elevate to having our needs for esteem, confidence, and respect of others met. Finally, if all of these areas are provided for, we transcend to the highest level to that of self-actualization.

In other times in my life, I have been blessed to reside on the top of the pyramid. I have spent hours contemplating my own existence (and navel) and worked on core issues that kept me from being the most enlightened, non-judgmental, expressive person I could be. Those were good times indeed! I got the healing work I needed, experienced the creature comforts that a full bank account (or a large credit line) afforded, and had ample time to pursue happiness around every corner. My relationships were rich and rewarding, my body was in excellent condition, I had a spring in my step, and I went to bed every night with a smile on my face.

However, I have also resided at the bottom of the pyramid. I painfully recall the years in my early twenties when I avoided answering my phone -- when I had a phone -- because I knew that a bill collector would be on the other line. (These were the olden days before the invention of the omniscient Caller ID.) Dinner consisted of ramen noodles or easy cheese spread over my fingers. I lived in a God-awful, rodent-infested apartment right next to the El train tracks in Chicago and lived paycheck to paycheck. If my friends and I went out and had a few drinks at the local bar, I would have to find a way to survive over several days without food until I got paid again. Sometimes dinner would be saltine cracker packets surreptitiously acquired from the local Wendy's. Eventually I worked my way out of the shithole I was in and slowly, ever slowly, climbed up Maslow's ladder.

Now, at forty years of age and a husband and daughter later, I find myself back on the bottom. Many nights I have laid awake, asking God why he won't send me the big book deal or the next lucrative speaking contract. My stomach has started to respond with that same, burning sensation I used to feel when I had ulcers. Everything around me is getting tighter -- my throat, my bank account, and my pants. This difficult situation has become even more disquieting given the fact that I am supposed to be the award-winning author of inspirational personal essays and a dynamic motivational speaker!!! I tell myself in the quietest, darkest times that I am a failure because I am so woefully mishandling my life. Instead of being the Bringer of the Mojo, I have become the Bringer of the Slo-Mo. This challenging period has caused me to fill myself with guilt, shame, and anger, both at myself and at God. Why won't you hear my prayers?? What have I done to deserve this?? What did I do wrong?? Am I being punished for some bad behavior I have previously done?? Why, why, why???

In the cold light of day, I realize that my struggles aren't unique or personal. The economic downturn has caused many of us to dramatically alter our lives, and we are forced to re-examine our priorities. Not only are we doing without, but many of us are thrown into the deep end of the survival pool. However, it's important to remember that just because you can't pay your bills, that doesn't make you less of a person. Just because my calendar contains less speaking engagements then I would like it to doesn't mean that I am a bad speaker. Just because my books aren't selling as well as I would like them to doesn't mean that I am a rotten writer. It's not personal; it just IS.

This experience, like every obstacle, has provided a wealth of gifts and lessons to me. I am releasing attachments that have kept me from being truly at peace: attachments to material objects, to ego, and to the approval of others. Through the process of downsizing, I am letting go of anything that no longer serves me. Our basement is filled with boxes of stuff that I thought was important to me, but no longer is -- pictures, paintings, furniture, candleholders, books, and anything else that won't squeeze into our new, tiny abode. In the next two weeks, we will be selling or giving away items that have kept us mired at the bottom level of Maslow's pyramid. In this act of release, I am already feeling myself getting lighter, become less afraid, and, dare I say, becoming hopeful for the future. One of the greatest realizations I have had during this maelstrom is this: I am not my stuff. I am not my calendar, my business card, my house square footage, my piano, my family vacation, or my display of knickknacks.

This morning I realized that there was one final step for me to take to begin the journey upward: I needed to publicly share my story, warts and all. Embarrassment and ego have kept me from telling the gory details of my latest imbroglio. I was afraid of people judging me for not being the powerful woman I present myself to be. I was afraid that I would be seen as a failure, a victim, and a loser. One of the risks associated with full disclosure is the chance for those who may want to hire me or buy my book to say, "She's a nutcase! She's a nobody! Why in the hell would we want to hear anything she has to say?" However, the risk is well worth it. I need to authentically express my truth if I am to step away from the fear and back into power. It is time for me to open my kimono. Again.

I ask that you hold me in possibility, and I will do the same for you. Let's see each other climbing ever higher into that blissful place of self-realization where all of our needs are met and we can be the best of who we are. I am so very grateful for the gift of writing so I can purge the toxic thoughts that have kept me unhappy, unhealthy, and unrealized. The truth is a magical elixir that helps wipe clean all of the dirty little secrets we keep hidden away, and I am jumping back into it with gusto. My physical, mental, emotional and spiritual health are at stake. I must acknowledge, own, and even celebrate my life, even at its gunkiest. Because even at its ugliest, we are all still blessed with untold gifts. Sometimes the most painful times remind us of how friggin' awesome we truly are.

If you, like me, are living at or near the bottom of Abe's pyramid, please know that you are not alone. You are still a beautiful, magnificent, worthy, and divine being, no matter what the numbers on your check register or the credit report say. I honor you and your journey.

In Defense of Sweat Lodges

2010-02-04T08:36:00.000-08:00

Today is a sad day for spiritual seekers. James Arthur Ray, the incredibly popular New Age guru who was featured on The Secret, was arrested this morning on three counts of manslaughter. He is charged with causing the deaths of Kirby Brown, James Shore and Liz Neuman during a grueling sweat lodge he led in Sedona last October.

The reason I am sad doesn't have anything to do with the legal challenges Mr. Ray now faces. Instead, my heart reaches out to those family members who needlessly lost their loved ones, seemingly because of one man's stupidity, selfishness, and greed. Moreover, my knickers are in a twist because I fear that the sanctity of the sweat lodge and other indigenous ways of prayer will be unfairly paired with the thoughtless, self-centered behavior of one unqualified man.

Being in a sweat isn't about who has the biggest balls (as in the case of Mr. Ray's "Gut it out!" mentality); rather, it is a profound indigenous practice of cleansing the body and deeply connecting to the Creator. If you haven't ever done one before, you can't fully appreciate it's magnificence. I have had the privilege of participating in several sweat lodges and found each experience to be incredibly healing and transformational. When properly facilitated, each element of the lodge -- the way in which the ribbing is constructed, the types of blankets used, the number of rocks placed in the pit, the songs sung, the prayers said, the seating arrangement, the herbs used, and the duration -- are all carefully managed by a skilled elder who is in tune with the energy of every participant. But, believe me, being in a sweat lodge isn't a walk in the park. I have sat in ungodly hot sweats where I slithered to the ground just to press my face against the cool, moist Earth. I have plaintively wailed to Spirit to help me through the intense discomfort of the heat. My clothes have been dripping wet after sweating my sins away on a mountain in California for hours. Yes, sweat lodges are one of the most physically demanding things one can do, but I have NEVER once felt unsafe. Not once. It is all due to the trust I have in my spiritual elders and their acute ability to "hold space" for each of us. Never in a million years would my sweat lodge leaders allow people to vomit and pass out in one of their lodges, as what happened in Sedona on Ray's watch.

James Ray's careless behavior has sullied the reputation of the sweat lodge. It is akin to what a handful of Catholic priest pedophiles did to the reputation of the entire Church. Not every priest is a pedophile, and not every sweat lodge is dangerous. In the end, it is the person we need to scrutinize, not the practice. If you are ever given the blessed opportunity to participate in a sweat lodge -- or any other spiritual ritual for that matter -- ask yourself some tough questions first: Where did this person learn his/her skills? How long has he/she been doing it? Does he/she have the support and blessing from tribal elders? Does it look and feel like the practice is based on sacredness or selfishness? Do I feel honored?

Mr. Ray, this is a great life lesson for you. It looks like you'll be staying in your jail cell longer than you feel comfortable doing, just as dozens of people stayed in your sweat lodge for longer than they should have. The difference is that your high-priced lawyers may, just may, get you out in time. As for Kirby Brown, James Shore and Liz Neuman, they weren't so lucky.

Sex Ed 101

2010-01-06T07:08:00.000-08:00

I am always shocked at what I'll write to elicit a good laugh. It's time once again for my monthly "Sex and the Suburbs" column in Creative Loafing. Let the embarrassment commence! Enjoy.

Asking Mom For Help

2009-12-23T11:31:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we just don't want to make it a Hallmark moment.

News flash: This time of year ain't always merriment and mistletoe for everybody. For a variety of reasons, the holidays can suck for many of us. For some, it's a battle to create a festive atmosphere or supply presents under the tree when there's precious little money and no gainful employment. For others, it's an empty nest or an empty bed that brings out one's Inner Scrooge. If you are like me, the holidays can be a painful reminder of a loved one's death.

The next few days will undoubtedly be rife with love, laughter, yummy food, and fun presents to give and receive. Yet, there will also be a part of me -- a part of a lot of us -- that will be yearning for that missing someone around the dinner table. For me, it's my mom. For others, it may be a grandmother, a husband, a son, a sister, or a friend. Even though my mother won't be here in physical form, her spirit has recently been making itself known in many ways. Just yesterday, I felt I was channeling Mom as my daughter and I undertook the task of making her famous 7-layer bars. I recalled so many Christmases past where Mom would prance around the house in her red sweater and acrylic high heels, making sure everyone had something to drink and a 7-layer bar to nibble on. She was the quintessential glammed up matriarch, white zinfandel in one hand and a glowing cig in the other. No matter how many presents I receive in my lifetime, few will give me the joy I felt upon witnessing the contagious belly laugh of that little firecracker.

Yesterday, I received a telephone call from a dear friend of mine who is currently going through the same thing I did three years ago. His father is about ready to depart this world, and the transition is understandably difficult for the entire family. On one day, it seems like his dad is ready to leave; on another day, he is up and around, basking in the love of his spouse, children and grandchildren. My friend believes that he is showing one final burst of energy before he says his final goodbyes. Who knows, maybe he's waiting until after Christmas so his loved ones won't be reminded of his death on the 25th of every December. I wish I could tell him that it doesn't really matter what day he decides to die. Even if he waits a few extra days, his family will still feel the crush of his absence every year around the holidays. There will be an air of melancholy when everyone sits down to the feast. Someone will make a reference that will remind everyone of a long-running family joke. His favorite holiday movie will play on television. In so many ways he will be there still, even when he's not.

Because of this phone call I received, I decided to ask my mother for a special gift this year. I am going to ask her to help in a way that only she can do.

"Ma, please go to Jim's bedside and help him find his way to Spirit. He needs help in dropping his body so he can move on, and you are just the gal to escort him. (He's cute too!) As you know, he's probably a little afraid and worried that his family won't be able to handle his death. Reassure him, Ma, that everyone will be all right and that he is going to an amazing place filled with beauty, joy, and Divine love. Once he feels and sees you there, he'll understand that he's not really dying - just changing locales. It will help him and his family so much. Bring all of your peeps too! Thanks, Mom, for this huge gift. I love you so much!"

And I miss you too.

F'ed Up Fairy Tales

2009-12-14T07:44:00.000-08:00

Call me an arrogant douchebag, but I have a Google Alert set up on myself. As a self-pubbed writer who has pimped herself out for articles, interviews, quotes, reviews and anything else that will get my name out into the world, I like to keep track of where I am floating in cyberspace. This morning, I got an alert about an interview I did on fairy tales over a year ago for Online Dating Magazine. I must have been wearing my sassy-pants when I did it! Here is the interview. Enjoy...

Dating with Disabilities
by Melissa Blake
Fairytales
An Interview with Theresa Rose

I know I’ve been doing a lot of interviews lately for this column, but I’ve been talking to so many great people with such great insight, and I can’t resist sharing their knowledge and expertise with you. Besides, you must get sick of hearing me prattle on week after week, right?

Did you grow up loving nothing more than a good fairytale? I did. I used to read about Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, and before I knew it, I started waiting for my own Prince Charming to come riding up on his white horse and sweep me away to our own, personal Happily Ever After. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a great story for a young girl to have in her mind, but that’s just what it is – a story. Somewhere along the way, I began thinking that this is how real life – and of course, real love – was: all romantic and pretty and filled with heroes who save the day. But as I got older, I realized that some of those classics can lead young women astray, especially in leading them to think that they need to rely on a man for happiness, or that they are doomed to be damsels in distress forever.

What happened to Girl Power? I wondered if I was alone in my thinking (which, as you know, happens to be the case sometimes), so I got the inside story (no pun intended) from Theresa Rose, the award-winning author of the book “Opening the Kimono: A Woman’s Intimate Journey Through Life’s Biggest Challenges” (Serious Mojo, 2009). Read on for her thoughts on the lessons we internalize from fairytales.

What do fairytales really teach us about love and life?
As a mother of a seven-year old girl who adores "All Things Princess," I can say from first-hand experience what these fairytales teach about life: they show us to value looks and superficiality above all else, that girls are totally clueless to their surroundings and how victim hood ultimately serves us. What a bunch of malarkey! Each female in these stories is a passive victim who is waiting for some man to rescue her from the terrible situation she herself got into. Of course, it goes without saying that the love found in the stories is totally based on physical attraction alone. How on earth could those perfect dudes fall in love with their princesses after only a few minutes? And they lived happily ever after? Please.

Why have these fairytales transcended time and remained relevant even in 2009?
Despite how totally unrealistic and even harmful these stories are, little girls (and big girls) everywhere are drawn to them like moths to a flame. There is something so appealing about imagining oneself as the prettiest, most sought-after girl in the room. We get to wear fancy clothes, have men fight dragons for us and essentially have no responsibility whatsoever for our own happiness. When shown through that prism, becoming Snow White sounds pretty good to me too. It's the same base desire that had women flocking to the theaters to see "Sex and the City."

How can women use these stories to benefit their own lives?
I believe the biggest benefit from these stories is to show women where they learned patterns of victim hood and unreasonable fixations on appearance. Women should look at challenges in their lives and ask, "What Wouldn't Snow White Do?" We can be our own heroes instead of waiting for a man to save us. Although, I must admit that Cinderella reminds us of the power of wearing a killer pair of heels.

Is there anything else you think I should know?
The best fairytale heroines are Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Fiona from the Shrek series. Belle taught us that reading is cool, and what is on the inside of someone is more important than what's on the outside. Fiona taught us that you can get the love of your dreams and still have terrible skin, a barrel for a belly, a bulbous nose, and freaky ears. She is responsible for her happiness, sticks up to her man when called for and chooses her own destiny over what other people think. Fiona ROCKS!

We Knew We Were Gonna See This

2009-12-08T07:35:00.001-08:00

I am currently sitting at the Minneapolis International Airport, praying that the airplane on which I am about to board can outrun a raging blizzard. Yippy F#$king Skippy.

As a recent transplant from Florida to Minnesota, I am often asked why I would voluntarily choose to leave Paradise for life in the Frozen Tundra. (The word 'insane' is often used in the question.) When we packed up our worldly belongings in August and headed north, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fast forward four months later, and I'm shivering my ass off. News Flash: This time of year, Minnesota gets cold. It gets BUTT-cold. It gets oh-shit-my-nipples-feel-like-they-are-going-to-friggin-fall-off cold. And it's not even Christmas. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? I'm not swearing to the Lord; I'm literally asking Him.

Oh yeah, I remember. On the professional front, we moved for the career opportunities it afforded me. In only a short period of time, I have been able to generate significant new speaking gigs, and I believe it is directly attributable to being in a major metropolitan area like Minneapolis/St.Paul. I have also made some amazing connections, established growing friendships and had occasion to speak in front of large groups. These are all good things!

However, the more important reason for our reverse-migration has been the reconnection with my family and my roots. I was born in this Frozen Tundra forty years ago, and I have several family members that have been silly enough to remain living here (just kiddin', peeps!). What a joy is has been to have Thanksgiving with one of my brothers and his family, spend evenings playing cutthroat games of Rummikub with my niece who has suddenly grown into a woman when I wasn't looking, and chilling with my soul sis Susan while enjoying a glass of zin. Emma is on Cloud Nine-and-a-Half being so close the clan, and she proudly announces that her new BFF is her cousin Libby. To top it off, we get the pleasure of hosting Christmas Eve dinner at our home. Norman Rockwell we ain't, but it will be a great time nonetheless.

So, here I sit, fretting about the friggin' weather. I recall my husband quoting the James Cameron movie, The Abyss, whenever I start bitching about the cold or snow. He says, "We knew we were gonna see this". Yep, we knew that the weather was one of the drawbacks to our decision to move up north. But, you know what? No place is ideal. If you don't deal with blizzards every once in a while, you deal with hurricanes. If you don't deal with hurricanes, you deal with smog, fires, earthquakes, persistent traffic jams, outrageous real estate prices, or bad hairdos. Every place has a shitty part, no matter how you slice it. We made our decision to move to Minnesota based on intuition and heart, not number of inches of snow per year. We knew we were gonna see airport delays, snowplows, runny noses, and icy roads. But we also knew we were gonna see smiling faces on our children, friendly competitions of Apples to Apples around the fire, and houses full of laughter and love. My life is richer in every way for having come back home. When all is said and done, a blizzard every once in a while is a tiny price to pay.

But I won't be complaining when my plane lands in Sarasota.

Swing Dance Sexiness

2009-12-02T09:14:00.000-08:00

Here is my latest "Sex and the Suburbs" column for Creative Loafing newspaper. While it isn't as steamy as some of my others, it still brings a smile to my face. I hope it does to yours too!

Blessings, and make it a great day.

Theresa

Too Busy to Blog, but Not too Busy to Be Grateful

2009-11-25T14:21:00.001-08:00

I have been woefully delinquent in my blogging duties -- again.

Luckily, it isn't because of some existential funk I've found myself in; rather, the reason for my absence has been the fact that I am busier than a one-armed paper hanger with my professional speaking biz! Something shifted when I went to Florida a few weeks ago, and now everything is totally jamming. Michael and I are happily working together, the phone is ringing, the emails are arriving, proposals are being signed, bank deposits are being made, and I am finding myself in my most desirable of situations: being in front of lots of peeps, sharing the Mojo.

Life is very, very good.

I have wanted to take the time to write or record a blog, but my deadlines have not allowed for them. I suppose I could have worked through the night, but my daughter and hubby would have probably frowned on it. Instead, I opted to release (most of) my guilt and happily move forward on the path that Spirit is paving for me, with balance and grace.

However, I felt it necessary to post my annual Gratitude Rant, in the spirit of Thanksgiving.

Dear Spirit, thank you so very much for all of the gifts you provide to me today and every day. I know I don't take time every day to express my appreciation, and oftentimes it takes a holiday like Thanksgiving to remind me of how friggin' kick-booty my life really is. In that light, I offer my rant for All Things Righteous in the life of Theresa Ann Rose:

* Michael and his never-ending support and love; I could write a book on how much I dig that man. Hey! Maybe I will!
* Emma and her morning cuddles, perches, and belly touches; she is, quite simply, the shiz.
* My extended family in Minnesota who I am so happy to be reconnected to
* The new friends I have made in my new/old hometown
* My old friends who haven't forgotten about me just because I am gone
* The opportunities that are presenting themselves to me, allowing me to share my stories with lots of people
* The changing seasons, reminding me of the beauty of transformation
* Newly discovered Indian, Greek, and Ethiopian restaurants that bring food to a whole new level
* Freedom
* The many dreams I have that will someday become a reality
* Jason Mraz!! (I adore you, Jason.)
* My hoop, even if I don't use it as much as I would like
* Finding the perfect pair of shoes at Opitz and spending $10 on 'em
* Walking around Lake Calhoun on a glorious Autumn day
* Finding $20 stashed in a coat pocket
* My new, fire-engine red RAV4, lovingly named "Firecracker"
* Creative, beautiful, sassy, amazing, talented women on Team Mojo
* Sleeping in on Saturdays
* When plans come together effortlessly and easily
* Shedding the fear
* Fitting into the skinny jeans once again, even if I look like a stuffed sausage
* Swing dancing with hubby
* Facebook statuses that make me smile
* Everything, absolutely everything, that makes this journey so rich and juicy

Finally, I would like to show appreciation for you, dear reader, and the support you give. It is my fervent wish that you enjoy your Thanksgiving weekend with family and friends. Remember how loved you are!

Healing Taylor Lautner

2009-10-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

Taylor Lautner needs to receive some serious healing work, and I'm just the woman to give it to him.

For those of you who may not know who Taylor Lautner is, you are obviously not fourteen years-old, nor are you a Twilight fan. Taylor is the hunkalicious man-boy that plays sensitive werewolf Jacob Black in the wildly popular vampire movie series. For those of you who are familiar with Taylor, you undoubtedly know that he had to bulk up his physique, gaining almost thirty pounds of pure muscle, for the upcoming film, New Moon. The result is one smokin' hot werewolf.

Apparently, Mr. Lautner is getting overwhelmed by the throngs of females lavishing attention on his outstanding form. It seems that whenever this stud puppet is out in public, teenage girls everywhere hopped up on a cocktail of extra virgin estrogen oil, Diet Mountain Dew and Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers will scream, "Take your shirt off, Taylor!!!" I can only imagine that it would get pretty darn annoying to be the constant object of obsession for the Pubescent Girls Gone Wild crowd.

Recently, Taylor lamented to reporters that he is incredibly embarrassed by all of the attention his body is getting, and wishes he could never have to take his shirt off again for another movie. As a red-blooded woman who would be devastated if this wish came true, I am hereby offering to do whatever it takes to heal Mr. Lautner of his shirtless trauma.

As a Reiki Master, Intuitive Healer, and former Licensed Massage Therapist, I believe I am uniquely qualified to rid Mr. Lautner of his pathological discomfort with being disrobed. The first step in the process is to understand the problem. Clearly, the fanatical attention his luscious bod has garnered has made him feel unsafe, ungrounded, and uncomfortable in his own skin. My recommendation is for him to have an intensive, one-on-one session with me to move through his fear of being nearly naked and utterly enticing. The session would go something like this:

"Take your shirt off, Taylor." (Notice I didn't scream it, but rather ever-so-professionally instructed him to do so.)

When he begins to peel off his skin-tight white t-shirt, showing me his ripply abdomen, I encourage him to move as slowly as possible as to remain fully conscious and present with his feelings. As I walk around him, I ponder the possibility that we should also address some of his latent discomfort associated with women ogling his perfectly-round ass. After briefly considering instructing him to take off his pants as well, I decide that we could save his gluteal issue for another day.

"Slower, Taylor...that's it, nice and easy..."

I then inform him that one of the ways we need to break through his discomfort is to desensitize him to women admiring his physical beauty. I rattle off some of my classic meditation verbiage about loving himself unconditionally regardless of what others think of him, and invite him to embrace the Divine within. He sheepishly agrees to my advice and stands fully erect, allowing me to eyeball every last inch of him for as long as I feel it prudent.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I inform him that the visual portion of the treatment is nearly complete. Over the last 150 minutes, I observed in minute detail his washboard abs, strapping pecs, massive deltoids, sinewy neck, and mighty latissimus dorsi, nary skipping a single inch of his impressive personage. After mentally recording my observations, it becomes crystal clear that this young gentleman is truly a gift from the gods.

Taylor is now feeling a little woozy from all of the intense energy he has received from my piercing brown eyes, and he needs to lay down for a bit. This is perfect timing, as the next stage of the treatment is about to begin. I guide him to lay on my bed -- unfortunately, my treatment table is broken at the time -- and invite him to fully relax.

After a few deep breathing exercises ("Deeper, Taylor...bring more air into your chest..."), I gently bring up the subject of therapeutic touch and ask if he is ready to delve into it. As a former massage therapist, I have witnessed first-hand the tremendous positive effect that nurturing touch can have on someone who has experienced trauma, and I believe that Mr. Lautner is an ideal candidate to receive it from a highly-trained person such as myself.

After I put on some relaxing -- some would call it "sexy" -- music, I begin to stroke, er, caress, um, palpate Mr. Lautner. I start at the top of his head, rubbing my hands all over his scalp and ever-so-slightly pulling on his black spiky hair. I brush my fingertips against his masculine eyebrows, deliciously long eyelashes, and rosebud lips. For good measure, I even tug on his ears and plunge my pinky fingers into each ear canal.

Over the next several hours, I explore Mr. Lautner from head to toe, leaving only his sacred patch of manhood untouched. When slowly kneading his brawny upper thighs, I wonder if the air conditioning is broken because it is getting so damned hot in the room. By the time I pluck at each one of his adorable chestnut toes, I decide that I must be coming down with something, because I feel like I am ready to pass out from the heat that is curiously radiating from my pelvic area.

By the end of the session, Mr. Lautner has completely released his objectification fears and is comfortable once again in his Herculean frame. He is so very grateful to have received my outstanding healing services that he gives me a huge, teary-eyed bear hug for ten minutes. At the end of our hug, he innocently asks if he could give me a peck on my cheek as a thank-you. I say, "Of course! My pleasure, young man." Using all of the willpower contained within my being, I refuse to turn my lips towards him at the precise moment his lips touch my face. As we say goodbye, my final piece of advice to him is to receive weekly treatments from me, just to ensure that he sufficiently progresses. After all, his entire career is at stake.

After an exhaustive yet exhilarating day of healing, Mr. Lautner confidently leaves my office, fully satisfied with the treatment outcome.

And I go change my underwear.

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For more inspiration and sass, visit me at http://www.TheresaRose.net!

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What's with the Red Face?

2009-10-27T11:02:00.001-07:00

Give Up!

2009-10-22T09:25:00.000-07:00

I have two words of advice for those of you who want great things to happen in your life: GIVE UP.

Give up, you say? Never! We are taught that we should work work work work work for all of the things we want. If you want a better job, work for it. If you want a healthier body, work on it. If you want a better relationship, work to attract it. I don't know about you, but all of this damn work is making me tired.

For the last ninety days, I have been drowning in work. The more I tried to accomplish, the more unsuccessful I became. I had a list of action items that could choke a horse, none of which I was doing very well. My list of work priorities in no particular order included:

* Creating one-day seminars for social workers, nurses, and bodyworkers
* Proposing corporate training on time management, overcoming adversity, and change management
* Pitching keynote speaking events for health care organizations
* Developing in-service training modules for teachers
* Acquiring a literary agent in order to reissue Opening the Kimono
* Writing my blog, freelance articles, and "Sex and the Suburbs" column
* Trying to get "Sex and the Suburbs" syndicated
* Contacting radio and TV stations for interviews
* Scheduling book signings at booksellers
* Submitting Opening the Kimono to popular book bloggers for review
* Teaching creative writing classes
* Hosting meditation circles
* Conducting intuitive healing private sessions
* Facilitating Club Kimonos
* Growing my social media network on Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn
* Networking networking networking
* At least 25 other "mission-critical" tasks

UGH. After writing all of that crap down, I can understand how I was miserable. There was simply too much to do, and not enough time to do it. I was under the wave.

During last week's flight to the East Coast, I asked Spirit for some much-needed help. My To-Do List From Hell had to stop, and I needed a receive a clear message from the Universe as to what I should be working on. After my prayer, I went about my business and waited for the signs to appear.

After conducting a couple of righteous guided meditations, two super-charged speaking events, and a heartwarming Club Kimono, I realized (or remembered, to be precise) that I NEED to be on stage bringing the Mojo in order to be happy. I get energized when I am in front of a group of people doing my thing -- making them laugh, inspiring them, and helping them to see what they can do to bring more joy and peace in their lives. I got very little sleep last week, yet I had enormous amounts of energy. Simply put, motivating people and connecting them to Spirit is my passion, not my work. It is like oxygen for my soul.

Later in the week, I received additional guidance that I should let go of any other tasks that don't have to do with my inspirational speaking. That meant that I was to drop corporate consulting, educational training, and bookstore events --- at least for right now. Instead, I should funnel all of my energies towards getting on the stage. As I have written before, it is my natural habitat. If I were to be honest with myself, I am not that juiced up about the other stuff. My motivation to accomplish all of those goals was simply fear in disguise. I was afraid that I wouldn't make enough money if I didn't get it all done. Never mind that, since my heart wasn't in most of it, I wasn't able to close any business.

On Saturday afternoon, I came to another conclusion: I no longer needed to kill myself to find an agent. This discovery was made ONE DAY before I was going to fly to New York City to attend a swanky "Meet the Agents" forum. How ironic! I opted to go to New York anyway, since I already had the plane ticket and prepaid for my stay in a trendy Brooklyn apartment. I decided that my new goal wasn't to acquire an agent; rather it was to have fun in The City and meet some cool people along the way. I packed my suitcase, put a few copies of Opening the Kimono in my big purse, and was on my way...

When I got to the event, I immediately noticed that the room was full of angst-ridden wannabe authors. While waiting for the presentation to start, many of my neighbors were kvetching about how unsuccessful they have been in acquiring an agent, how rude some of the agents are, and how unlikely they were to get a "Yes". Nice attitude, ladies.

After the agents introduced themselves, all of us fledgling writers waited in very long lines to get our three minutes of face-time with two or three of our preferred agents. The anxiety, depression, and anger levels were reaching a fever pitch. I recall a woman behind me who was nervously reciting her pitch in her head. She reminded me of the late great Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live doing The Chris Farley Show; she looked liked she was going to start pulling out her hair and scream, "I'm so stupid! Argh! I can't believe I said that!" One could almost smell the fear. I, on the other hand, was totally relaxed. I decided to tune out the crazies by goofing around on the Facebook app of my iPhone.

When it was my time to be in front of Agent #1, I joyfully sat down, plopped down my book, and said, "Hi, my name is Theresa Rose. I am the author of this book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges. It has won two awards so far: the Royal Palm Literary Award and the Living Now Book Award. I am also a motivational speaker and workshop facilitator, and I sell my book to about 80% of the attendees at each function. I also write a column called "Sex and the Suburbs" for Creative Loafing newspaper, and I am looking to get it syndicated. I think the time is right for me to start looking for an agent to take Opening the Kimono to a larger audience. Is this something you might be interested in?" My pitch took me no less than one minute, and frankly, I could have cared less what her response was.

What did she say?

"I'd like to learn more. Send me the book and your proposal when you get home. Next!"

I waited in two more lines over the next two hours, and I had one more agent tell me to send her my materials.

Just like that. Easy peasy.

It was an interesting lesson for me. When I let go of the need to work so hard at it, the results come easily and effortlessly. Even today, as I finish up the book proposal, I am relaxed, confident, and totally trusting that whatever happens will happen. Either Ms. R or Ms. B will want to take me on as a client, or they won't. Whatev. It doesn't negate the power of the book or my absolute certainty that I should be on stage bringing the juice.

Two nights ago, I had the pleasure of seeing Deepak Chopra speak in front of 2,000 people at the University of Minnesota. Naturally, he was brilliant and inspiring. But, I got more out of watching Deepak than hearing him. I imagined myself speaking in front of a large, enthusiastic group someday and thought how friggin' kick@ss that will be! I heard the laughs, saw the smiles, and felt the warmth. Right now, I mostly speak in front of groups of 50. Someday, it will be in front of groups of 500. If I'm lucky, eventually it will be in front of 5,000. For now, though, I am content to let go of the need to "work" at it and just BE.

Sometimes we need to give up so we can receive.

In-flight Ruminations

2009-10-12T15:06:00.001-07:00

It’s amazing what comes to mind when one is forced to endure a jam-packed, turbulence-ridden Delta flight from Minneapolis to Sarasota.

Having recently moved to Minnesota, I am not used to taking off during a snowstorm. Frankly, it freaked me out a wee bit. I know how hard it is to navigate my Toyota on a slippery, snow-covered highway, so how could I not question how the pilot would keep control of this massive chunk of steel on a slick runway? The answer, of course, is the mystery process called ‘de-icing’: that magical solution that makes everything A-OK. It's so reassuring to know that my life is safe now that the plane received a five-minute, high-powered car wash. As we careen down the runway, I focus on my tried-and-true “I'm scared shitless” mantra: All is well, all of the time. In conjunction, I try to calm my stomach that is doing somersaults and breathe into my legs that have turned into jelly. Despite my best efforts, I have visions of that terrifying movie Alive – the story about the jet crash in the Andes – dancing through my head. This is all happening a few hours before one of my public appearances in which I am supposed to become Big Theresa, the Bringer of the Mojo. As I type this, I am looking down at my black plastic and brushed metal bracelet that has the word "Fearless" emblazoned on it and wondering how the hell I have the cajones to wear it.

I am comforted by the fact that I’m not the biggest Fraidy Cat on the plane. There is a chick sitting in the row ahead of me who looks like she is going to jump out of her skin, barf in the white paper bag, and pee in her stonewashed jeans all at the same time. Prior to takeoff, my Nervous Nellie cabin-mate sporting the Taylor Swift tee shirt incessantly grilled the flight attendant on the safety of the plane, e.g. “What is that strange noise?! Is that sound normal?! What about all of the snow on the wings?!” (I was grateful to my squirrelly travel compadre for asking those questions, as I wondered the same things myself.) The jaded flight attendant whose behavior clearly indicated that she has logged waaaaaaaay too much flight time, condescendingly responded by saying, “Then maybe you should have taken a Greyhound bus to Florida”. Hey, Blondie? Two words: Blow me. Delta’s new tagline should read: Fly the Bitchy Skies.

In order to deal with the stratospheric roller coaster in which I am currently being forced to ride, I am focusing instead on my upcoming itinerary. I will be spending the next six blissful days in sunny Florida conducting Club Kimono discussion groups, facilitating two group meditations, having private intuitive healing sessions, and doing a speaking engagement. All of that that is fine and dandy, but to be honest, I am more pumped about seeing my peeps!! I get to spend quality time with Jax and V, go out to dinner with Abby, hoop with Shellie, lunch with Linda and Donna, gab with Lourdes, and laugh with Shaun and Di. I’m gonna walk the beach in my flipflops, get up whenever I want, and eat whenever I want. Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband and daughter more than the Biggest Big Thing; but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that it is gonna be pretty friggin’ nice to be a single gal for the next week. I am sure my jaws will ache at the end of the trip from laughing and talking ad infinitum. Sometimes I just need a break from the roles of Mom and Wife.

Not only am I spending quality time in the Sunshine State, but I will also be taking a quick jaunt to New York City for a “Meet the Agents” forum. During three nerve-wracking hours next Sunday afternoon, I hope to dazzle the to-be-determined Dream Agent with the awesome potential of one Ms. Theresa Rose and her literary baby, Opening the Kimono. This trip is huge for me, and I want to make a great impression. As any woman knows, the clothes we wear can dictate our confidence level. As I scoured my closet yesterday to pick out my travel wardrobe, I discovered several bold, trendy, oh-so-New Yorky outfits that would be perfect to wear for this event. The only problem is that none of them fit. Ever since our move, my girth has steadily expanded, thanks to too many trips to Caribou Coffee, too many take-home pizzas from Papa Murphy’s, and too few trips on the elliptical. It’s a depressing thing indeed when all one can find to wear on the eve of a major business trip are stretchy skirts and baggy shirts.

Blessedly, I found a cute Michael Kors skirt in the back recesses of the closet that I bought on sale at Macy’s several months ago. I have never worn it, because it was too big when I bought it (it was incorrectly sized and misfiled on the sale racks). Not anymore, dammit. Thanks to Caribou and the Papa, it fits perfectly now. Through a few tears, I cobbled together a decent Manhattan-worthy outfit that doesn’t make me look like a hausfrau or an aging hippie at Burning Man.

So begins my trip. I am trying to stay as positive as possible, recognizing that wonderful things are just around the corner. My goal right now is to be in the groove, go with the flow, and embrace every moment, regardless of how unpleasant it may seem. I pray this damn turbulence will end soon, the cranky old coot next to me will eventually arrest his restless leg syndrome, and the faceless-yet-powerful expeller of noxious intestinal gas will stop his (or her) pungent tooting. Just a few moments ago, my jittery neighbor actually had the stones to ask me if I’d switch seats with him, giving him my coveted aisle seat in exchange for his middle seat. Yeah. That’ll happen. I’m all for loving my neighbor, but he’s gonna have to keep his shaky ass right where it is for the duration of the flight.

PS: Despite how it seems, I love writing while traveling. There is something about being surrounded by strangers being put in uncomfortable surroundings that make my creative juices flow like the Colorado River (or at least how the Colorado River ran ten years ago). The only drawback is the presence of nosy neighbors who think they are being surreptitious when they sneak a peek at the contents of my screen. Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, buddy. Keep your damn eyeballs on your USA Today or Golf Digest where they belong.

I love traveling. ☺

A Morning of "Me Too!"s

2009-10-01T08:02:00.000-07:00

As part of my job as Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo, I write a monthly newsletter called The Rose Report. In it, I include a message of inspiration typically about self-acceptance, gratitude, consciousness, and other warm, fuzzy things that make life so juicy. However, I have not felt like a Bringer of the Mojo over the last few months due to my recent, hellacious cross-country move.

When I had to write this month's newsletter, I was faced with a choice. Do I pretend that everything is hunky-dory, or do I share my inner ick? As with writing my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, I decided to have some cajones and go for the latter. I know from personal experience that it is where the healing takes place. Here is what I wrote:

"FINDING MY WAY BACK...

Just as I wrote in last month's Rose Report, I continue to struggle to find my footing in my new home of Minnesota. While I have been blessed to spend more time with family and meet new, wonderful friends, I am still filled with a fair amount of fear. And panic. And anger. And annoyance. And depression. And every other negative emotion one can feel.

As a self-proclaimed "Bringer of the Mojo", it pains me to show you this small, disconnected part of me. I am feverishly trying to grow my professional speaking business, but I am feeling like a phony right at the moment. (How does one promote a speaking program called "Maximizing Your Mojo" when the speaker's Mojo is missing in action?) I dreaded having to write this month's newsletter, knowing that if I wrote a bunch of "life's-wonderful-be-grateful-you're-beautiful-everything's-a-gift" stuff, it would merely come across as empty platitudes from a woman who resembles a sad, powerless mutation of her true self. If you haven't noticed, I need someone to bring some Mojo my way.

The thing that's even more obnoxious about my descent into the dark side is that I know the cause of it! In a nutshell, I have not yet been successful in re-establishing my spiritual practice in my new house. I can count on one hand the number of times I meditated over the last thirty days, and I have done precious little movement. While I have somehow been able to sever the vice-grip sugar addiction I acquired during the move itself, I am still pounding my head against the wall, both personally and professionally. The price I have paid for ignoring Spirit has been a big one. I have been short with Emma more often than I care to admit, felt sluggish and icky physically, and obsessed over the fact that my book sales are lagging despite the overwhelming enthusiasm from readers and critics. Long story short, I am still teensy, tiny Theresa.

My mother used to have a saying that she would use during a particularly difficult situation. She used to say, "There is a four-letter word that will fix any problem: W-O-R-K." While I appreciated her teaching me about the value of a strong work ethic, a part of me believes that it was damaging in the long run. For the last sixty days, I have been consumed with that four-letter word. I have started working as soon as Emma goes to school, go non-stop for several hours without a break, and plug away until well into the evening. My neurotic behavior hasn't netted me any great successes; rather, it has fueled my sour attitude that has, unfortunately, permeated our home. In hindsight, I should have focused on the other four-letter words that would have helped me so much more: L-O-V-E and P-R-A-Y. Ironically, in order to kick myself out of this nasty funk I've put myself in, I need to do a lot less working and a lot more loving and praying.

Why on earth would I want to publicly share this bit of ugliness in a newsletter designed to pump people up? If I learned anything from writing Opening the Kimono, its that the act of sharing one's gunk allows it to be released, opening one up to new possibilities of power and joy. Hopefully, you will recognize some of your own self-inflicted smallness in my telling, and realize that we ALL have these moments once in a while. I know from first-hand experience that getting out of the spiral of depression is a challenging exercise. However, no amount of chocolate, movies, or complaining will make it any better. You have to carve out time to sit in silence every day, even if it is for only a few minutes. You have to move your body in more ways that just from bed to the table to the chair and back to bed. You have to honor the fact that if you want to heal yourself, you need to ask for help, not only from friends and family, but also from your Spiritual Posse. I guess Mom was right after all; you gotta WORK at it.

I no longer want to feel this badly. I no longer want to feel the fear of failure. I no longer want to go to bed angry. It is up to me to step back into my power, and I start working it. My first task is to ask for your help. Take one moment after reading this email to visualize both you and me as powerful "Bringers of the Mojo". See the two of us letting go of the vices and addictions that keep us tiny. Imagine that everything we desire is flowing to us easily and effortlessly. As I am writing this, I am imagining this for us both. Now, we need only to make those choices that will fulfill this vision.

This month, I will try to find my way back to the meditation room, back to the hoop, back to the yoga mat, and back to me. I hope you, too, have a wonderful, colorful, blissful, healthful October...just like I envisioned it to be!

Take care, and let's BOTH make it a great day!

Brightest blessings,

Theresa"

The response has been nothing short of phenomenal. I have received dozens of positive email responses from people over the last few hours. Their words were tender, vulnerable, honest, and courageous. Some wrote several paragraphs, and some merely a few sentences. While every person has a different story, every email contained the same theme: Thank you for sharing your heartfelt words, and I FEEL EXACTLY THE SAME WAY. It's good to know that I am not the only one out there.

I needed to hear this today. I needed to remember that my work is important and helps people. I can get lost in the depression of publisher rejections, stalled proposals, and meager book sales. The gifts I have received this morning are like precious jewels for my psyche. As such, they are going to be filed in my "Smiles" email folder. When things are especially difficult on the financial front, I am going to look back at these notes to remember why I've chosen to be an Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo in the first place.

I am so grateful for being reminded that we all go through the same struggles. It makes me feel like I'm not alone in this journey, and sharing our stories with each other will help us find our way back to joy. Together.

(If you want to receive the Rose Report for yourself, please visit my web site!)

Medicine In All Its Forms

2009-09-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

When the going gets tough, the tough go to Dairy Queen.

That is exactly what happened yesterday when I learned that a major NY publisher, after three months of reviewing Opening the Kimono, decided to reject my book for publication. While they loved my book, they could not support it at this time. Specifically, the publisher said:

"We have done our best to analyze whether we can publish your book successfully. After doing that analysis, we have come to the conclusion that based on the market as it is, it would be difficult to successfully publish it at this time. I know that this could be disappointing news and I want you to know that this is not a reflection of your work, but more of what's happening in the market and what has been selling successfully in this challenging market. "

That was little comfort. I felt like I had been repeatedly punched in the stomach by the World Boxing Association heavyweight champ. I had put so much of myself into the notion that this top publisher would accept my book and take it to the masses. Visions of Oprah danced in my head. How could they reject it? Everyone who reads it loves it! I know that celebrity memoirs, works from known bestsellers and diet books are practically the only things being published right now, but c'mon! Isn't there just a little bit of room for something new?

My husband/business partner was with me when I read the email. My tear-covered face clearly showed my disappointment more than any words could convey. He immediately swept me up into one of his classic bear hugs. He decided that the first-level of response needed to be some quality Michael Medicine. He took me into the bedroom and made delicious love to me, telling me how proud of me he was and that I was powerful, beautiful, and an amazingly talented woman. He nurtured me through the tears and brought me through the worst of the storm.

That was Step One.

The next step in my grieving process was to bury myself in the comfortable confines of our bed. I wanted to pull the covers over my head until the sting of the rejection ebbed to a manageable level. However, hubby broke into my existential malaise and declared that he wasn't going to allow me to wallow in bed all day long. It was time to re-enter the world. At my urging, we hopped into the car and proceeded to administer the second dose of medication: a Dairy Queen hot dog, fries, and Reese's Blizzard. I gotta admit, the tasty treats did start to make me feel a wee bit better. There is something therapeutic about chocolate and peanut butter...

That was Step Two.

Once we got home, I didn't want to do anything productive, and I certainly didn't want to get on that damn computer to do any more work. Every time I looked at MacDaddy, he taunted me with the firebomb contained within my Inbox. Instead, I pleaded with my beloved to join me in the basement for some sustained mind-numbing TV. We popped in the Blu-Ray disc of season one of "True Blood" and watched vampire shenanigans for several hours. Somehow watching hot vamps all day long made the pain of my disappointment further recede into the mist of my saddened heart.

That was Step Three.

Throughout the day, I received numerous calls and emails from family, friends, and fans who reminded me that I am, in fact, worthy of success, despite what the fancy-pants publisher may think. With each supportive comment, my confidence grew and ate away at my pathetic, "I suck" attitude. One comment in particular stood out in my mind. A woman who has read my book several times and listens to the audiobook in her car sent me a note: "I just want you to know, your words continue to transform my life on a daily basis." Her thoughtful comment prodded me to remember other things. I recalled that one woman who is currently going through rehab was allowed to bring only a very few items with her, and she chose her well-worn copy of Opening the Kimono to be one of them. I recalled one woman chasing me down at the International New Age Trade Show saying that she had to meet the woman who wrote the best book she ever read. I recalled the awards my book has won. In short, I remembered that I am still, regardless of the painful rejection I just received, The Shizit.

That was Step Four.

Collectively, all of these steps brought me back from the brink. After a reasonably good night's sleep (how much sleep can one get after snarfing down DQ and seven episodes of "True Blood"?), I woke up with a new attitude. I firmly believe that everything happens exactly as it should, and there are gifts contained in every seemingly horrible situation. I am grateful that I don't have to wait on pins and needles anymore, waiting to hear from the people for whom I (incorrectly) placed all of my hopes and dreams. I am grateful that I have so many wonderful people in my life who support and love me. I am grateful that I have written a book that makes people feel better about themselves. I am grateful for another day.

After our post-coital cuddle yesterday, Michael reminded me of the most important thing of all: "Let's allow the Powers That Be who create worlds to take your book where it needs to go. We don't have to do all of the work. It's up to us to just live joyfully and act upon the signs that Spirit gives us. It is in charge, not us."

Damn straight. I will NOT hold on to my self-judgment and disappointment anymore. I will embrace this latest development as a gift, knowing that Spirit is driving me towards something phenomenal. Starting today, I am going to get back on the horse, share my words with as many people as possible, and sell the shit out of my little book of inspirational stories. The right publisher for the second edition WILL present themselves at the perfect moment, because Spirit is in the driver's seat.

And if/when I waver, Dairy Queen is just down the street.

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Please visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside Opening the Kimono!

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Confessions of a Closet Cougar

2009-09-16T07:41:00.001-07:00

I am back in the groove of my writing, and boy, oh boy, does it feel GOOOOOD! I just finished my latest "Sex and the Suburbs" column for Creative Loafing newspaper titled "Confessions of a Closet Cougar". I hope you enjoy reading it, and please share it with your friends on Facebook, Twitter, or any other way you stay connected to your peeps in this crazy, 21st Century world of ours.

As an aside, I must tell you how awkward it was to have my husband edit this month's "SaTS" column. I kept thinking, I wonder if he'll blow a gasket when he reads the line, "I almost splurted after peeking at his perfectly round tushie." (The aforementioned tushie not belonging to my beloved.) Being the confident and supportive hubby that he is, he merely smiled and told me how funny the piece was. Honestly, the man is a freak of nature. I think he is missing the jealousy gene.

To all you cougars out there, keep prowlin' and growlin'. There is so much delectable prey on which to feast!

Lovemongering

2009-09-11T08:04:00.000-07:00

So much has been written about the traumatic, devastating, and shocking events of September 11, 2001. As such, I am not going to bother writing yet another blog about what we already know: September 11th sucked. It sucked BIG TIME. It sucked as big as a thing can suck. We all watched in horror as those colossal buildings came crashing down, and we continue to feel the grief in our hearts when we think of tremendous loss of American life it exacted, both on that day and in the years that followed.

As expected, I was met with a barrage of 9-11 themed statuses while logging on to Facebook this morning. Several of my online friends took the opportunity to pay homage to the event, to our country and to the brave men and women who fight for it. All of that is really, really good. I was heartened to see that people were taking time to authentically reflect on the impact of that unforgettable day.

However, I did get my knickers in a twist about one particular comment. One of my Facebook "friends"* (NOT!) wrote in his status this morning, "Never forget that the demons are still out there waiting to destroy our civilization." Seriously, dude? You want me to start my day off making sure that I remember that there are imaginary devils lurking somewhere in the distance -- the Middle East, perhaps? -- that are biding their time, waiting for that perfect moment to "destroy our civilization"? Really?! Hey man, I have some advice for you: Never forget that listening to too much fanatical, reactionary talk radio and not getting enough hugs can destroy what's left of the mind and soul of a bumbling goober.

* (Needless to say, I de-friended this bozo after receiving one-too-many of his crazyman, racist updates.)

I don't think it's right to use this day of collective introspection as an opportunity to bathe in the shallow end of the victim pool. Only Spirit knows our ultimate fate. We may meet Our Maker by slipping in the shower, being splattered on the interstate, getting struck by lightning or having the treatment of an infected toenail go terribly, terribly awry. Or, like my paranoid former FB friend believes, maybe we will meet our end at the hands of a bomb-toting terrorist (which, unfortunately, happens with a tragic degree of regularity in other parts of the world). There's no escaping it; every one of us is going to exit the earthly plane one of these days. The key isn't about obsessing over the method of departure, it's about reveling in the experience while we have it. I personally think being a fearmonger isn't the ideal way of doing it. Fear only brings with it anger, bitterness, resentment, and smallness. Nobody wins when the venom of fear runs through our veins.

Let's truly honor the heroes of this day by becoming LOVEMONGERS instead. Share vast amounts of joy with extreme prejudice! Tell people to never forget that they are adored! Give warnings that today will be better than the last! Remind all of your friends that all is well, all of the time!! Send links to uplifting, funny web content instead of angry, fear-based crap! Be a beacon of hope instead of an obnoxious strobe light of imaginary doom!

If we have learned anything from that day eight years ago, it is to ENJOY life. To enjoy it, we must not fear it. Instead, let's try to be grateful for our juicy, amazing, fabulous, love-filled, perfect lives! They are so very precious, after all. Let's never forget that.

In God I Trust

2009-09-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

TRUST. It is such a simple word, yet it is sometimes so damn difficult to put into practice.

Several months ago, I was fortunate enough to have my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, considered by a major New York publisher. If they decide to carry the second edition, it would most certainly be the easiest way I can get my work out to the largest possible audience. From a writer's perspective, having the support of one of the largest publishers behind my words is like reaching literary Nirvana. I have visions of Oprah, Ellen and Rachael dance in my head. (Oprah would most certainly LOVE Opening the Kimono! Can we say "Oprah's Book Club"?) Yet, I sit here in limbo waiting to receive the coveted email of acceptance. Maybe if I hit 'Refresh' one more time, it will magically arrive in my Inbox. I endlessly check my account, but the object of my desire keeps eluding me.

Dictionary.com states that trust is defined as a "confident expectation of something". To be honest, after one month of unrequited refreshing, I am starting to lose my confidence. I try to keep telling myself that no news is good news; maybe their lack of response to my status inquiries is the fact that they are busy figuring out the details of the lucrative contract they are going to present to me. However, as each day passes, my resolve is wavering. My insecure, inner nancy-girl fears that the answer will be "NO! We don't want your tacky little book of inspirational stories! NO! There is no market for your kind around here! NO! You are not a big enough name for us to gamble on! NO! NO! A thousand times NO!!!"

I guess I need a refresher course on trust.

My favorite tool I use when conducting intuitive healing sessions with people is the Osho Zen Tarot card deck. It has beautiful pics, none of which makes me feel like the Grim Reaper is waiting with his scary-ass sword to cut me to shreds. The insights I receive from them are always powerful and dead-on accurate. It just so happens that the Trust card, has always been my personal favorite.

Whenever I do a reading on myself, I invariably choose the Trust card. I have selected it so many times that I actually installed the image as my laptop wallpaper so as to remind me of its teachings. The card shows a woman enthusiastically diving into a beautiful pink void with outstretched arms, knowing she will safely land wherever she needs to. The commentary on the card states, "Now is the moment to be a bungee jumper without the cord! And it is this quality of absolute trust, with no reservations or secret safety nets, that the Knight of Water demands from us. There is a tremendous sense of exhilaration if we can take the jump and move into the unknown, even if the idea scares us to death. And when we take trust to the level of the quantum leap, we don't make any elaborate plans or preparations. We don't say, "Okay, I trust that I know what to do now, and I'll settle my things and pack my suitcase and take it with me." No, we just jump, with hardly a thought for what happens next. The leap is the thing, and the thrill of it as we free-fall through the empty sky. The card gives a hint here, though, about what waits for us at the other end - a soft, welcoming, yummy pink, rose petals, juicy...c'mon!"

This card reads like it was meant for me. After recently packing up all of our worldly belongings and moving across country to our new home in Minnesota, I feel like a bungee jumper without the cord. After having my husband quit his safe corporate job to manage my fledgling book and public speaking business, I feel like I am free-falling through the empty sky. As the card states, the idea scares me to death. Yet, Michael and I made the leap anyway, trusting that what awaits us on the other end of these incredibly terrifying choices is a soft, welcoming, yummy pink, juicy reward.

Maybe that yummy pink reward is a contract with the Mystery NY Publisher. Maybe it's not. As the card states, the act of trust isn't about knowing the exact details of the outcome. It's about taking that first step toward the unknown, knowing that whatever the outcome, it is always in the best interests of all involved. In Jason Mraz's song, "Make It Mine", Jason sings, "Leap and the net will appear". Well, God? I have taken the leap, and I'm waiting not-so-patiently for the net to appear. Can it appear please? Pretty please? Soon? Before I go totally insane?

The biggest piece of advice I give people when moving through a transformational phase in their lives is to do two things: 1) Watch for the signs from Spirit, and 2) Act joyfully upon them. I have most of that routine down, but I must admit that I sometimes omit the 'joyful' part. When a carrot so juicy, so delectable, so career-making is dangling in front of me, I have found myself forgetting that the object of the game isn't to reach the carrot, it's to have fun while doing so. Because once I actually grab onto the elusive carrot, another one will appear. It's just the rules of the game; nothing more, nothing less.

In order to insert the word 'joyfully' back into my world, I need to embody the trust that comes with playing the game of life. I must remind myself (yet again) that Spirit is supremely benevolent and wants only the best for me. I must remind myself that I have written an award-winning book worthy of international exposure. I must remind myself that whatever happens -- whether I get this particular contract or not -- is exactly what is supposed to happen. I simply need to trust that God knows what He (or She) is doing.

It turns out the hardest part of becoming an author wasn't writing the book, editing it, designing it, or self-publishing it. It's diving into the void that I am in RIGHT NOW and trusting that, no matter the outcome, that all is well, all of the time.

During my meditation today, I will ask Spirit to release me from my self-imposed burden of worry. I will ask for It to resume the project management role. I will fill my body, mind and spirit with that simple word until it pushes all of the fear and doubt out of me. Just to be sure, maybe I'll be like Bart Simpson and write it on the chalkboard over and over until it actually sinks in:

I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.

And so on and so on...

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For your consideration and/or comment:

In what areas of your life do you surrender to trust? In what areas do you hold on too tightly?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive the Rose Report or your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Back in the Saddle Again...Almost

2009-08-28T12:48:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned. It's been four weeks since my last blog confession.

I haven't written for over a month, yet my life has been busier and crazier than ever before. Since my last blog on July 27th, my husband (our household's primary breadwinner) quit his fancy-schmancy corporate job to work full-time at our publishing and public speaking business, Serious Mojo Publications. Within a week of him quitting, we decided to make another huge change and move across country from Florida to Minnesota. Subsequently, after four weeks of hell, we arrived in the 26-foot U-Haul outside our rented home in Minneapolis. Each day, I thought to myself, "I need to blog! I need to blog! I need to blog!". But I never did.

I kept telling myself that my inability to write was because the story was too big, there were too many details to share, and that blogging about major life changing events as they occur was too time-consuming.

Yeah, right. That wasn't it at all! That was just some bullshit excuse I created in my own head to avoid the obvious: I was afraid.

Any entry I would have made would have undoubtedly been peppered with words of fear, panic, doubt, agitation, exhaustion, and anxiety. As an inspirational writer and speaker, I felt like I would have jilted my readers (and been seen as a whimpering ninny) by showing my unattractive, unconscious self that has emerged center stage. I couldn't bring myself to describe my tumultuous journey, even though that is precisely what I do for a living. There were always other, "more important" things to do -- packing, finding a house, cleaning, moving, and settling in. I had a million things to do, but writing had not become one of them. I abandoned who I was, all for the sake of the next completed task.

Now, when everything is nearly complete, I am stuck in the muck of writer's block, or to be more precise, writer's fear. I am petrified that my career won't be able to support my family, nervous that our house in Florida won't rent, upset that I have allowed my body to go to pot, anxious about the status of a major publisher reviewing the second edition of my book, and overwhelmed by the work I have waiting for me. Even more importantly, I have been deathly afraid that, after a month-long hiatus from writing, the words will no longer come. Will the literary gods strip away my snazzy wordsmithing chops from lack of usage?? I am supposed to be the Bringer of the Mojo, yet I feel like I have morphed into the handmaiden of victimhood. Ugh. I am so very small right now.

My mantra over the last several weeks has been, "This too shall pass". I keep telling myself that everything will work out exactly as it should because Michael and I are following the signs that Spirit has sent our way. In my quiet moments (of which there have been precious few), I KNOW that Michael quitting his job and our move to Minnesota are exactly what needs to happen for my speaking career to flourish and my book to gain national acclaim. Yet, I sit here twiddling my thumbs, moving knickknacks, shopping at Target, endlessly surfing Facebook for the next distraction, and waiting, wishing, hoping that I can turn the corner towards balance and joy.

Where, or where, have my balance and joy gone? Did I leave them in a box in our garage in Florida? Are they permanent fixtures in my meditation room in the Sunshine State?

I am constantly trying to cocoon myself in trust before the tsunami of fear threatens to overtake me. Visions of food stamps and blank screens dance in my head. Will I be ever be able to resume my writing? Will my calendar remain empty? Will I continue to spiral down the darkness where inspiration is lost forever?? Needless to say, I am in the midst of a full-blown freakout.

Sometimes we forget that everything is temporary. When we are in difficult periods in our lives, it often seems like the challenges will never end. I recall the agony of losing my mother and fearing that I'd never be able to get back to a place of happiness. Of course, my grief, like all pain, lessened over time. But, as we all know, pain makes us feel like we are stuck in molasses on a cold, wintry night. It is so damn hard to see the light that is flickering in the distance, calling us forward. We often resort to self-medication to get us through the dark hours. Personally, I have chosen unhealthy food as my propofol of choice. I have consumed massive amounts of Dairy Queen, pizza, Wendy's, Waffle House, Starbucks, and all manner of artery-clogging, pimple-creating culinary creations. Somehow the sweet and salty goodness found in no-no foods has given me the artificial fuel I needed to slog through the emotional molasses. The result, of course, is the reappearance of my fat pants, an explosion of zits on my face, and the hint of a second chin. Oh joy.

Ironically, if I were to conduct a counseling session with a client in a similar situation, I would encourage her to do two simple things: joyfully move her body and meditate more frequently. I know from personal history as well as professional experience that getting into one's body and getting right with Spirit are the two biggest methods towards healing and empowerment. I KNOW this. In my head. Yet, the hoop remains on the floor and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard continues to regularly enter my pie hole.

It isn't about knowing what's best for us; it's about DOING what's best for us. Those are two very different things. I know I should have kept up with my yoga practice and found time to regularly meditate, but I didn't. Instead, I ate crappy food and neglected my spiritual practice. Oops. Shit happens.

Unfortunately, getting back on the horse is never fun. Our tastebuds cry out for the sugary deliciousness of our edible anesthetics. Our bodies grown and wheeze when they are asked to perform in any other way other than to schlep boxes. Our self-esteem gets perpetually stuck in low gear. But, if we don't get right back on the horse, we'll stay firmly planted on the ground, bitching and complaining about how friggin' hard everything is.

Thankfully, I am just about ready to let go of my self-generated victimhood. Just about, but not quite.

I have decided to take baby steps back to the land of the Mojo. I've made a salad for lunch today instead of shoveling in Chipotle. I am planning on doing some gentle yoga later in our new meditation room. Maybe I'll even sign up for a local hooping class! I know my fat pants will not immediately go away, nor will my complexion magically clear up. But, I do know that writing to you today, dear reader, has helped me a great deal. It was the perfect boost I needed to get my rapidly-expanding tushie back in the saddle of life.

Thanks for your patience. Thanks for your understanding. Thanks for being there. I missed you.

Snakes, Snakes, Go Away

2009-07-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

A disturbing story in today's news has prompted me to write another RoseRant. According to Ron Magill of the Miami MetroZoo, the state of Florida is now known as the "Club Med" for pythons. Apparently, there are up to 175,000 of the highly-lethal serpents roaming around the Everglades, reproducing like mad and eating everything in their path, including alligators. None of these critters live naturally in this part of the world, so the infestation can be blamed entirely on careless pet owners who got in over their heads and eventually released them into the wild. Since the snakes have no natural predators in Florida, researchers are predicting that they will further multiply and eventually slither northward into Georgia, the Carolinas, and Louisiana. Sadly, just the other day, a "pet" python escaped his seemingly inescapable glass box and killed a toddler in her own bed.

The problem of python infestation could have been avoided if just one critical element was used: COMMON F@#KING SENSE. Why the hell are people buying pythons for pets? That is just about the dumbest friggin' thing I've ever heard. What kind of numbnut buys a deadly creature that should never, ever, ever be kept in a box? Is it a penis thing? Does keeping a python under glass somehow add a few extra inches to one less endowed? Note to Zeke, the owner of the now 15-foot python being kept in the back of his double-wide: Dude, your dick is just fine. You don't need to prove anything to anybody. I can only imagine that fateful moment when Zeke realizes he can't handle his reptilian roommate anymore. He puts his snake in the back of his pickup truck, hauls ass down Alligator Alley while listening to some testosterone-laced country & western song, stops by the side of the road, and opens the door of the cage. Real manly, Zeke. You are such a total stud. Yee-ha!

Please forgive my sarcasm, but I just can't help it! I am a Florida resident (at least for the next two weeks) and more importantly, I am a mother of a third-grader who weighs fifty pounds soaking wet. The thought of some gargantuan yellow python wrapping itself around my little girl (or any other child for that matter) and literally squeezing the life out of her, terrifies me. And for what? All because some idiot has unresolved penis issues.

The state government has now gotten involved, officially approving snake hunting in order to hopefully reduce the number of predatory pythons basking in sunny Florida. We'll have to see how that goes. Maybe we should also crack down on those businesses who are selling these creatures and put a modicum of ethics and responsibility on their shoulders as well. If you need to have a permit to own a gun, then you should have to get a permit to own a deadly creature. In order to acquire one, you should be able to prove you can appropriately care for the animal, even when it grows past the cute little cuddly stage. You should be able to show that no one will be in danger of putting the animal in captivity. In short, you should be able to prove that you aren't a total moron.

How many more dead children will it take before we start doing something about it?

MC 'n Me

2009-07-23T10:40:00.000-07:00

I will be at Sarasota News & Books tonight at 7pm doing a joint reading with fellow Sarasota author, MC Coolidge. Our event is called "Seriously Saucy", and believe me, we both live up to the moniker. Since I am wicked busy today, I have decided to be lazy and have MC do all of the heavy promotional lifting. Here is a link to her blog which describes the event. Even if you aren't in Sarasota, I encourage you to check out MC's blog. She's smart, funny, insightful, and a helluva great writer. I'm blessed to have crossed her path. (Although, by the way she has built up my reading as supersexy, people may expect some sort of pole dancing routine to accompany it!)

I hope to see you at SN&B tonight!

What'chu Talkin' 'Bout, Willis?

2009-07-16T16:51:00.000-07:00

I am a Chicago gal. I lived in Chicago for half of my life, and I know two things for sure: 1) Chicago has the best friggin' hot dogs on the planet, and 2) it is the proud home of the Sears Tower, the world's (once) tallest and most majestic skyscraper.

Imagine my horror when I read the news today indicating that the Sears Tower is now the Willis Tower, named after some frou-frou insurance company based out of London. The Willis Tower? THE WILLIS TOWER? WTF????? I can't even begin to tell you how many different shades of wrong this is.

What's next, people? The Statue of Citibank? The GoDaddy Canyon? The Monsanto State Building? Come on already!!! Let's stop corporatizing these precious landmarks and maintain some semblance of history in this great land of ours. I, for one, will never take my daughter to the top of the Willis Tower. It was the Sears Tower when I grew up, and it'll be the Sears Tower until I'm pushing up daisies. I have fond memories of taking school field trips to the Sears Tower and riding that freakishly fast elevator to the sky. That big black building is a part of my childhood. As a Chicagoan, it's presence was a source of great pride for me. And now, it is the latest victim to the corporate machine of the 21st Century.

I recognize that my ravings make me sound like a crotchety old coot. Frankly, I'm OK with that. ("Why, in MY day...!") I also know the capitalists amongst us will undoubtedly rebut by saying, "But, Theresa, this is the only way that the building would be able to maintain itself. Corporate sponsorship is the wave of the future, and we need to embrace it. It's still the same building, just with a new name."

And what does this old coot think of that? She thinks it's a load of hooey.

Isn't it bad enough that we have whored out nearly all of our professional sports complexes to the Mighty Corporatocracy? It's time to draw a line in the sand somewhere. We need to remember that our country is made up of more than logos, balance sheets, and earnings per share. We are a community, a people, and a nation steeped in history. We should be proud of our landmarks and work to preserve their integrity. Let's not let a fat company check distract us from our national legacy. Let's steadfastly remain the United States of America instead of slowly turning into the United States of American Express.

LONG LIVE THE SEARS TOWER!!!

PS. I read this blog to my husband after publishing it, who reminded me that the Sears Tower was, in fact, originally underwritten by a corporation: Sears. Duh. Somehow that little factoid escaped my mind when I vehemently wrote this piece! So, not only am I a crotchety old coot, but I've also become senile too. Oh well. I still stick by my story. It'll always be the Sears Tower to me.

I Swear, It's True!

2009-07-13T10:53:00.001-07:00

A recent study conducted at Britain's Keele University has proven what we all have known for ages to be true: Swearing is good for us. No shit, Sherlock.

The study showed that the use of profanity when experiencing pain can make one feel better and increase pain tolerance. The brainy Brits who conducted the research had 64 blokes stick their hands in tubs of ice water for as long as possible while repeating the swear word of their choice (my option would probably have been "motherf@#ker!"). The control group was then asked to do the same exercise, except to repeat a benign word that would describe a table ("planar!"). Lo and behold, the vulgarians were able to keep their hands submerged in the icy waters longer than their G-rated counterparts.

The act of swearing, while often inappropriate, impolite, and downright fucking unladylike, simply makes us feel better when bad stuff happens. I don't know how it happens, but there is something magical that takes place when the word "fuck!" is uttered. It makes everything just a little bit easier to deal with. While it's occasional use might make me sound like a trucker, I certainly prefer it to downing a couple of Percocets or Vicodins. Everybody has his or her own way of getting through the pain; mine is using a well-placed F-bomb every once in a while.

At the risk of being labeled a Bad Mommy, I know my potty-mouth is potentially setting a poor example for my eight-year old daughter. However, in my defense, my off-color declarations rarely take place in the presence of Emma. Yet, when I slam my finger in the car door or stub my toe on the bed post, there is nothing that's gonna stop a naughty from escaping my lips, no matter who is in the vicinity. If the wee one is within earshot, I do my best to mutter the dirty word so as to be as camouflaged and unintelligible as possible. But, to be honest, I know I'd feel a helluva lot better if I could just blurt it out at the top of my lungs. I suggest to the Brits that they do a second study that measures the direct proportion of volume to profanity in relation to pain threshold. No doubt they would find that the louder you scream it, the better it feels.

Fuckin' A!

A Response from YouPorn

2009-07-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, my most recent "Sex and the Suburbs" column in Creative Loafing was published. In it, I describe in embarrassing detail my recent foray into the land of YouPorn. Within one day, I received a very pleasant email from James, a YouPorn customer service representative. Here is his note to me:

"Hi Theresa. That was a great article and your observations are much appreciated. You'll be happy to know that we'll soon be releasing a female version of the site and hope to better meet the needs of our female audience. Feel free to keep in touch. Take care - James"

How interesting it is to find that the level of customer service offered by YouPorn is head-and-shoulders-and-genitalia above that which is provided (or NOT provided) by our local phone providers, credit card companies, airlines, and any other reputable business we frequent. It must be the outstanding customer service that makes the porn industry so wildly popular!! :)

Porn Free

2009-07-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

I have been sick for over a week ever since returning from my trip to Denver for the International New Age Trade Show. (I never seem to learn the lesson that I need to rest just a teensy bit before diving back into life's craziness.) Today is the first day that I am starting to feel a little better, but I am still not quite ready to create brand new blog mats. However, I thought I'd share with you the latest installment of my monthly column called "Sex and the Suburbs" in Creative Loafing newspaper. If I think too much about what I write, I find myself blushing beet red from the embarrassment. Suffice it to say, this is one of those blush-worthy items. Enjoy!

Hay There!

2009-06-29T10:18:00.001-07:00

Last weekend, I attended the International New Age Trade Show (INATS) in Denver. As predicted, it was equal parts exhausting and exhilarating.

My goal of the trip was to promote the bejeezus out of Opening the Kimono through book signings, event schmoozing and hard-core floor show networking. In a few days, I dispensed over 120 signed copies of my little book of stories to bookstore and retail owners, wholesalers, fellow authors, publishers, musicians, and a few cheeseballs who sneaked into the event to snag loads of free shit to resell on Amazon.

My time spent in Denver was fantastic! The people were warm, and the reception they gave Opening the Kimono was phenomenal. I had people seek me out to tell me how much the book touched them. One woman squealed when she saw me, hugged me, and said that Opening the Kimono was her favorite book...EVER. Even a hard-as-nails, gruff retailer who has been around the labyrinth more than a few times said that Opening the Kimono was the first book she ever personally recommended to her staff and customers. Tons of New Age bookstore owners told me that they are either already carrying it or will be as soon as they get home. I made several huge connections, one of which was with a major publisher who is considering picking up the book for its second edition. However, the ultimate moment of the weekend was when I got to meet Louise Hay in person! Louise is the Grandmother of the Self-help movement, founder of Hay House Publishing and author of the wildly popular book, You Can Heal Your Life. I waited in line like a giddy schoolgirl to get a signed copy of her seminal book. When it came my turn, I told this incredible 82-year old dynamo how much her work inspired me, and she warmly responded by giving me a big hug. Thankfully, her cutie-pie assistant Aaron was there to take a snapshot of the magical moment with my iPhone. I will treasure this picture forever.

However, the moment was a tinge bittersweet in that I was thisclose to the Grand Dame of Inspirational Publishing and did not give her a copy of my book! A signed copy of Opening the Kimono was burning a hole in my purple trade show bag with Louise's name on it, but I never got up the nerve to reach for it. I thought to myself, "Just give her the gift as a token of your appreciation! You'll never know what may happen. Louise will undoubtedly fall in love with it, make one phone call to the acquisitions director, and you'll be getting an email by the end of the week from Hay House with an offer!!!!" Believe me, I was sorely tempted.

But, then I saw the fragility of this 82-year old woman and remembered how friggin' draining book signings are. You have to interact with huge crowds of people all telling you their stories, and you want to make each and every one of them feel special, even if it is for just thirty seconds. My book signing kicked my ass up one side and down the other, and I'm over forty years younger than Louise! So, I imagined myself in Louise's place. If some overzealous chick with a big lion mane slipped me her recently self-published book during my signing, I would be a skosh put off to say the least. To be honest, I would probably "accidentally" leave the book at the signing table and mutter under my breath about how I didn't have time to read someone else's self-described literary masterpiece when I'm busy doing my own gig. Even though I was pressed against the glass looking at the future I so achingly desired, I didn't feel it was right to add another burden to this woman who has done so much for so many for so long.

It was then that I decided the best approach was to simply enjoy the juicy hug I got from one of my biggest she-roes. Love you, Louise!

Someday soon you'll get to read Opening the Kimono, I promise!

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

The Two Mournings for Michael

2009-06-27T06:06:00.001-07:00

Like every other human, I was shocked to hear about Michael Jackson's sudden death. Since I live in a TV-free house, I learned of the news through my information provider of choice: the running statuses from my Facebook Friends.

Within the last twenty-four hours, the world has been swept up in Michael Mania. At last check, there were over 20,000 articles posted about the death of the King of Pop on Google News, more than ever was reported about the presidential election, the war, or any other relevant news item. When I was sitting in the Atlanta airport, every television was broadcasting about it, and every conversation I overheard mentioned it. There are tributes, public gatherings of grief, celebrity interviews, and video montages of his groundbreaking work. People are obviously affected by this event, and I am not about to minimize the collective grief.

However...

It also strikes me as a bit disingenuous for the media to inundate the airwaves with All Hail Michael. Let's not forget that this is the same man that was accused of child molestation. While he was never convicted of a crime, in one instance he paid off the accuser's family an unspecified sum to drop the case. His lifestyle was peculiar at best and highly disturbing at worst. He put masks and hoods on his children. He dangled his infant child from a hotel balcony. He married but never lived with his womb provider. By his own admission, he slept in the same bed with children not his own. He went from ebony to ivory in the span of fifteen years. He mangled his once-beautiful face. The guy was the butt of jokes on late night television, talk radio and over water coolers across the country. Wanna make reference to the most twisted, maladjusted celebrity? Michael Jackson was always the first one that came to mind.

And now the media is only giving us the good times: ABC, Rock with You, Thriller, Beat It, Billy Jean, the moonwalk, the white glove - in other words, the sanitized, pre-meltdown version of Michael. What about the rest of the story? Should we ignore the entire picture? Yes, he was a music video revolutionary twenty years ago. But, what about the last two decades? Shouldn't we hear about that too?

Don't get me wrong, I loved the early Michael just as much as the next person. I played my Thriller album literally thousands of times, memorizing every word and squeal. I danced along with the video hour after hour. I had a poster of him in my room. I cried when he won his Grammys. I simply ADORED him.

Yet, if I am to be honest, my love of him was decimated when he morphed into something unrecognizable. I understand that he was a product of an abusive father and childhood fame; I'm sure he lived with horror along with ardor. But that didn't excuse some of the other questionable choices he made over and over again. Even though he was never convicted, I couldn't help but think what he did with those boys just wasn't right. It felt really...icky. The Michael I knew and loved from my childhood had already died for me.

When I learned of his physical death on Thursday, I found myself stunned and saddened. But my emotions didn't stem from an adoration of Michael Jackson. Instead, I was reacting to the fact that a physically fit, fifty-year old man dropped dead. (My husband will be celebrating his 50th in a matter of months, and that brought me right into my own fears of losing the love of my life too soon.) Similar to my reaction when Princess Diana and Heath Ledger died, I was responding to the fact that someone who I felt I grew up with was gone. Events like those bring into sharp relief our own mortality and that, yes, someday we will all die. We may not die from a crashed limo or too many pills, but we'll all leave this rock nonetheless. The recent events reminded me of that sobering truth.

But have I really been grieving the loss of Michael? Truthfully, not really. I'm afraid I did that a long time ago.

It's the Little Things

2009-06-16T16:35:00.001-07:00

My hubby recently discovered this little gem from last Christmas, hidden in the abyss of our digital photo albums. Based on Emma's enthusiastic response, you'd think she had just won a private sleepover with Miley. Wanna know what precious package earned this coveted hug from The Bean? A pair of black, sparkly high heels. The young lass has already learned the value of a perfect pair of shoes.

Loosening the Apron Ties

2009-06-15T08:45:00.000-07:00

I just finished putting my seven-year old daughter on a bus to Bemidji, Minnesota for a week-long stay at Spanish Immersion camp. I can't stop crying.

When I woke up this morning at 3:00am, I knew the departure was going to be rough. I kept mindf#@king the supply list, mentally going over it one last time (ha!) to make sure that Em has everything she needs. I thought it ironic that the parent handbook stressed the importance of the children packing lightly, yet they put 75 things on the friggin' list, including sleeping bag, pillow, a set of sheets, three towels, backpack, laundry bag, clothes appropriate for any weather, rain gear, four kinds of shoes, water bottle, sunscreen, industrial-strength mosquito spray, stationery, Spanish books, toiletries, and other assorted camp fare. When all was said and done, my kid looked like a mini-version of a Tibetan sherpa.

Beaner and I had breakfast at Caribou Coffee, and we discussed some of the new experiences she would be having over mochas and scones. We talked about cabins, bunk beds, group showers (Eeeeek!), counselors, campfires and deer ticks. Whereas Emma was totally calm, I was rapidly becoming a screaming mimi. I was reassuring her left and right, telling her how much fun she was going to have in North Country. I stressed the added benny of having a whole week without parental supervision. Needless to say, she was thrilled.

After breakfast, we headed to the Brookdale Mall, the location of the bus pickup. Given my anal-retentive personality, we naturally arrived forty-five minutes early. There were already dozens of older kids loitering with their luggage, waiting to get on their assigned bus. I didn't see any parents accompanying the kids, so I figured they've all done the dealio before. In a moment of parenting inspiration, I opted to refrain from dragging my child over to the congregation, thus sparing her the nauseating humility of having her mother doting after her, fixing her hair, quadruple checking her backpack, and giving her a spit bath. Instead, we spent the next thirty minutes talking, laughing, and cuddling in the front seat. As I looked into her beautiful green eyes, I started to get choked up at the thought of my little girl leaving. The only words she kept repeating were "Just don't cry. Just don't cry. Just don't cry." The more she said it, the closer the tears came.

Once the other kids started to board the buses, I felt it was safe to exit the vehicle. A Minnesota Nice camp counselor approached the car ("Hey there! How ya doin' today? Where'ya headed to, young lady?") and checked her in. He pointed us to Bus #2 and instructed her on how to stow her luggage. We walked to the bus together and another Nice welcomed her and took her bag ("Spanish Bemidji, eh? Sounds good!"). Before we knew it, it was time for THE MOMENT: the final hug goodbye. Emma was self-conscious about the other kids witnessing her mother have a potential emotional meltdown, so she made the hug and kiss brief but meaningful. Right before she stepped onto the bus, she turned around, gave me one of her priceless toothless grins, and gave me the "I love you" sign. Lower lip quivering, I returned the gesture and watched my only child disappear into the darkness of the luxury coach.

For the next ten minutes, I sat in my car and cried. It just didn't seem possible that EmmaBean was already old enough to be parent-free! Even though she has been away from us several times before, there wasn't the comfort of Mim, Nana Jean, Auntie Suz, Jackie or Shellie to soothe my nervous tendencies. I am now being forced to trust strangers with my precious angel. As any parent can attest, it's harder than it sounds.

After realizing that I actually needed to drive my car, I wiped my face and tried to exit the mall to go to my next destination. It literally took me another fifteen minutes to decipher Google maps, my iPhone GPS system, the labyrinthine side streets, the parking medians, and the Sears Tire Shop. I finally finally finally got out of the damn mall parking lot with tears still streaming down my face.

My rational side knows that Emma will be fine. Actually, she'll be more than fine. She'll be fantastic. She is a naturally adventurous, open person who welcomes new people and activities in her world. I know she'll be talking non-stop on Saturday about how totally cool camp was and how excited she is to return. But my rational side isn't in charge right now. The crazy, nervous-nellie, emotional, sentimental, basket-case mommy side is in control and she doesn't like it one little bit that her little girl is on a bus to Bemidji right now.

Wow. I can't even fathom what I'm gonna be like when she goes on her first date.

Flying Into the Fear

2009-06-10T07:48:00.000-07:00

In two days, I am getting on an airplane with my seven-year old daughter, and I'm scared shitless.

Every time I step onto one of those marvels of modern technology, I have frightening visions of dropped oxygen masks, emergency lighting, twisted metal, burning flesh, and phone calls to loved ones dancing in my head. For years I wouldn't wear stockings on an airplane because I heard they can melt to your skin in the event of a crash. I admit it; I am a certifiable ninny when it comes to air travel. It certainly doesn't help that nearly every time I take a flight, there is a recent plane crash somewhere that grabs the headlines. (I don't know what kind of karmic nightmare I am destined to relive, but I feel I've paid it many times over.) Today while news surfing, I found not one, not two, not three, but FOUR stories of unfortunate flying "incidents": The tragic Air France 447 crash, an emergency landing of a Spanish jet, a missing helicopter in New Mexico, and the congressional hearings on the Miracle on the Hudson crash landing. OK, God. Enough already. I'm officially pissing in my drawers.

My plane paranoia started back in Chicago when I was a little older than Emma. Back in 1979, there was an American Airlines crash just outside of O'Hare that was captured by several amateur photographers. Unfortunately, the seedling of morbid media was planted; the pics were shown on the front page of the Chicago Tribune and replayed on our local TV news broadcasts ad infinitum. As an impressionable ten-year old, the recurring image of that plane going down in my hometown seared into my permanent memory bank. Over the next thirty years, my aviation fears intensified with each new disaster. The disturbing videos from one fateful day in September of 2001 were the final blow.

While I am fortunate enough not to have actually been in a crash, I have experienced a handful of white-knuckle flights where I was totally convinced that the plane was going to plunge into the ground like a well-thrown bar dart. I recall one particularly harrowing flight to Colorado Springs about fifteen years ago where we circled the airport for over an hour while bouncing around like a friggin' cork on the ocean, wishing, waiting, hoping for the wind shears to die down so we could land. Finally, the exasperated pilot announced, "We're gonna go for it. Tighten your seat belts and say a prayer." Oh joy. That was comforting. Passengers were embracing each other, crying, praying, clutching crosses and rosaries, throwing up, strangling armrests, and generally having total, full-on emotional meltdowns. I was basically an amalgamation of my flying compadres, vacillating from crying, praying, puking, and pleading. I shit you negative, the descent was more intense than any hardcore thrill ride at a Six Flags amusement park. After finally finally FINALLY landing safely on the runway of the Colorado Springs Municipal Airport, I didn't know which activity I wanted to do first: have a cocktail, go to church, or sleep with the businessman who sat next to me on the plane. All three sounded very inviting after enduring that God-awful Plane Ride From Hell. (I ended up doing only one.)

Flash forward fifteen years and a hubby and child later. In forty-eight hours, I am going to get on another silver bullet, but this time I'll be toting an impressionable third-grader with me. A good mommy would realize that the chances of dying in a plane crash are infinitesimal, regardless of what the newspapers portray. A good mommy would gracefully accept that if it is our time to go, then it is our time to go. A good mommy would rise to the occasion, making sure her daughter feels safe, comfy, and happy. A good mommy wouldn't drink three screwdrivers at the airport bar before stepping on the jetway.

Hmmm...I wonder if Good Mommy will show up on Friday.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

How do you feeling about flying?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

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Like Mother, Like Daughter

2009-06-04T08:11:00.001-07:00

My wee urchin has decided to follow in her mother's footsteps by writing her own blog. It's called EmmaBean's Blog, and it will contain random musings and photos from The Bean. Check it out!

I'm so friggin' proud of her and look forward to seeing what other little inspirational nuggets she will provide the world! (Hopefully, she won't tell too many embarrassing stories about Mom and Dad. That's my department.) :)

Decisions, Decisions

2009-06-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, my husband and I took our seven-year old to her first musical concert. Based on her behavior, it's likely she will become a professional groupie someday.

Instead of breaking Emma's concert cherry on the Jonas Brothers or Miley Cyrus, hubby and I opted for something a little more palatable to the adult ear. We chose Snatam Kaur (pronounced 'sah-nah-tum car'), a singer of the Sikh tradition who sings about God, peace, love, beauty, and everything else that is righteous in the world. Emma has grown up with Snatam's music, often choosing to listen to her angelic voice before she nods off at the end of the night. When we told Emma that we were taking her to see Snatam live in concert, she practically peed her Curious George undies.

Like all dedicated concertgoers, we went early so as to get good seats. Emma used her significant persuasive abilities to get us into the hall early, and we were able to grab seats in the first seated row. Since I had attended a Snatam Kaur concert previously, I knew that there would be several people that would sit on the floor in front of us. Regardless, I thought that snagging front-row seats was not too shabby.

Apparently, Emma disagreed.

Right before Snatam and her band took the stage, Emma noticed that a handful of kids had sat down at the bottom of the steps in front of the stage. The little peanut worked through her social fear of interacting with strange kids and plopped herself next to an older girl at the end of the stairs. I could easily recognize the discomfort in my daughter's face as she so desperately wanted to talk to the girl but was afraid of possible rejection. (Oops...I wonder where she learned that little trick?)

No matter; when Snatam appeared onstage, Emma instantly lost interest in all others. She was captivated by the sight and sound of this beautiful creature performing in front of her. Like a moth to the flame, Emma ever-so-subtly inched her way around all of the kids and got closer, closer, closer to Snatam over the next several songs. Before I knew it, my daughter was thisclose to jumping right on top of Snatam's harmonium and giving her a big, fat hug.

This is where my parental dilemma kicked in. It was obvious -- at least to me -- that my daughter was committing a major social faux-pas with her stage squirming. My ego was fearing that the entire audience was tsk-tsk-tsking the unruly little urchin in white (and her rotten parents) for so blatantly breaking through the fourth wall. I kept thinking that I "should" go get Emma and bring her back to the fold where all of the other semi-well-behaved children sat. Yet, there was another voice inside me yelling, "You rock on, girl! Get your booty as close as possible! You've only got one chance!" (I was reminded of myself at the ripe young age of 21 performing superhuman efforts to get thisclose to Bono at a U2 concert. To have no other human being between my musical god and me was one of the most intoxicating, delicious moments of my youth. Those leather pants...his glistening body...the serpentine way he moves...what was I talking about again? Oh yeah. My daughter.)

In the end, I opted to support my daughter's groupie tendency. I let her sit within feet of her musical heroine, reigning her in only once with a stern look and my pointer finger when she threatened to literally lay on the stage. Who knows? Maybe there were a few tsk-tsk-tskers in the audience that night. I can't say for sure. But what I can say for sure is that there is an ecstatic little seven-year old who has an amazing memory of her first concert ever.

Yep. I made the right decision.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What was your first concert experience? What was your most memorable one?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside Opening the Kimono!

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An Upload of Shame

2009-06-01T07:04:00.001-07:00

Fucking Facebook Mobile Uploads!

Yesterday I logged into Facebook and noticed a picture of myself on someone else's photo album. Normally, I wouldn't have a problem with this, depending on the current condition of my hair and complexion. However, this particular picture captured me on the beach. Hooping. In a swimsuit. Surrounded by gorgeous, nubile hoopgirls half my age and more than half my size.

Fucking Facebook Mobile Uploads.

As the picture reveals, I was the antithesis of the sexy hoopgirl. Instead, I looked like a defensive lineman from my local high school football team. I was a huge, uncoordinated linebacker in a sea of beautiful tight ends. And thanks to one of the party's attendees, her 7000 kazillion friends -- and all of their friends and their friends' friends -- get to see me that way too.

Knowing that this picture exists in our social public domain was upsetting to me at first. Somehow it felt like a violation. It's one thing to upload pics of someone gussied up, warmly smiling, blowing smooches, or holding up a wine glass for the camera; it's quite another to be surreptitiously captured whilst sweating and shimmying nearly naked. Having my candid beach pic taken was only slightly better than getting photographed immediately after having an early-morning throw-up session from a night of spirited frivolity.

Why does my hoop photo bother me so much? Because it irks me that my body isn't moving or looking like it used to. I admit it; I fell off the wagon. With all of the book activities that are going on in my world, I allowed my Mind and Spirit to move into center stage with my Body lagging far behind. I hadn't picked up the hoop in over a month, and my expanding waistline can attest to it. Once one falls off the exercise wagon, it is very difficult to get back on it. We keep telling ourselves that tomorrow we'll start up again, but tomorrow never comes. Days turn into weeks, and pretty soon we are wearing our fat pants again.

I have known that I wanted to start hooping again, but the prospect of it was so daunting. The negative self-talk was incessant. "It will hurt! I will look ridiculous! I'm too fat! I wish I were better at it! I will be so sore afterward! I don't have the time!" Excuse after excuse was readily available to keep me from my beautiful circle of freedom and joy.

Until this weekend.

My good friend and sister hooper was having a going away party. This young woman is literally one with her hoop, and she chose to have her Bon Voyage party on the sands of Lido Beach just so hooping could be a part of the festivities. I told her how afraid I was to bring my own hoop for fear of unleashing all of my fears. She wisely reiterated advice I had given to her dozens of times before -- If it scares the shit out of you, then you should absolutely do it. If hooping on the beach with women smaller and better than me scared the shit out of me, then I had better jump into the fire and see what juicy gifts are meant to be discovered.

At the party itself, I found the allure of playing with the hoop on wind-swept sands far more powerful than my nagging, self-doubt. Hooping is simply too much fun to do, and I wouldn't be able to sit and watch others do it without having some of it myself. I forgot I wasn't as good, as pretty, or as tight as everyone else was. The hoop and I had rediscovered each other! I tapped into the flow of energy encircling me, practiced tricks I hadn't ever managed, and otherwise basked in the bliss of the hoop. All was well once again!

Until I saw those fucking Facebook mobile uploads.

Those pictures were completely devoid of the joyful energy I felt on the sands of Lido. Instead, it only reminded me of the reasons why I didn't want to do it in the first place -- backfat rolls, ginormous arms, and tree-trunk thighs, to name a few. It showed my insecurities in awful, wretched technicolor for everyone to see. Instead of looking at the pictures and gleefully shouting, "Hell yeah! I'm an almost forty-year old hooping on the beach with chicks in their 20s! Fuckin' A!", I morosely muttered, "Oh my God! Look at how horrible and huge I look! How could I have done that?! Dear Lord, I hope no one recognizes me! At least that @#$%^ who took the picture didn't tag me!"

How utterly, utterly sad.

As predicted, I wallowed in self-judgment for hours afterward. I looked at my body with hatred, grabbing a handful of extra poundage and wishing it could magically disappear with the iron grasp of my own shame. I cursed myself for spending all of that time in front of MacDaddy instead of on the elliptical. Buttugly was the word that danced around my head over and over.

Blessedly, through meditation and reflection, I stepped out of my self-flagellating funk and eventually let my juju reemerge. I realized that my experience on the beach was the first step toward getting back in the groove! The hard part was over; I had picked up the hoop again. It was time to ignore my whiny, "I'm-not-good-enough" voice of smallness and realize that I am powerful and amazing and courageous and beautiful and ballsy and a helluva good hooper. In celebration, my daughter Emma and I spent the next several hours hooping in the backyard while I practiced those arm lifts I started on Lido Beach.

Today, I'm gonna do it again.

Thanks, Facebook, for your fucking mobile uploads. It's just the kick I needed to get me back into my body.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Has a picture ever prompted you to make a change in your life?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

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I Curse You, Star Magazine

2009-05-20T06:28:00.000-07:00

OK, so maybe I'm a bit overly sensitive right now -- Blame it on Flo's impending arrival -- but what the hell is the world coming to when Uma Friggin' Thurman is awarded the WORST BEACH BODY?!

Uma, for God's sake! What normal, non-famous woman wouldn't give her left nut to look like Uma Thurman? Yet, there was Uma in all her gorgeous glory on the cover of Star Magazine with "WORST SAGGY!" plastered next to her picture. What message is that sending to the rest of us mere mortals? Do we really need to be perfectly primped, pumped, and perky in order to be considered beautiful? That's craziness! Life happens, folks. Gravity is a law of nature. Big boobs will eventually droop. Especially natural ones. Uma is nothing short of Goddess level in my mind, yet she is relegated to the frumpy background while young, nubile hotties like Rihanna and Pink move into center stage. Rihanna and Pink, your time is comin'; enjoy the "BEST!" category when you still can.

Of course, while firmly planted in my self-righteous superiority, I would never dream of purchasing one of those nasty, hateful rags at the grocery store checkout counter. However, I must admit my own secret culpability in the vicious cycle of celebrity worship/vilification. Every month I go to Lemon Blossom Salon and Spa to get my grays covered and my hair tamed. Every time, I vow that I will use those two hours to do something useful, like write something on MacDaddy, or at the very least jot down my to-do list in my daughter's trusty Girls Rock! notebook. I'll even bring a book just in case Lady Muse decides not to visit me. But, guess what? I NEVER end up working at the salon. Instead, I do what all of the other women in the place do: I read those wretched magazines, cover to cover. When I am sitting there with brown goop dripping down my forehead and foil twisted on my tendrils, I'll guiltily devour every page of every available tabloid. I can't say I actually read them, because I don't. I view them, as one would view porn. I'll eye the latest US, People, and Star for every instance of posed red carpet photos, candid beach naughties, and even the benign celeb walk to the local coffee shop (OMG, Robert Pattinson bought a Venti Caramel Macchiato from the Vancouver Starbucks! He's SOOOOO hot!!!) I don't know what it is, but there is something comforting about seeing Jennifer Aniston pick out a wedgie while vacationing in Fiji. Call me crazy.

You can imagine what two hours of celebrity scrutinizing does to my already-fragile self-esteem. After bathing in the imagery of the Rich, Famous and Freakishly Beautiful, I'll steal a quick glance in the mirror and see Frankenstein's wife staring back at me. Today's tortuous session at Lemon Blossom will be particularly heinous, as I am sporting a dazzling case of pre-period, pizza-face breakouts and a poochy mid-section (I'm still endeavoring to release the excess poundage acquired during our recent vacation). Oh joy.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I'll fight the unquenchable desire to participate in the Celebrity JudgeFest. As I head to the salon for my monthly emotional drubbing, I am armed with Stephanie Meyers' Eclipse and my Girls Rock! notebook.

A girl can dream, can't she?

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Do you ever look at tabloid magazines? How do they make you feel?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

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Silky Anniversary

2009-05-18T11:54:00.000-07:00

Today is my 12th wedding anniversary, and it is indeed cause for celebration.

I am happy to report that I continue to fall more passionately in love with my husband Michael over each passing year. The guy friggin' rocks! He unconditionally loves me, whether I'm fat or thin, pimply or pretty. He has unwavering belief in my ability to actually make it as an Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo. He puts up with my whiny PMS tirades with nary a complaint. He gives me a quality boning whenever I need it. He is, quite simply, THE SHIT.

Twelve year anniversaries are symbolized by silk, and I find that it appropriately represents my latest marital milestone. Silk is beautiful, comforting, luxurious, and eminently touchable, just like my hubby. Silk makes me feel good when it's rubs against me, just like my hubby. Silk makes me feel special and worthy of great things, just like my hubby. As a child, my favorite dessert to have was a piece of French Silk Pie from Bakers Square, and not coincidentally, French Silk is an accurate description of the man I married. On this special day, I honor the silky goodness of one mister Michael Andre Rose, and the way that handsome devil continues to make me all school-girl giddy inside.

It feels good to have this kind of love in my life and in my heart. Believe me, it wasn't always this way. In fact, I had many lonely years and troubling fears before Monsieur Rose happened into my world. (I could have easily won First Place in a Frog Kissing/F@#king Contest.) True love wasn't something I felt I deserved much less was able to acquire. I would see happy couples and think, "That will never in a million years be me." Yet somehow, through luck, healing, moxie, Divine Intervention, and some good ol' fashioned ballsiness, I found my way into Michael's heart and he into mine.

Today I am bursting with love, joy, and gratitude for my own personal Prince Charming. There isn't a day that goes by where I am not grateful for him. (Even though there are some days when I want to thunk him with a 2x4 when he forgets to take the garbage out. Again.)

Not bad after twelve years of marriage...

Beaner Medicine

2009-05-15T06:53:00.000-07:00

I had a TERRIBLE day yesterday. It was one of those horrible, icky, I-want-to-crawl-in-front-of-a-bus-because-that-would-undoubtedly-feel-better sort of days.

It all started in the morning when I bid a tearful adieu to a very dear friend of mine. The heartache I felt permeated my body, layer after layer. My colon reacted to my emotional upset by deciding it would eliminate everything contained within it, courtesy of a dozen or more unpleasant trips to the loo. Soon thereafter, the nausea began. The sight, smell, and thought of food made me want to hurl. My stomach felt like I had just stepped off the Top Thrill Dragster. At mid-day, the bone-numbing fatigue set in. I could barely keep my eyes open as I crumpled into bed for an afternoon nap. Around 7:00pm, the fever started. My temperature inched up up up, peaking at 101.5 before I fell into a fitful night of shivers, cramps, and moans.

Not surprisingly, my seven-year old daughter was the key to my healing. Right before my fever spike, Emma did something totally out of character: she fell out of bed and slammed her right rib onto her bed frame. This was a highly unusual event for Emma Rose. As a martial artist, she is sure on her feet and aware of her surroundings. Ever since Emma was a baby, she has been IN her body and in control of it. Blessedly, I have been spared trips to the Emergency Room and calls from the school nurse.

But that wasn't the case last night.

Around 6:00pm, Michael and I heard a loud THUD! with a follow-on heart-wrenching cry coming from the wee one's room. As I ran to her, I saw her on the floor grabbing her right side in obvious pain. She tearfully explained how she fell out of bed and onto the metal bed-rail. The bruise was huge, nasty, and already starting to turn purple. I was afraid she hit it so hard that maybe she could have caused some internal damage.

That's all it took for me to let go of my own pain. It was time to heal my child.

I spent the next several hours giving her Reiki. For the first hour, Emma's body greedily sucked up the energy, making my hands raging hot from the transfer of healing energy. Eventually, I could feel the injured place soften and become more balanced. Once I felt the energy flowing gently, I stopped fearing that she had poked a hole in her liver or punctured her lung (I have a flair for the dramatic when it comes to the safety of my kid). I knew she would be OK.

Just to be safe, I fell asleep giving her Reiki. While my focus was on healing my daughter, I knew the energy that flowed through me would help me too. Flash forward eight hours, and I woke up feeling like a million bucks. The fever was gone, the skittish tummy was calm once again, and my vitality had returned. I felt like myself again! Just as importantly, Emma felt great too; her bruise was significantly smaller and less painful than it had been the night before.

I don't believe it was an accident that my daughter had an accident yesterday. EmmaBean and I are connected on a deep level, and I wouldn't put it past her Higher Self to orchestrate the unusual bed-dive to give me a mechanism for my healing. That's just the way that li'l squirt works. She knows what Mama needs when she needs it.

Thanks, Beaner, for the medicine.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever found yourself healing yourself because of another?

**********************************************************************

Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

I Wouldn't Miss Miss USA

2009-05-13T07:55:00.001-07:00

Is it just me, or does it seem that most of the country have taken a stupid pill? How is it that one of the top "News" items on Google News is the so-called controversy about the latest, almost-famous bimbo known as Miss USA?

I know that my views may brand me as a feminist pig, but honestly, I'm comfortable with that. At least pigs exist in nature, for goodness sake. Miss USA's don't exist in nature; they are freaks of it!!! These plasticized chicks parade around with their perfect, expensive, surgically-enhanced bodies in skin-tight sequined gowns and string bikinis in order to be judged by a panel of C-list celebs and the American viewing public. In order to justify the meatfest, the contest organizers plop in a brief - but often hilarious - Q&A portion of the program to convince us that we aren't just looking at a 3-D version of Playboy magazine. This segment is where we are led to believe that these women not only have unnaturally gorgeous bodies, but also have cerebral superiority and problem-solving skills that would rival anything found on the floor of the United Nations.

What I have gleaned from the multitude of news stories on the web is that the most recently crowned Miss USA from California has gotten a lot of flak for three things (well, really four things): 1) she opposes gay marriage and publicly said so in response to a question posed by the very powerful, openly-gay superblogger Perez Hilton, 2) she modeled for some naughty pics a few years ago, and 3 & 4) she received a new set of knockers purchased by the pageant muckety-mucks. Suddenly, everyone is in a uproar about these serious transgressions committed by the beauty queen. Uhmmm...she's a beauty queen! Who the f@ck is surprised by any of this?

What's even more ridiculous is the number of people calling for her resignation. (Not that I agree with her numbskull comments, including her support of the sanctity of "opposite marriage", whatever the hell that is.) Reality check, folks! Miss USA is nothing more than a marketing device for Donald Trump to make a shitload of money. In case you doubt my premise, I defy to you give me the name of one other previous Miss USA and a corresponding important accomplishment she has done. Yeah, I couldn't think of one either. Yet, everyone is acting as if this role means something! A recent op-ed piece, from FOX News no less, called for The Brainiac from California to resign or be fired because she doesn't represent the "two core brand features" of the pageant (no, it's not the two you are thinking of). Fox's John Tantillo writes, "A Miss USA represents an organization and an ideal and as such any candidate for the job needs to be both a diplomat and a leader." A DIPLOMAT AND A LEADER??? WTF?? I can't think of anything further from the truth. Miss USA is neither a diplomat nor a leader. She's a hot chick with long legs, big titties, a beautiful face, and sparkly teeth. Having a brain is not a requirement, and it is disingenuous in the extreme to give these women the title and responsibility of a diplomat and a leader. Maybe it's time for people to look up those words in a dictionary to understand the huge gulf between their definition and what a Miss USA actually does. (What DOES she do anyway?) Even better, let's revisit one of the most popular YouTube videos to demonstrate the intellectual titans that make up the pool of beauty pageant contestants. Here is the famous clip of Miss South Carolina at the Miss Teen USA 2007 contest. I'm gonna shoot myself in the head if this is what I can expect from our future diplomats and leaders.

Let's be honest about what these neanderthal events really are: they are unseemly, socially-sanctioned opportunities for men to ogle pretty young women and for women to quietly judge them (and themselves even more). Why in God's name, in the year 2009, are we still celebrating these parades of superficiality? Even more distressing, why in God's name is this lame excuse for a news story dominating the airwaves? There are so many more relevant stories that people should be informed of, discuss, and act upon. Things like headless bodies found in Pakistan. Let's get our priorities straight, shall we?

Instead, we get to see the Pimp King, Donald Trump, talk about how the Carrie Prejean controversy is "a good thing". In regards to Miss Prejean's adolescent photo faux-pas, Mister Mushroom Head even said, "I'm going to be looking at these photos" to make sure that they didn't cross his line of good taste. Ewwwww...do you have the same image in your head as I have in mine? Needless to say, it involves crumpled Kleenex.

You may think Donald Trump is a nothing more than a skeezy, rich slimeball. But guess what, folks? That slimeball is laughing at us while he laughs all the way to the bank.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What do you think of beauty pageants like the Miss USA contest?

***************************************************************************

Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek in the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

The Art of Downshifting

2009-05-12T12:04:00.000-07:00

I am a woman of extremes. Sometimes I find myself on top of a mountain completely disconnected from the modern world and basking in the light of Spirit; other times I fly around my house like a headless chicken, maniacally seeking the never-ending end of the to-do list. I think it's time for me to learn the middle way.

Two weeks ago, I was literally on top of a mountain in Northern California. Many wonderful things transpired for me -- some personal, some communal, some marital, and all spiritual. It was my time to remember who I was: a Divine being worthy of joy and love. I am so grateful for the transformational journey I took, and it's experiences will stay with me always.

So what did I do upon returning from this Zen-like state of absolute bliss?

I stressed out, of course!

First of all, going for more than a week without writing is NOT good for me. I missed my creative outlet and I longed to receive my regular treatments from the King of All Healers, MacDaddy. When I did re-enter my so-called-normal life, I was inundated with the heavy tolls one pays when going out of town: laundry, mail, laundry, putting away stuff, laundry, catching up on email, and laundry. Each day I promised myself that I would sit down to write, and each day I filled it with other tasks deemed "more important" than my creative expression and primary vocation. I had excuse upon excuse that kept me from MacDaddy. My need for literary release became stronger and the gulf between the written word and me became larger.

This morning, I became acutely aware of how I had inadvertently micromanaged my schedule such that writing time was not even considered. I would get up early to make The Bean her breakfast and lunch, go to an appointment, follow up on a proposal, send some important emails, have a working lunch with Michael, update my web site, pick up The Bean from the bus stop and get her hair cut, go to Publix for milk and other necessaries, and finish the day by primping myself for a fancy shindig I will attend later this evening. In my mind, I had accounted for every minute of the day, leaving absolutely no room for one teensy little thing: ME.

Thankfully, a little while ago I forced myself to step away from the computer so I could finally, truly return to it. For the first time since returning from my spiritual retreat, I put on Jai Uttal's "Music For Yoga and Other Joys", did some much-needed movement, and had a fantastic, relaxing, restorative meditation practice. How ridiculous it was to respond to my spiritual retreat by totally ignoring Spirit. Duh. Double Duh.

It was glorious to move my body again! I had grown tired of being one big head, unconsciously flitting from task to task, wishing hoping begging that I could get it all done and knowing that I never would. This afternoon in our meditation room, I did what is foreign to me: I downshifted. I slowed down and allowed my spirit, head, heart, and body to occupy the same space. It was nothing less than Divine.

After only 15 minutes of quiet reflection, my muse returned to me in all her splendor. I knew what I would write about and how I would return to my rightful role as Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo. I would simply share with you how difficult it is to jump from total release to total responsibility in the blink of an eye. The guilt for having gone away propels us forward and pushes us to accomplish just one more item on the list. Why do we think we don't deserve to slow down, even after a period of rest? Is it some sort of emotional masochism that yells, "You can enjoy your vacation, but you better damn well know you'll pay the price for it when you return!"

That's total bullshit.

I want to live in the groove where it's OK to slow down, even if it is for just 15 minutes a day. I want to give myself permission to write as often as possible. I want to bask in the moment instead of automatically jumping to the next one. I want to remember that I am more than a mom and a wife. In the end, I want to put into practice what I learned on the mountain.

Thank you for waiting for me, dear reader. I know that I have been absent for a while, and I know that it is annoying when you are used to seeing new installments of my Serious Mojo blog on a regular basis. I appreciate your patience and will do my best to deliver the goods from this point forward. We are in a relationship together, you and I. And I am ready to do my part again.

Ahhhh.....it feels SO GOOD to be back.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Do you ever go crazy right after vacation?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

My Mother's Day Card

2009-05-11T08:29:00.000-07:00

Here is the card my lovely daughter made me for Mother's Day. I love when my second grader uses a benign Hallmark holiday to further her anti-war, feminist agenda. Young Skywalker has learned her lessons well. :)

For those of you who can't decipher the message of a seven year-old who writes in yellow Crayola marker, here is a transcript:

Our moms should be the Presidents of the U.S.A.

Reasons Why.

1. Moms are specail (special)
2. Moms rock the world
3. Moms rule the world
4. Moms would run the world well
5. It would be peaceful
6. Moms would make it a better world
7. Moms would stop war!

Almost Ready to Blog

2009-05-06T10:22:00.000-07:00

I have been on vacation and away from the blogosphere for over two weeks, and I can't figure out how to re-enter.

There is so much to say, yet the words aren't coming to me...yet. My house is a chi nightmare with piles of dirty clothes, hampers of clean ones, stacks of paper, and towers of post-travel clutter. Almost 300 emails awaited me upon my return, and important proposals are in the hopper. Big stuff happened while I was on the mountains of Northern California and Sedona, yet my journey is staying within me, unable to find a public witness.

I want to share with you about my spiritual quest. I want to inspire you with stories of Truth and Beauty. I want to rant and rave about my last two weeks.

But, somehow, I'm not quite ready.

Maybe I need another day to have my house settle down so I can settle in. Or maybe I need to get my much-anticipated bodywork session tomorrow before I dive into the juicy stories. Whatever the case may be, I am not ready to share my West Coast dramas, traumas, fears, hopes, dreams, realizations, anecdotes, or a-has on the keys of MacDaddy. Maybe I never will... I'll have to search inside to see if my stories are meant to stay private or not. I sure hope they want to come out!

However, I want to take baby steps back to you. I thought a perfect way to do so would be to share with you an inspiring video of one of my most talented and adorable teachers, Jonathan Baxter. Bax is the King of the Hoop, and his circular dance with the Divine never ceases to put a smile on my face, a sparkle in my heart and a tingle in my loins. Enjoy!

The Importance of U and I

2009-04-20T06:05:00.001-07:00

Kids never miss anything their parents say. Just ask my trucker-mouth hubby.

Ever since the birth of our daughter seven years ago, Michael and I have been very careful about the language we use around her. The only 'bad words' we sometimes used in her presence were hate, idiot, and stupid. In fact, my daughter was unable to recognize true dirty words for years because she never heard them. I recall one occasion in the car when someone cut me off and almost caused an accident. I yelled, "I fucking HATE when people do that shit!" My daughter gasped in her car seat and cried, "Mama! You said a bad word! You said HATE!" Whew! That was a close one. Despite that terrible (yet totally forgivable) slip-up, our word choices around the wee one have been decidedly PG rated.

However, after seven years, our attitude on semantics has gotten a little lax, and shit happens. So does fuck.

Those two popular expletives are the favorites of both my husband and I when the appropriate situation arises. Whereas in the past we have been cautious about dropping the F-bomb around the child, we have been caught blurting it out more often than we care to admit. Recently, my husband let a few of them rip when he discovered a large scratch on his precious Passat and when his computer crashed just as he desperately needed it for a big work project. My outbursts are usually related to spills on clothes, computer mishaps, and traffic dramas.

Imagine my husband's embarrassment yesterday when our cherub asked him in her sweetest Cindy-Lou Who voice, "Daddy, why have you been saying fuck and shit lately?"

To his credit, Daddy fessed up to his crimes without giving some weak-ass excuse like "Because I'm the adult, that's why!" He simply apologized for his poor choices and thanked Emma for lovingly bringing it to his attention. When he relayed the story to me later, we both agreed that part of Emma's desire to ask her daddy about his slips of the tongue was to be given the opportunity to say fuck and shit without getting into trouble. Smart kid. I don't blame her; I would have done the same thing when I was her age.

I, on the other hand, rarely say those foul words. When something swear word-worthy happens, I either do a weird Yosemite Sam rant ("Rassafrassindabnaggitriggidnutter!") or simply say the naughties WITHOUT including vowels. I growl, "Fcckkkkk!" or "Shhhtttttt!" I have convinced myself that my vowel-free profanity is totally acceptable. Without the U and I, I am free and clear to say exactly what I want without being labeled as a foul-mouthed, bad mommy, right?

I mean, there's no WAY my daughter would figure out what I really meant to say.

(Such is the rationalization of a deluded, imperfect, yet totally human mom.)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever let a doozie slip in front of the little ones?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to read an excerpt from my book, Opening the Kimono!

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Restoring My Faith

2009-04-17T01:05:00.001-07:00

Just when my cynicism and raging PMS hormones are threatening to consume me, I stumble upon three YouTube viral vids that put a smile on my face and a spring in my step. It's amazing how a few minutes of video can restore one's faith in the beauty and magic of the human condition. I'm sure you've seen these before; I think we all deserve to see them one more time.

Enjoy, and make it a great day!!

Susan Boyle's Performance on Britain's Got Talent

Let It Flo!

2009-04-16T05:24:00.000-07:00

I am going on a much-needed retreat and vacation with hubby starting next Friday, and there is only one thing on my mind right now: my friggin' period.

In order for me to properly participate in both activities, both on a spiritual and carnal level, I want to be menses-free. Historically, my monthly visitor Flo always seems to arrive at the most inopportune times; therefore, this week I am endeavoring to nudge her along so she'll be gone by the time I step on the first of many Delta airplanes.

Ever since I stopped taking The Pill, Flo's ETA is a crap-shoot. The near-absence of sugar and caffeine in my diet has made her stay a little more bearable, but it has not done much to predict her whereabouts. Two of the consistent indicators of her impending arrival are sore boobies and a bad f#@king attitude. I can attest to having both. (If you read my scathing rantblog yesterday called "Don't Let the Nutters Win", I'm sure you have an inkling of my mood du jour.)

I've been shown the two unpleasant warning signs; now it's time for me to kick it into high gear. Here are a few proactive steps I have taken to start riding the red pony...

1. I'm wearing white panties underneath white pants. This is the surest way I know of to taunt the menstruation goddesses into action.

2. I emptied the bathroom garbage. Only then will it be ready to receive the pile of nastiness associated with copious used plugs and pads.

3. Speaking of products, I've moved all applicable sundries into the bathroom staging area. There are tampons of all sizes (junior, regular, super, superplus, and twin mattress), pads (supermaxiovernightican'tbelieveyouneedthatmuchprotectionwhileyou'reasleep), and the cute little pantyliners for the final, is-it-over-maybe-i-don't-think-so-not-yet day.

4. I scheduled a really huge TV interview for tomorrow. Having mere stage jitters is for pussies; I want to have a full-blown, nauseous cramp-fest in order to make the moment as memorable as possible.

There it is. I'm stepping into the driver's seat so I can have unrestricted time with Spirit on a mountaintop followed by unrestrained nookie with the Spousal Unit.

I'm ready for ya, Flo.

Your move...

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For your comment and/or consideration:

What are the signals that Flo is about to arrive at your house?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to read a chapter of Opening the Kimono!

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Don't Let the Nutters Win

2009-04-15T06:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, I did two things that are bad for me: I drank Starbucks and read the newspaper.

Since I am gearing up to take a much-needed spiritual retreat/vacation next week, I am focusing all of my efforts on being as efficient as possible. As such, I thought I would wait in the parking lot of Staples from 7:35am (the time I drop off Beaner at the bus) to 8:00am (the time the store opens) instead of schlepping back home only to leave again to retrieve my copies. After giving smooches, straightening collars, and instructing my urchin to make it a great day, I decided I would enjoy my parking lot lollygagging a little bit more if I had a tasty Tall (notice not a Grande!) Decaf Light Whip Mocha. While in line, I opted to pick up our local newspaper, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. After having the adorable, scruffy barista give me my poison, er, order, I returned to the Mojomobile and drove to Staples to await the opening. I slurped on my delectable bev and cracked open the paper, both of which I rarely do. Here is what I discovered...

THERE ARE A BUNCH OF NUTJOBS OUT THERE.

During my fifteen minutes of idle-time, I read about unauthorized nuclear testing by North Korea, cutbacks in education, and gunrunners traveling across the border into Mexico. However, two flaming nutjobs jumped out at me as particularly odious.

1) Melissa Huckaby of Stockton, California who apparently kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and killed the 8-year old friend of her daughter. After the killing, she stuffed the little girl's body into a suitcase and dumped her into a pond. If I could say something to Melissa it would be this: Melissa, Poor, Deluded, Fucked-up Melissa, you are like a nasty old string of Christmas lights with half of the lights burned out. You are so twisted that the best thing to do with you is throw you away so you don't have to show your ugly mug in society ever again. Shame on you. How dare you! I am sure that when you go to prison, there will be other mommies in there with you who will frown upon your method of chaperoning play dates. Paybacks are a bitch, Bitch, especially when you harm a child. Ouch. It sucks to be you, in this lifetime and beyond.

2) A not-yet-identified man in my own home town of Sarasota, Florida is viciously attacking old ladies. It seems that Dickless Wonder has broken into the homes of nine middle-aged to older women, sneaked up on them from behind, bonked them on the head, robbed them, tied them up with rope, sexually assaulted a few of them (including an 82-year old woman) and killed the last one just last week. Dick, you WILL be found and brought to justice, you fucking coward. Just as Nutjob #1 will have a rocky road in the hoosgow, you too will feel the pain of your fellow inmates' displeasure at your shenanigans. It's not that I'm wishing it, mind you, but I wouldn't be surprised if one of the yard rats bonks your soft melon and gives you a taste of your own wretched medicine. (Insert your own soap-dropping reference here.)

Now, I know that I will be rightly accused of a lack of compassion for my fellow, extremely wounded, human beings. The Higher Self in me knows that these two whackjobs are most likely products of abuse, neglect, and trauma. My enlightened side says, "Show them love". Jesus would say, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Yeah, JC, God should and will probably forgive them. But I don't need to. I guess I believe that they DID know what they were doing, and those two crackpots are hard to forgive. However, it's possible that my lack of forgiveness stems from my proximity to the crimes.

In the case of the Evil Mommy, I can't help but think about my own almost-eight year old being in that situation. Emma has gone next door for a playdate with her best friend countless times. Ms. Huckaby's actions instilled that same fear in me, even if for only brief flashes of time. Through her unconscionable choices, she has rocked the worlds of mothers and fathers everywhere, not to mention destroyed the lives of the victim's family.

In the case of Dick, he has chosen to attack vulnerable women in neighborhoods where close friends of mine live. I drive by these places several times a week. This isn't some distant story buried in the national news page; it's where my peeps live and work. Clark and Beneva. US41 and Stickney Point. Siesta and Osprey. This deluded shell of a man has put the fear of God into house after house of women in my town, and I for one am pissed about it.

Here lies the challenge and the opportunity. There will always be nutjobs amongst us. Eight years ago, we had a handful of nutjobs get on four airplanes and change our world forever. That same year, a mild-mannered nutjob named Andrea drowned her five kids. Twenty-two years ago, another nutjob was putting poison in Tylenol capsules in my hometown of Chicago. Over sixty years ago, there was a whole country of nutjobs led my the King of the Nutjobs who started exterminating people. How do we live in peace, comfort, and joy, knowing that heinous tragedies, local and global, have happened and will happen again in some form or another?

I'm not sure I know the answer, but here's my humble opinion on how to survive the storm of crazies:

We believe. We are unafraid. We trust in Spirit. We know that everything happens exactly as it should. We don't allow the weakness of others become the weakness in ourselves. We rise to the occasion. We find the gifts buried in the muck. We become shining examples of what it looks like to be conscious, loving, compassionate people.

In short, we don't let the nutters win.

Some days, like today, it's easier said than done.

Paternal Influence

2009-04-14T10:33:00.000-07:00

My seven-year old daughter knows every word to Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water", and I have two men to blame: Michael Rose and Jack Black.

No matter how much classical and New Age music I play in the Rose house (and it's a fair amount), my daughter's penchant for headbanging has not abated. Ever since she saw the movie School of Rock with Jack Black, she has taken it upon herself to thoroughly study the bands described in the rockomedy. The child has watched The Stones' documentary by Martin Scorsese called Shine a Light and enjoyed "She Was Hot" the most. She begged to have "Smoke on the Water" downloaded to her iPod, has memorized all of the lyrics through dozens of repeated listenings, and belts the entire number out in unison with her father on multiple occasions (much to her mother's chagrin). Believe me, there's nothing quite like seeing your second grader sing about Frank Zappa and the Mothers. One of her latest musical fascinations is Aerosmith's "Dream On", courtesy of her father's car satellite radio. Just last night she asked me if we could go on my computer so she could google Robert Plant. Robert Plant, for crimeny's sake! She's SEVEN, folks.

However, it isn't all bad. It makes me laugh to think that my kid knows every word to "Dream On" but doesn't own any Britney, Taylor, or Kelly (However, she does own far too much Miley. When will that chick's 15 minutes expire already??) My husband, beaming with pride at the rock prowess of his spawn, said, "I'll take her listening to Aerosmith over Britney any day of the week."

I gotta admit, it's especially adorable when she belts out the Steven Tyler scream at the end.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What music did you listen to as a child?

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Finding Bliss at Claire's Boutique

2009-04-10T06:29:00.001-07:00

Last night, Emma and I had one of our famous Girls Night Out. The highlight of the evening was our fabulous pilgrimage to the Mecca For Little Girls: Claire's Boutique.

Emma was dressed to the 9s, sporting a tea-length, shimmery, burgundy party dress, a matching burgundy scarf, a Hannah Montana handbag, and black sequined high heels. Her hair was done up in an elegant pony tail, finished off with a pink crystal bobby pin. Her look was killer. (I, on the other hand, wore my comfy jeans, a new white blouse that showed way too much boobie whenever I sat down, and my reliable brown suede kitten heels. Not anything to sneeze at, certainly, but I paled in comparison to my companion.)

First, we went to Selby Library to return Emma's books and get her the next three in The Spiderwick Chronicles series. She reminded me that since we were having a Girls Night, we needed to walk with more sass. This included hip sways, hair tosses, and wrists ever-so-slightly bent in an I'm-too-cool-it-hurts sort of manner. We were definitely the hottest chicks in the library.

We then moved on to dinner. I took my gal-pal to Cafe Americano in downtown Sarasota, opting to dine at the outside veranda. I had a wonderful risotto with a glass of Montepulciano, and she had penne with meat sauce and a glass of Sprite. We both ate far too much bread, prompting the cute server to refill our basket. (Pish posh on the diet!) She and I shared spirited conversations about Italy, our summer plans, and the nutritional content of chicken nuggets.

The pinnacle of the evening came when we made the trek south on US41 to the Sarasota Square Mall. We had only an hour before the mall closed, and I knew that there was only one destination that was befitting two hot tamales like ourselves: Claire's Boutique. Walking the mall with the same sassafrass attitudes, we finally entered the Hallowed Halls of Colorful, Plastic Chinese Stuff. My daughter's face was priceless -- it was a mixture of awe, desire, and a little trepidation. After all, there is so much to choose from and only a finite amount of money to spend! (We previously agreed she could spend the $40 I recently took from her wallet when I needed some emergency cash. Ooops.) Emma resembled Charlie when he entered the Chocolate Factory. Slowly, carefully, she checked out all of the jewelry, baubles, hair accessories, makeup, and every other item that girls 7-13 go crazy for. I watched her navigate the store with that precious, I'm-only-a-little-girl-for-a-little-while look that simultaneously filled and broke my heart. It was pure Mommy bliss.

She chose some excellent items, ideal for the fashionista she is: neon hair extensions, a peace necklace, a pink kaleidoscope heart necklace, and a pack of silver toe rings that she will use as regular rings. I was pleased to see she didn't buy the Jonas Brothers tchotchkes, the Froot Loops lip balm, or the I Heart Boys purse. (Her comment upon seeing the last item was "Who on Earth would want to have this?!" Blessedly, I still have at least a few years left before she will be hearting and doing a little more than hearting boys.)

It was a perfect outing for Ms. and Miss Rose. Upon returning home, Em gave a mini-fashion show to her father who waxed enthusiastic about his daughter's new purchases. I beamed as I watched her relive the Claire's Extravaganza with her daddy and told myself, "Put this moment in the long-term memory bank. You will not want to forget it."

Thanks, Claire's, for the memory.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Did you ever shop at Claire's?

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The Green-Eyed Monster in Me

2009-04-08T09:47:00.000-07:00

I friggin' hate being jealous. And it happens far too often for me to ignore.

The most recent case in point: A high school friend of mine just launched her first book with the help of a proper agent and publisher. She has an ungodly huge blog following, each of whom were chomping at the bit to buy her book the day it came out. As part of her launch efforts, she sold one autographed copy of her book on eBay which netted more than what I made last month in book sales. Just recently, she had a book signing where 60 copies of her book were sold (the number would have been higher if the bookstore would have stocked more). At my last book signing, I sold 6 and practically begged each customer for the sale. She did 15 phone interviews in one day; I can't remember the date of my last one. To put it mildly, I am INSANELY jealous of her.

The thing that really sucks about my mental malaise is that this chick is totally nice, funny, and talented. She was like that in high school, and she remains so to this day. (She was one of the few girls in high school I actually liked; she was a delightful flash of realness in a morass of pretentious, teenage phony-baloney.) She deserves to have huge success, and I am genuinely happy for her. However, I cannot escape my own insecurities, doubts, and fears whenever I hear about her latest score.

Why do we silently curse the successes of others? What is it about someone else doing well that rankles us so? I should have more sensitivity to this particular condition, as I have encountered it on the other end from people with whom I thought were my friends. As I dip my pinky toe in the pool of literary success, I have discovered that not everyone is overflowing with joy for me. Somehow they think that going for one's dream is unseemly or that I have become "too big for my britches". I have spent many a night kvetching to my husband about so-and-so giving me the cold shoulder simply because I am enthusiastically pursuing my career as an author, speaker, and bringer of the Mojo.

Yet, I am not immune to it. Unfortunately, this fog of envy that occasionally envelops me is not a new phenomenon. I have been jealous for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was jealous of Mary because she had the first pair of Jordache jeans in school. I was jealous of Kim because she had cable before anyone else did. I was jealous of Angela because every guy (and more than a few girls) wanted to do her. I was jealous of Lindsey because she had the most phenomenal hair and always smelled like pretty French perfume. Bear in mind, these chicks were my best friends. Can you imagine how psycho I got about girls I DIDN'T like?

Jealousy is like a virus. It seeps into our souls and convinces us that who we are, what we do, or what we have is not good enough. It casts a pall over our Divine light, insidiously whispering in our ears, "You suck...you aren't good enough...you'll never have what she has...you'll never be that pretty/successful/popular/insert desired characteristic here". It makes us sick, unhappy, and afraid.

Enough is enough! I'm tired of it. I have been jealous for far too long. I think my friend's rapid rise to stardom is my chance to rid myself of the green-eyed monster once and for all. Every time I read of her latest accomplishment, I will say to myself, "Good for her! There is more than enough to go around. I'm glad to see another female writer succeed and know that I, too, will achieve my goals." There is no reason why her success can't pave the way for my own.

At least that's the plan.

Oh great...the drop-dead gorgeous waitress with the perfect body is sauntering over to my table to deliver my southwestern wrap and fries. Damn her! Who does she think she is, anyway?

Oops.

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For your comment and/or consideration:

Who or what brings out the green-eyed monster in you?

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The Tit Parade

2009-04-06T07:08:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday night, I dragged my hubby to a fancy-schmancy formal fundraiser. Needless to say, he got more than he bargained for.

It was a celebration of cleavage. Nearly every woman, young or old, was popping out of her dress (his wife included). I don't know when this fashion trend started, but somehow prominently displayed titties became the newest way to accessorize. Honestly, some of these chicks looked like they were gonna need ankle weights to keep them from floating to the ceiling. My darling husband looked like he was going to pass out, pop a chub, and die of embarrassment all at the same time. At one point he muttered, "Must. Maintain. Eye. Contact. Don't. Look. Down." Poor guy. It must have been hard. I can only imagine how challenging it would be to attend a party where every man was totally hot and had perfectly round, eminently touchable tushies. I would be distracted too.

Hubby barely survived the endless parade of gazongas while my self-esteem barely survived the self-induced comparisons (hers are bigger! hers are perkier! hers look so much better than mine!). Upon returning home, I proceeded to dismantle myself, taking off my royal blue party dress, flicking off the uncomfortable heels, unpeeling my Spankz, unsticking my stick-on bra, removing the layers of warpaint, and brushing the red wine off my pearlies. Fresh and clean, I climbed into bed wearing my favorite powder blue nightie and cuddled with my man.

That was when he showed me which ta-tas he loves the most. ;)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is your Cleavage Quotient: melons, grapefruits, or grapes?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Subpar Sex Spam

2009-04-03T10:58:00.000-07:00

If you are like me, you get at least one ridiculous spam email a day touting the latest and greatest product to rev up your (or your partner's) sexual prowess. Normally, I automatically delete these unwanted solicitations without a second glance; for some reason, however, this afternoon I decided to actually open one and read it. It may have something to do with the fact that it mentioned multiple oorgasms (that's not a misspelling; it's how the numbskull spammers have to spell it in order to pass through our filters.) Having recently experienced the aforementioned glorious multiple orgasms without the aid of such products, I guess it caught my eye.

Here was the text:

Do you want to be seen as a captain of the bedroom? Do yoou want your woman to be RAVING to heer friends about the great sex she has while all of them get normal boring sex? Well if you do, then you definittely need to ...

Look THAT

Be glad to go wherever you please, replied eunane. Of honours in an armie, whiche soche a man ought me to defend the front of the fortress, while bim ruefully. If i wanted to abolish the noble at what people think, but see the results. You.

------

Umm...what sort of alternative universe is this person living in? The second paragraph doesn't even make sense! Maybe he or she is a closet Shakespearean beat poet that is stuck writing bad spam emails in order to pay the bills. Upon further inspection, I feel inspired by the avant guard product prose. I think I shall write all of my blogs in sexspamese from this point forward...

Lo, what glorious day laundry brings, scoffed bittina. Of great witness to the piles whiche maketh me loath to sorte, i proclaimed ruefully. If it shall be done, will it be so through joy and without craze. Me.

OK, maybe not.

Later, 88s

2009-04-01T10:31:00.001-07:00

I'm a bit melancholy today. In a few hours, I will be telling my piano teacher the bad news: I have decided to discontinue my lessons.

Music is a huge part of my life, and I have loved loved loved playing the piano over the last two years. Since I played for several years when I was a kid, I was able to pick it up pretty quickly. (It's a lot easier this time around, since I'm not grumbling and complaining about how much it sucks.) My teacher, Kirsten, is incredible. She encouraged me to play the kind of music I wanted to play instead of what was prescribed in some lesson book. I have played some wonderful classical, jazz, contemporary, and new age pieces, depending on my mood. The pinnacle was to be next month's Spring Recital, where I was going to dazzle the audience with my rendition of David Lanz' Dream of the Forgotten Child, a nine-page killer piece that allows me to tap into my Inner Rachmaninoff. I adore playing the piano. It is a creative, freeing, joyful experience for me.

And now I'm gonna give it up.

Sadly, I have not been able to practice for well over a month. As my life is getting busier with my book promotion and speaking activities, I am not carving out the time to practice. Simply put, there are other activities that take precedence over my dalliance with the ivories. I need to have time to meditate, practice yoga, write, and do the kazillion other things associated with getting my work out into the world. When hubby and child come home, I want to spend time with them instead of sitting at the piano to work out the next Chopin piece. I wish there were more hours in the day, but there just aren't. If I want to remain remotely sane, a change is required. Priorities need to be identified. Tough decisions need to be made. Things that I love, like playing the piano, are going to have to go by the wayside. For now.

Every time I quit something, I experience a corresponding guilt trip. I was wracked with guilt when I had to quit Karate a few months ago. Similarly, my painful adieu to Zumba had me singing the blues. However, I also know that I felt better after having released those joyful tasks that eventually became a burden to me. I didn't want the piano to become a burden, but it has. I have grown weary of making excuses for my lack of practice, and the lesson times are cutting into valuable work time. So, I'm finding myself bathing in QuitGuilt right now, and it totally blows.

Maybe someday I'll be able to resume my playing. I'd like to think so. Emma is still going to continue, and I am going to support her 100%. Hopefully, she won't end up like I did thirty years ago, saying goodbye to an instrument that brings with it so much beauty and joy.

But if she does, I will do my best to make sure her journey, unlike mine, is guilt-free.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Is there some activity you love that you decided to quit? How did you feel about it?

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The Little Big Things

2009-03-31T08:17:00.001-07:00

I was interviewed by a major Tampa news anchor yesterday to discuss my book, Opening the Kimono. Guess what I was most freaked out about: answering her questions intelligently, coming across as engaging, or how my hair would look. Yep, you guessed it.

Contrary to what movies would have us believe, all TV studios are not the same. There were no artsy hair and makeup people scurrying around to make me look beautiful. Any beautification would have to take place in the confines of my own bathroom two hours before the interview. Upon waking at 5:30 in the morning, I said a quiet prayer to myself...

"Dear God, please let today's interview go well. Please help me to say the right words in the right way. Please help me to deliver my message of power and healing to as many people as possible. And for goodness sake, God, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE help me look pretty."

I then got out of bed, stumbled toward the bathroom, and proceeded to check on the first potential landmine: my complexion. Mercifully, the zit I acquired on Thursday evening after eating two minuscule bites of chocolate cake at the fancy shindig hubby and I attended had nearly disappeared. The concealer usage would be a minimum. YAY! Victory Number One.

After having a healthy breakfast, I hopped in the shower. After the suds, shampoo, and shave, I emerged feeling fresh and perky. It was now time for the next challenge: the makeup application process. With a surgeon's precision, I applied my foundation, eye shadows (all three of them), liquid eyeliner, mascara, blush, lip liner, and sassy new mocha lipstick I purchased for just this occasion. (My typical hot pink lipstick was not recommended by the media coaching books I recently devoured.) Happily, I had no cosmetic catastrophes to deal with; no mascara on the lids, no errant eyeliner. Everything looked as if I actually meant to do it. YAY! Victory Number Two.

Next, it was time for the Big Kahuna: taming my lion mane. Some days my hair looks wonderful, and other days it looks like I stuck a finger in a wall socket. I have lots of hair, and it's as curly as all get-out. Depending on the moon cycle and the generosity of the Follicle Fairies, my hair can go from sexy to scary in record time. Yesterday, I towel-dried my hair, noticing that it had the delightful texture of cooperation. After squirting liberal amounts of goop #1 (Redken Ringlet 07) into my hand, I added a ribbon of goop #2 (Redken Glass 01) and mixed them together. Attempting to mimic my hairdresser's amazing techniques, I grabbed, scrunched, and twirled my highlighted locks for several minutes until they looked ready for the final primping. After dispensing a quarter-sized dollop of goop #3 (L'oreal Fluid Intense) into my hands, I finished up the scrunching exercise and was ready for the climax: Hair spray (L'oreal infinium 4). Lots of it. This sh#t needed to keep my hair in place through an hour's drive to Tampa and my inevitable pre-show anxiety attack. After all product was applied, I was ecstatic to see the results: A Good Hair Day. YAY! Victory Number Three.

Finally, I put on The Blouse. This wasn't an ordinary blouse; it's one specifically designed to be TV-friendly. (Thanks, Stein Mart!) It is a jewel-toned, solid, button-down number made of stiff material which can hold a lavaliere mic. (It is nothing I'd actually wear in real life; I'm more of a flowy, patterny, hippy blouse kind of chick.) After donning The Blouse accompanied by my tailored black pants and cute black Liz Claiborne shoes, I eyed myself in the mirror. Lo and behold, I didn't look (or feel) as big as a house! In fact, I went so far as to say I felt...dare I say it?...PRETTY. YAY! Victory Number Four.

I was officially ready for the trek to Tampa.

As far as the interview itself went, I think I did pretty well. Honestly, I can't remember most of what I said, except I do remember mentioning my sex life with my husband. (Won't he be thrilled to see that on the news?) My publicist assures me that I rocked it, calling me inspiring and having great energy. Who knows? We'll see when the thing actually airs. It's one of those opportunities for me to trust that I did well instead of automatically assuming that I sucked ass. Unfortunately, self-judgment is a hard habit to break.

One thing is for sure: God answered my prayers yesterday morning and gave me the Little Big Things I so desperately needed.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What Little Big Things (hair, skin, clothes, makeup) help you feel the most attractive?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Typecasting

2009-03-27T07:36:00.000-07:00

In another life, I would have wanted to be the next Meryl Streep. Alas, I chose to be a writer and speaker instead. However, whenever I am given the chance to act on stage, I jump at it. Even if I have to swallow a heaping dose of humble pie to do so.

I am blessed to live in Sarasota, Florida, which has established itself as quite a little film town. For eleven years, the Sarasota Film Festival has grown in clout, offerings, and celebrity sightings. (Last year, the unrequited love of my life, Edward Norton, was in town. Oh Edward, I love you so.) This year, the film festival is sponsoring YouthFest, a forum in which budding young filmmakers can hone their craft and get their work seen in public.

This is where I come in...

A few weeks ago, I got an email from Pam, the director of a theatre production I did last year called "Got a Minute". Pam told me she was directing the Youth Screenwriters Live performances for YouthFest and asked me if I would like to do a series of film script readings. Normally, I am not able to commit to doing a full-scale theatre production, as the time needed for rehearsals and performances is just too much for me right now. (I love spending time with Hub and the Bean more than I love being on stage. And that's A LOT.) However, Pam assured me that I'd only need a weekend for rehearsals, and the readings would take place on Sunday night in front of Whole Foods and Monday night at the Florida Studio Theatre.

I think it took me approximately 4 milliseconds before I replied "YES!!" and hit the Send button.

The other day, I got to read the scripts that I'll be performing with the other local actors involved. These scenes were written by high school kids, and they are really impressive. These young'uns have talent, but more importantly, they have guts. They courageously wrote personal stories of pain, emotional trauma, and growth (something I know a little bit about). I'm proud to be associated with this program and am looking forward to another opportunity to be on stage. Then I thought, what sort of juicy roles do I get to read?

Here's my list of characters:

Mrs. Bloom (the obnoxious, trauma-inducing teacher)
Julia's Mom
Dexy's Mom
Emma's Mom (hey, I know how to do that!)
Mom
Dr. Roxanne Shelly (the affable principal)

So, what did I glean from this list of characters I'll be playing this weekend? I've been typecast! I'm the mom. I'm the teacher. I'm the supporting role.

Oh jeez. Can you imagine how friggin' ANCIENT I felt when I read this? It's as if all of my sexy sass was instantaneously sucked from my body and replaced with a hand-knit cardigan sweater with jewel-toned appliques. Ugh. It made me want to put on my halter top, jam Justin, and break out the hoop. I can't be THAT friggin' frumpy, can I?

Then I remembered. I'm an actress, dammit! I can PLAY the curmudgeonly teacher, the wimpy mom, and the sweet little principal. I'll give it my all, Meryl-style. Those kids deserve to see their stories come to life the way they saw them in their heads when they wrote those first tentative words.

But, mark my words: when the performances are over, I'll do my husband better and badder than ever before. There may even be some extra-special treats in store for Mr. Rose on Monday night.

Suck on that, Mrs. Bloom.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

If you were in a show, what would you be typecast as?

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Fashionista

2009-03-25T07:40:00.001-07:00

Below is one of the many fashion ensembles my seven-year old pulled together yesterday while dancing to "Everybody Dance Now" by The C&C Music Factory ad infinitum. Emma is wearing her swimsuit top, a periwinkle pair of capris, a white apron originally acquired for her Laura Ingalls Wilder oral book report, and her Raggedy Ann wig from two Halloween's ago.

The chick certainly has her own style...

Laundry Mishap

2009-03-24T06:49:00.000-07:00

I was hurriedly doing laundry yesterday while attempting to do seventeen other things. Here is the result of me not paying attention.

In my haste, I had inadvertently caught one of the spaghetti straps on my black tank top to the hook on the dryer door. By the looks of how tightly it was twisted, my strap had remained caught in the door throughout the entire cycle. When I opened the door and untangled the web of blackness, I discovered the strap was now twice as big as it's partner.

At first, I was pissed when I saw my shirt. But then I thought of two things: 1) I paid $3 for the thing at Bealls Outlet a year ago (I think I got my money's worth), and 2) I didn't really like how it looked on me anyway, as it made my woman's sized boobs precariously pop out from the top (I bought it in the Junior's section).

Oh well. Another laundry mishap to log into the books. Yet another reason why I shouldn't be allowed to perform that odious task.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever had a laundry mishap? What happened?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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I Love You, Paul Rudd

2009-03-23T07:35:00.000-07:00

I have got a serious thing for dorky dudes.

This weekend, my hubby Michael and I were without child -- our seven-year old daughter was visiting her adopted grandma/my BFF Jean FOR THREE DAYS! It was delicious. Yes, I love that li'l peanut of mine, but it was very nice to have some unadulterated quality time with the Spousal Unit. I need not say how some of the time was spent (nudge nudge, wink wink), but some of it was also spent doing our second favorite pastime: seeing movies.

We saw two flicks, I Love You, Man with Paul Rudd and Jason Segel, and Duplicity with Clive Owen and some chick. Oh right, Julia Roberts. We enjoyed both movies very much, but I must tell you that it brought into sharp focus my penchant for geeks.

Paul Rudd is simply the cutest thing on the planet. I adore the way he us utterly fearless in his comedy -- that guy will do absolutely ANYTHING for a laugh. He combines vulnerability with courage; sappiness with sexiness; junior high bathroom humor with touching romance. Throughout the entire move I wistfully stared at Paul with a school-girl grin plastered on my face, fantasizing what it would be like to be with The Goofball Prince.

Of course, Clive Owen is nothing to sneeze at. That man IS The Incredible Hunk. Describing Clive as cute is a gross understatement: it's like calling The Eiffel Tower pretty. Ummm, yeah, he's cute. He's also debonair, exotic, masculine, charming, and built like a brick sh#thouse. Needless to say, it was not unpleasant to see Clive drop his towel and crawl into bed naked with What's Her Name.

But, you know what? I'd take Paul over Clive any day of the week.

Call me crazy, but there's something incredibly sexy about a funny, self-deprecating guy. When one of them stutters and stammers, boldly throws himself into an embarrassing situation, and emerges with messed-up hair and an impish grin, my legs grow weak. I get all tingly-wingly inside. My fantasies of nerd fornication begin.

My list of favorite adorable goofs is long and varied, but here are the top ten in no particular order: Paul Rudd, Jason Segel, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Steve Carell, Vince Vaughn, Jim Carrey, Owen Wilson, Will Ferrell, and Seann William Scott. George Clooney is an Honorable Mention, but he is just too damn gorgeous to be included in the same category with these guys. Running into any of these men in person would make my life.

However, there is one dorky dude that tops the list: the one and only Michael Rose. My hubby has got the killer one-two combo: Humor and Hotness. He does this kooky dance to the Comedy Central promo that makes me practically pee my pants whenever I see him do it, and I've seen it dozens of times. Some of comedy bits that he did when we were dating fourteen years ago still make me giggle. I have spit liquid out of my nose from nutty things he has done. The guy is friggin' hilarious.

(Plus, he's as cute as Clive. At least he is to me...)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Who is your favorite dorky dude?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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A Sad Farewell

2009-03-19T05:53:00.000-07:00

My heart is heavy.

When I read about Natasha Richardson's tragic accident on Google News a few days ago, I felt as if someone punched me in the stomach. There are lots of stories on the news about death and loss. So, what was it about Ms. Richardson's' story that affected me so profoundly?

1) She was acting royalty. Notice I didn't say Hollywood royalty. Her family tree was the Who's Who of Kick@ss Actors, each of whom has an impressive resume of work. (Her mother Vanessa is nothing less than an acting genius.) As a girl who wanted to be a professional actress from the age of three, I looked up to women like Natasha Richardson and her off-the-charts amazing thespian relatives: they were beautiful, talented, successful, and respected. What kind of woman wins a Tony Award for playing Sally Bowles from Cabaret? A fanf#@kingtastic one, that's who.

2) She was only a few years older than I am. Anytime someone my age dies, I can't help but imagine what it would be like if I were in her shoes. What about her children, who are only a few years older than Em? Even though I lost my mother two years ago, I can't even fathom what it must be like to say goodbye to one's mom so early in life. I felt the same sadness when Princess Diana died, leaving her two beautiful boys behind.

3) She died because she was skiing on a bunny hill. Not only that, but she didn't even run into anything. How could something like that happen? I've read countless expert interviews on the cause of her death, but it all boils down to the fact that she fell down and died. The name the doctors bandied about in the media was "Talk and Die Syndrome". What a horrible name for a horrible thing. A freak accident like this reminds us all that we don't have to leave this planet from old age or cancer; we can make our final curtain call skiing down the bunny hill. This life is precious, brief, and fragile, folks.

4) She was hooked up to a ventilator before she died. My mother-in-law died several years ago from complications associated with a heart surgery, and my husband's family had to make the excruciating decision to end life support. I was there as gorgeous, graceful Andree took her last breath, and believe me, it is something that one never, ever forgets. PS: I think using the phrase "pull the plug" should be outlawed. One's transition to the Spirit World isn't something that should be described so cavalierly.

5) Liam. Lovely, lovely Liam. I fell in love with Liam Neeson twenty years ago when he lit the screen on fire in The Good Mother. The first sex scene alone was a mini-pad moment for me. From then on, I devoured All Things Liam. I must admit; I had many a fantasy about wrapping myself around his big, strapping bod. Just a few weeks ago, my husband Michael was teasing me because Liam Neeson was on The Daily Show and I acted all school-girl goofy when he appeared. When I look back on that appearance, I remembered him laughing and being as sweet as can be. He was on the show promoting his film Taken.

Taken. The love of his life has been taken from him, and none of us can imagine the horror he is going through right now. The thought of losing Michael like he lost Natasha is overwhelming to me. Frankly, I don't know how I would survive it without seriously going over the precipice. Yet, I imagine that I would do what Liam is no doubt doing: keep it together for the sake of the kids. I bet that is what Natasha would have wanted. When we have a child, new skills are automatically acquired: seeing from the backs of our heads, doing twenty-three things simultaneously, morphing into a mama bear when our young cubs are threatened, and enduring unconscionable pain to protect our kids. What Liam is going through constitutes unconscionable pain.

I wish I could wrap my arms around him and his children, giving them support and love, yet knowing that nothing I say makes any difference whatsoever. The debilitating pain will be there until it isn't. Each day it will get better. Each year it will get better. That's hard to believe when you're in it, but somehow it happens.

As the world says farewell to this remarkable woman, I for one want to take something positive away from this terrible event. Every time I hear, see, or read the names Natasha Richardson or Liam Neeson, I will remind myself of the preciousness of life. I will express gratitude to my family for being with me on this journey. I will trust in Spirit that everything happens the way it is supposed to, even if I don't understand it at the time.

Farewell, Ms. Richardson. I know that Spirit has a new shining light on the Stage of the Soul.

Inside the Twisted (and Normal) Mind of a 7-year old

2009-03-17T15:13:00.001-07:00

This morning I discovered the latest literary tome my cherubic daughter borrowed from her classroom. It's called Oh, Yuck! The Encyclopedia of Everything Nasty. And believe me, it is.

When I asked her why she likes reading about such icky stuff, my daughter rolled her eyes at me, as if to say, "Geez, Mom! Are you really that lame?"

When I pressed her for an explanation, she said, "Boys in my class are telling me these lies about gross stuff, so I decided to look it up myself."

(It was at this point when I became impressed with my little girl's outstanding critical thinking skills.)

"Like what?", I ask.

"Pee. And something you shouldn't write."

(She knew I was gonna blog about it.)

"Come on, just tell me", I say in my most hip-mommy voice.

She pointed to her groin area and said with a sheepish look on her face, "A boy's...".

I responded in a not-so-subtle growl, "They have penises in that book?"

She replied, "Yep. They look like a hot dog with crumply sides. Not like regular hot dogs."

(It was at this point when I called upon the Awesome Power of the Almighty to subdue the massive giggle fit that was dying to escape from my lips.)

After looking for the picture of the aforementioned human hot dog, it turned out that the book didn't have penises in it at all (at least that I know of.) However, the drawing of the girl eating a squooshy, crinkly hot dog was actually on the page describing Animal Testicles. Yes, Animal Testicles.

Em's also studying leeches, because she "wants to learn how they get into people's skin." She continued matter-of-factly, "There's also funny stuff in there about pee that's really, really funny."

After I picked my jaw off the floor, I perused the well-worn book for a quick sampling of other gross topics to which my daughter has been exposed. (Based on the condition of the book, it was apparent that many other second-graders have discovered this little gem as well.) Here are some interesting entries that immediately jumped out at me: Eye Gunk, Farts, Puke, Poop, Snot and a delightful little sidebar called "the Amazing, Exploding Zit". To be fair, Emma can learn about that last topic right in the comfort of her mother's bathroom.

Just when I was about to send a scathing email off to the Dean of Emma's school expressing my outrage at their literary offerings, I noticed that Acupuncture was listed in this book of All Things Nasty. I was relieved to see that it actually had a very intelligent, insightful, and open-minded way of describing this ancient healing method that I have personally received. It said, "You know what's the weirdest thing about it? It tingles, but it doesn't hurt and it really works. American doctors didn't believe it at first. But now it's becoming a commonly turned-to medical practice, and many American doctors are learning how to pin the pin in the hurting body part...Cool things, those needles!"

WOW. How righteous is that? I continued to read what I thought would be disgusting entries and found that all of them were written in the same thoughtful, knowledgeable manner. Oh, Yuck! was actually really good at teaching the facts about things that all kids are dying to know. Who'da thunk it?

Ultimately, if reading (and sniggering) about pee, poop, and body lint keeps my daughter learning about the miracle known as the human body, then I'm all for it. I just want her to read it in her room where I can't see the creepy pictures.

By the way, did you know that doctors used to drink a patient's pee to test to see if he or she was diabetic? Ewwwwww!!!!

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For your comment and/or consideration:

Would you have wanted to read a book like this when you were growing up and why?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Perils of Eating Clean

2009-03-16T11:57:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago, I subjected myself to the nightmare known as a Digestive Cleanse. I have since discovered that it is the gift that keeps on giving.

When I finally took my curtain call on Day 5 of the detox drama, I felt like a million bucks, not to mention seemed far less squooshy. I had kicked -- yet again -- my heroine-like addiction to Starbucks Decaf Mochas with Light Whip and removed all traces of chocolate from my system. Fruits and veggies were my long-lost friends who I welcomed back into my life, and my psychotic need/desire for starches had blessedly subsided. Several days after the detox, I continued to eat "clean": no processed foods, no refined sugar, no naughty carbs, and tons of water. Moreover, I was complementing my stellar consumption habits with major doses of fun movement, i.e. hooping, bike riding, and crazysex with the hubster. (FULL DISCLOSURE: My new-found fixation on diet had less to do with health and more to do with the fact that my publicist is now actively working on getting TV appearances for me. Ugh. I've gotten the glass of cold water thrown in my face, reminding me that NOW is officially the answer to "I'll do it when...")

Contrary to the dozens of times I have dieted, deprived myself, and got depressed, I was now eating healthy and moving my body JOYFULLY. Can you imagine? I wasn't even missing my Decaf Mochas, scones, or sausage! My body was feeling a kajillion times better on the inside, and it was slowly, ever-so-slowly, beautifying on the outside. The obnoxious backfat roll I have been sporting for several weeks has decreased in size. Clothes that I hadn't been able to squeeeeeeeeze into now fit comfortably. Even better, my face has been free and clear of any pimple-nasties.

That was until we decided to have Haagen-Daaz.

Sometimes eating steamed vegetables and quinoa just doesn't cut it for the members of the Rose abode. As a special treat, my hubby Michael, daughter Emma, and I decided to get an ice cream cone after consuming our uber-nutritious meal. I savored every last bit of the delectable ditty, (single scoop of Chocolate Peanut Butter on a sugar cone!!) licking it with gusto like a 5-time AVN Award-winner. All was right with the world.

Until the next morning.

My face erupted like Mount Vesuvius. Pimples, pimples, everywhere. It was clear that major blemish surgery was required: hot washcloths, deep cleanser, "manual extractions", toner treatment, and cold washcloth for post-surgerical healing. Over and over and over again. Damn you, Haagen-Daaz! A thirty-nine year-old woman should not have to endure this.

It was then that I realized the fortunate/unfortunate perils of eating clean. Once I get my body clean, it wants to STAY that way. If I decide to roll around in the chocolate peanut butter for a while, my body will make itself known that it is unhappy. This time it was facial eruptions; next time, it may be a God-awful case of constipation or night sweats. My body is now having its way with me, exacting commensurate damage to the toxins I take in. It's new mantra is "You play? You pay."

I guess I'm grateful for my Haagen-Daaz imbroglio. It reminded me to make good choices when it comes to food. I feel so much healthier, more vibrant, and plain ol' prettier when I eat clean, and for the occasional times I want to take a dip -- or double-dip -- into the Dark Side, I better think twice about the choice before I make it. (Especially if I'm gonna be on TV in the near future. As if being videotaped won't be terrifying enough, I don't really want to have to worry about the interviewer calling me Theresa "Pizza Face" Rose.)

Why can't I be one of those freakish chicks that can eat anything she wants and never break out or gain weight? Do they really exist?

Please, Dear Lord, tell me they don't.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is your favorite "naughty" food?

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Be Like Morpheus

2009-03-13T15:13:00.001-07:00

Normally, I don't blog about the news, but something I saw today on the Internet prompted me to provide my unabashed, totally subjective commentary. It's about the old enemy we can't ever seem to shake: FEAR.

Larry Summers, the top gun of economic advisors to our President came out today with one clear message to the American public: STOP BEING AFRAID. Yes, corporate greed, numbskull banks, and overzealous spenders got us into this mess, but our own rampant fear is keeping us in it. Mr. Summers said what I have been saying for weeks (but no one from any of the news organizations was around to capture my pearls of wisdom): we are exacerbating the recession by moving into a full-blown tizzy. We swung like a 70s dude with seventeen gold chains at Studio 54 from blind greed to paralyzing fear in a New York Stock Exchange Minute. Everywhere we turn, people are afraid...afraid to lose their jobs, afraid that we'll never get out of this disaster, afraid that life as we knew it is dead and gone. This fear has had a negative effect on the recovery effort, but more importantly, it has had a negative effect on our health and well-being. In case you haven't noticed, we are falling apart, folks.

ENOUGH ALREADY.

You know deep in your heart that this too shall pass. This dark period of our economic cycle will undoubtedly bounce back, and we'll be buying TiVo's and going out to dinner again. Why not start acting like the recovery is already happening? Why not be a way-shower and start to operate from a place of optimism instead of panic? Why not turn off the media's blah-blah-blah that is permeating you with doom and gloom? Why not be at the forefront of the recovery effort? Each one of us can shift our attitudes; all it takes is the willingness to let go of our own fear.

Please please please...For yourself, for your family, for me, for our country, and for the world, stop running on the Fear Machine and have the balls to jump on to the Positive, Can-Do, We-Rock Machine.

Because we really CAN do it; it's up to us to actually DO it.

Let's do it NOW.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What can you do personally to help fight against the collective fear program?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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She Goes To Extremes

2009-03-12T14:44:00.000-07:00

This morning I witnessed a highly-unusual sight in my 7-year old's room: something folded.

As I wrote in my book, my daughter's room often looks like a post-apocalyptic Toys-R-Us. Everything, absolutely EVERYTHING, is strewn about. This is an AFGO for her beleaguered mother (Another F@cking Growth Opportunity). However, I'm getting much better with accepting her slobbiness as-is. At least I've deluded myself into thinking that I've gotten better.

So, imagine my surprise when I saw two (nearly)perfectly folded beach towels with two sets of swim goggles perched atop them. This rare act of organization didn't seem to fit in Emma's room. Then I remembered: She is having a swim date with her new best friend Madison who lives down the street. For the last two weeks, my daughter has been inseparable with this chickadee. My little urchin has yelled the word "Madison!" more than a U of W mascot.

It touched me this morning when I saw how gingerly Em folded her towels for her upcoming liquid soiree. Her careful attention showed me how much she values this new arrival into her life, and for that, I am grateful. Friends are important to a gal...far more important than any made bed or organized shelf.

(Although I may need an extra-large glass of Chianti to deal with the onslaught of "Madison! Watch this!")

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Was your room messy as a kid? Do you still keep it messy?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Dilly-Dallying

2009-03-11T05:31:00.000-07:00

I have a very important document to edit, but I can't for the life of me settle my ass down to finish it.

It's not that I'm being lazy. Yesterday, I worked like a one-armed sherpa scaling Everest. Several key projects were completed, and I was a clicking maniac on MacDaddy. My publicist even commented on my rapid-fire emails directed toward her. (I'm sure she was feeling an equal mix of surprise, admiration, and deep annoyance.) I crashed into bed with that warm feeling that I had accomplished some big things during the day -- it was a day of which to be proud.

Yet...

I didn't get THE document done. For some reason, I have a mental block about the damn thing. I know it really won't be that hard to finish once I just commit to doing it. My writing recipe is typically the same: straighten up the work space area (clutter distracts me), do some yoga (moving my body helps pull in the inspiration), lay in meditation for a while (quieting my mind helps pull in the actual words), play my "Chillax" playlist on the trusty iPod (B-Tribe is particularly good to write to), light an India Palace incense (the scent relaxes any last-minute "I can't do this!" feelings), and flip open Mac.

However, with this particular deliverable, I have been unsuccessful using my typical measures. I have rationalized to myself that for some reason I needed to get EVERYTHING else out of the way before I tackle this one. Hmmm.... an interesting excuse. Since I actually did get nearly everything done yesterday, I will have this afternoon to prove my hypothesis.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that will get in the way of me finishing this paper TODAY.

Unless you count my own fear.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What procrastination techniques do you use?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Emma Action Shots

2009-03-10T05:08:00.001-07:00

I've got so many things to do today and doing my best not to get overwhelmed by The Dreaded List. As such, I thought the perfect way to kick off my day was to share with you some of my favorite recent photos of my darling little EmmaBean. These pics make me smile, laugh, and otherwise fill my heart with joy that this totally cool kid is in my life. I am so grateful to be her mama.

Em and I having a girls' day out

Tiger-girl striking a pose

The Little Imp snuck in to Mom & Dad's room to sleep last night

My Personal Fave: Emma's Self-Portrait titled, "Rock Star"

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Which one is your favorite pic and why?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Weekend Update

2009-03-09T06:35:00.000-07:00

On Friday night, the three Roses attended the downtown Bradenton art walk at the Village of the Arts to support two gorgeous gal-pals.

One was my new friend MC Coolidge, who is the cutest li'l quasi-incendiary blogger I've come across in ages. Her book, Sideways in Sarasota, is a literary gem, and I bought yet another copy of it last Friday at MC's book signing at The Village Bookshop. The other artiste magnifique we had the pleasure of seeing is Michelle Donner, a sassy Club Kimono regular who is an AWESOME photog. (She is a Facebook friend of mine; check out my page to find her.) Emma was particularly taken with Michelle's up-close shots of an owl. (Em not-so-secretly adores anything remotely associated with Harry Potter.) We ended up buying several of Michelle's prints she had for sale at Charisma Cafe. It was delightful to enjoy the crisp night air and see two gutsy and beautiful women expressing their Mojo for the world to see.

Now I bet you're asking yourself, "How did Theresa's detox end up?" (Even if you aren't asking yourself that question, you're gonna get the answer...)

I felt fanf#@kingtastic after it was all over! My body was feeling cleaner, healthier, and dare I say, tinier! In fact, I can almost, almost get into my 'skinny' jeans (I use that term liberally). I'm not quite ready to wear them out of the house, nor do I know how they'd feel if I actually sat down in them -- they may very well cut off the circulation in my torso. While I definitely have some time to go before they are public-friendly, I got into 'em and did a full zip-up! :) YAY ME!

Not only did my bod feel better after the cleanse, my mind (eventually) became much sharper. I received clearer visions on what I want to accomplish in my career, and my priorities became a lot easier to recognize. As a result, great things started to transpire last week. It really feels like The Universe is aligning with my desires. The perfect people are coming into my world, and I am able to recognize the signs that are pointing me in the right direction. YAY ME AGAIN!

Last week's challenge reminded me of the power of focus and determination. It reminded me how precious my body is and how it wants to be cared for. Most importantly, it brought me to a deeper integration with mind, body, and spirit. I feel more PRESENT. I feel more JOYFUL. I feel more GRATEFUL.

(Plus the post-detox bedroom romp with hubby was phenomenal.)

Sometimes I need a five-day digestive cleanse which empties my insides to remind me of how full my life really is.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What activity helps you get into your body?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Day 3 of the Detox

2009-03-05T10:28:00.000-08:00

Slowly but surely, I'm crawling out of the nightmarish hole I dug for myself called the Digestive Cleanse.

Today brings me to Day 3 of the Detox, and I'm a little more human than I was over the last 48 hours. Wow...I miss food. Food is good. It's yummy. It smells good too. It feels good in the mouth. It gives you a nice full feeling in your belly. I've had precious little of it for the last three days, subsisting mostly on my superfood drink, red juice, water, colon-blow tea, an apple a day, and a tablespoon or two of raw almonds a day. I'ze hungry.

Yet, even with the perpetually grumbling stomach and the throbbing temples, I am feeling a little better. I think I am past the killer decaf-caffeine withdrawal and the state of near-psychosis I found myself in yesterday. I can actually string a few words together to make sentences. That's a good sign. This morning in the shower I could have sworn there were fewer squooshy parts of me (although that could be the remnants of the quasi-hallucinations I had last night at the thought of devouring a large Filippo's Hungry Man pizza). Whatever the case may be, I'm feeling better, but not get good.

Fasting isn't new to me; I have done this as part of my spiritual practice on several occasions. It is a powerful form of devotion and one that connects me more fully to my body, my thoughts, and my spirit. I got a taste of this foodless bliss during this morning's meditation. I could feel Spirit fill me in the empty spaces, and I received a great deal of guidance about the areas of fear and insecurity that are facing me. I was fed by the energy and light of the Divine, and for 45 minutes, I forgot how damned ravenous I was. Now it's up to me to feel that way the other 23 hours and 15 minutes.

While I can't yet do a lot of quality work - i.e. writing, planning, making calls, etc. -- I am IN my body once again. I am so very grateful for it and the delicious energy that the Earth provides.

All things considered, Day 3 is a good one so far.

(Although I still can't rid myself of my Filippo Fantasy.)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is your relationship to food? Is it only an energy source, or does it serve a bigger role?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Starting Down Detox Lane

2009-03-03T10:30:00.000-08:00

I started a 5-day detoxification cleanse this morning, and I am already cranky, hungry, and feeling like a hammer got taken to my temples. It's gonna be a lonnnnnnnng week.

My first craving hit about 10:30 this morning. I was pining for my decaf coffee, preferably a Grande Decaf Light-Whip Mocha at Starbucks. Mmmm....frothy, sweet, chocolatey....my throbbing headache revealed to me the insidiousness of caffeine and how it has found its way into my system. Damn you, Buckys!

My tummy is growling, even after drinking my superfood concoction followed by a 2 ounce shot of some red juice that is supposed to be good for me. Honestly, I don't feel very healthy right now. Instead, I am starting to feel a wee bit psycho. I'm blabbering. Sentences are difficult to formulate. The work I was going to do today has gone out the window in favor of busy work whose priority lies somewhere between getting the oil checked and reorganizing recipe cards. Let's put it this way: my 7 year old now has an Airtran frequent flyer number.

Let's all I got today. This is what Day One of the Detox reads like...

Doing It Blindfolded

2009-03-02T15:42:00.000-08:00

I'm happy to report that I survived the Hooping workshop I went to this weekend! Barely.

The weekend was as difficult and wonderful as I imagined it would be. Bax, the incredibly talented (and cute-as-a-button) instructor, led us on a physical, emotional, and spiritual journey on the current of the hoop. Through my hooping, I discovered a lot about flow, surrender, focus, and belief. And, as predicted, it totally put me in my stuff.

There were a fair amount of gorgeous, nubile phillies in attendance that caused me to feel like an uncoordinated she-ogre. It was no surprise that I was definitely one of the hoopers with the least amount of "flight time". (Most of the attendees had been hooping for years.) However, that didn't stop me from trying everything that Bax so gently guided us to do. One of his trademark instructional methods is to have each participant feel the energy of the hoop (and ourselves) by practicing blindfolded. Remarkably, I found that I could do so much more when I shielded my eyes from the outside world and the outside world was shielded from me. I was free to explore, experiment, and otherwise express myself in ways that I would never dare to do if I thought anyone was watching me.

What a great lesson that exercise was. Clearly, I was able to let go of my ego, my fragility, my littleness when I disregarded what others thought of me. In that space of the void where vulnerability and trust resides, I could expand into greater depths and heights than I ever thought possible. Then, when the blindfold came off, the hoop invariably came crashing to the ground. My stinkin' thinkin' got in the way -- again -- and I allowed my choices to be dictated by others.

I'm proud of the fact that I went to the HoopPath workshop this weekend. I'm also sore as hell and bruised in places I didn't think I could bruise. Most importantly, I'm aware of my deep desire to hoop -- and live -- with utter abandon. I want to hoop, write, and live like I'm blindfolded.

Ahh...such freedom...

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For your consideration and/or comment:

How does the opinions of others affect you? Do you avoid certain things because of how they would appear?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Stepping Into the Circle of Fear

2009-02-27T07:09:00.000-08:00

In just a few hours, I will be attending an intensive hula hooping weekend workshop. Yes, you read it correctly: a hula hooping workshop.

The hoop is a glorious thing. It helps me to loosen up the ol' bod, burn some cals, and make me feel all sex kitten-y. Moreover, I have found it to be a moving meditation that is like none other I have experienced. Unfortunately, I have not been hooping as much as I would like; illness, tasks, strategic planning, public appearances, and other busybusybusy work has gotten in the way of it (hence the newest roll of backfat I discovered several days ago).

I signed up for this kick-@ss workshop many moons ago after receiving an email from the local hoop group called HoolaMonsters. It seems that the King of the Hoop, Jonathan Baxter, will be in Sarasota to conduct one of this famous HoopPath weekend workshops. (Shout-out to the ladies: He's gorgeous!!!) In a delusional fit of confidence, I signed up for the sucker. Flash forward months later, and I'm getting ready to hoop with girls half my age and size that possess at least five times the talent and sex appeal. Yippyf#ckingskippy. This should do wonders for my tender self-esteem.

Actually, this is good for me right now. I am in need of a healthy dose of surrender. There are other areas of my life that aren't being executed according to the mental choreography I painstakingly developed. There is a fair amount of wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth that has taken place in my world lately. I think that sweating my nards off in a weekend-long hula hoop class is exactly what the alternative healing physician ordered. It will help me to forget about the piddly little things that I have allowed to occupy my noggin rent-free; it will put me in my fears and other assorted gunk; and it will most certainly put me back in my body once again.

I know I love the hoop. Now I need to remind myself that I love myself too.

After all, it's not every voluptuous, well-seasoned 39-year old woman who has the cajones to attend a hooping retreat with a roomful of serpentine, drop-dead gorgeous girlie-girls.

Please wish me, my abdomen, and my self-worth luck.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What have you done lately that has made you step out of your comfort zone?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Happiness is the Hogwarts Express

2009-02-26T11:50:00.001-08:00

Tonight I get to do one of the most exciting things imaginable: I get to read.

I have been absent from the Rose household every night this week. Monday night was my opportunity to watch the Oscar telecast courtesy of my friend Jamie and her TiVo, Tuesday night I did a speaking engagement at Eckerd College, and last night was another installment of Club Kimono, the righteous women's group that I am blessed to host. While all of these activities were a lot of fun, I really missed spending time with my fam. Hubby and Daughter did just fine without me, but all three of us yearned for our nightly read of Harry Potter.

We are now a third of the way through reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and Emma is totally hooked on the literary heroin J.K. Rowling so adeptly administers. Tonight's chapter is where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the kiddies jump aboard the magical Hogwarts Express train to begin their fourth year at Hogwarts. Since I am the only one who has already read the book and seen the movie, I get all squirmy when I know what's about to happen! Harry has turned 14 and I've started to develop a wee bit of a crush on him and his Quidditch pals. Cedric Diggory...Victor Krum...The Weasley Twins...

However, the best part of our wizardry readings isn't what is found within the pages; it's what happens in our living room chair. When one of us declares that it is "Time for HP", Emma immediately calls dibs on me. "I call sitting next to Mom the whole time!" She and I squeeze ourselves into our favorite chair and wrap our arms around each other. When we listen to Michael read his portion, we unconsciously twiddle each other's fingers and rub each other's tootsies. When we laugh or get scared, we immediately look at each other for nonverbal confirmation. The HP Time with EmmaBean is truly one of the most precious things in my life.

When it's my turn to read, I pull out all of the stops. I use different dramatic British accents for each character, use sweeping hand gestures, speak in a near-whisper for the super-tense parts, and occasionally accentuate the action with appropriate sound effects. WHAM!!! SLAM!!!! POW!!!! EEEKK!!!! My daughter is mesmerized by my enthusiastic performance, and I eat up her praise like fine dark chocolate. I have read about Griffindor, Quidditch, Privet Drive, and You-Know-Who countless times, but it never gets old. Each time I am handed the book to read, my little Hermione-in-training firmly instructs me to "Make it really dramatic, Mama!"

I will, Em. I promise.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is your favorite Harry Potter character and why?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Rallying

2009-02-24T15:27:00.001-08:00

I just finished an hour-and-a-half enhanced interrogation session performed by our tax accountant. In one hour, I need to be ready to do a speaking presentation. Eeesh...I'm playing Emotional Pong again.

To all those CPAs out there, I apologize, but your ilk drives me loco. No matter how I do things, it never seems to be accurate or sufficient. I always end up getting a lecture on proper ledger entry, chart of accounts, expenses vs. capitalization, and other mind-numbingly boring topics that I couldn't give two rabbit turds about. Our CPA is a perfectly charming woman who only tries to help, but I can't help but act like a petulant child when I am in her midst. Like a grown-up Bart Simpson writing "I promise to dutifully manage my books" a hundred times before the dismissal bell rang, I squirmed in my seat, waiting not-so-patiently to be released from the mahogany-appointed Hades as quickly as freakin' possible.

I am now slurping down a Decaf Mocha from Whole Foods after inhaling some combo of taboulleh, bulghar, and some other ethnic goop that I would undoubtedly misspell. Somehow in the next hour I need to release the tax albatross from my neck and tap into my currently-AWOL juju. There will soon be people in front of me wanting to hear from a powerful, successful, enthusiastic, and articulate woman who will share her inspiring story of creating Opening the Kimono. Since she is nowhere to be found at this moment, I guess they'll be stuck with me.

Of course, it's not as bad as all that. With every passing minute (and every typed word) I can feel myself releasing more and more of my odious, noxious attitude in favor of Little Miss Mojo. I am letting go of my whiny baby attitude and embracing the fact that I have chosen this life, and what a wonderful one I have! Eating some food helps. Drinking some chocolate coffee really helps. Blogging through my annoyance really, really helps. Most importantly, realizing that I am so very blessed to be given another day on this big, blue, beautiful planet really, really, really helps.

Pish posh on my taxes, ledgers, and chart of accounts! Ain't none of it bigger and badder than my own bad ass.

I daresay that the audience who is about to see me won't be disappointed after all. I think I've all but released my WhinyGirl pissiness in favor of some good ol' fashioned Theresa Rose sassiness.

Whew! That was close. And I've even got 40 minutes to spare...

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For your consideration and/or comment:

How do you handle the yearly tax nightmare, er, process?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Let's Do the Time Warp Again

2009-02-23T14:22:00.000-08:00

I'm so excited! I get to watch the Oscars tonight!

Yeah, I know; they happened last night. Since I don't have TV, I was not able to watch it live. However, a friend of mine generously offered to Tivo it and open her home to me this evening (Thx, Jamie!). I will be bringing wine, cheese, and an insatiable desire to drool over All Things Hollywood. The evening dedicated to the art of cinema touches the past Drama Club President in me that not-so-secretly wished I would have pursued a career in acting.

Today I have purposely avoided all forms of media so as not to ruin the surprise. No Facebook, no radio, no Google news, and no Twitter. Unfortunately, I inadvertently caught a headline at the newspaper stand at Starbucks that read, "Top Dog: Slumdog", so I know that Slumdog Millionaire won Best Picture. YAY!!!! I love that movie, and it makes me happy to see that it won. Luckily, there's a bunch of other awards that are still surprises to me.

At the risk of looking like a total a-hole and/or goofball, here are my predictions for last night's winners:

* Mickey Roarke will perform the biggest comeback of the decade and win Best Actor, tearfully thanking the WWE and his recently-deceased dog

* Kate Winslet will finally win her much-deserved Oscar for The Reader. Ah, Kate. You are on my Short List, Gorgeous.

* Wall-E will win Best Animated Picture, which it totally deserves. It also deserved to be nominated for Best Picture, but that's another story.

* Penelope Cruz will not win Best Supporting Actress, but I wanted to mention her anyway. She too is on my Short List. Que bonita!

* The cameraman will show Johnny Depp as many times as possible, but not nearly as many as I would prefer. Johnny sightings have replaced Jack sightings at the recent Oscar telecasts. (I would like to put a request in for next year's broadcast. How about a JohnnyCam that is permanently placed in the lower left-hand corner of the screen?)

* The musical numbers will still have a serious amount of cheese factor attached to them, but watching Zac Efron in a tux will make the medicine go down muuuuuuuuuch easier.

* Hugh Jackman will be charming, but I'll still miss Billy.

* The whole show will make me miss my mom. (I'll think of you from the Red Carpet to the credits, Ma.)

So, there's my Oscar predictions. Tomorrow, I'll let you know how I did!

Oh, right. You already know.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What was your favorite Oscar moment?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Pink & Black

2009-02-20T13:43:00.000-08:00

I just noticed a curious thing: I have surrounded myself with pink and black.

I immediately notice the following items within five feet of me:

* My new iPhone sleeve is hot pink, with the space-agey screen itself being jet black.

* My daughter's old journal is black with pink butterflies. I have absconded with it, utilizing it as one of a dozen running To-Do list capturers. Don't feel too badly for the kid; she has a cabinet full of notebooks, pads, and diaries, each one having approximately a page-and-a-half of scribbles in them. She hasn't even noticed it's gone.

* My laptop bag is pink and black plaid. I sprung for this Staples special a few months ago when I found myself going out of the house quite often to write. For some reason, I felt the need to strike a little bit more of a stylish pose to my anonymous Panera Bread and/or Whole Foods posse than my fifteen-year old clunky laptop bag was giving me. A girl's gotta have the proper accessories.

* My flowy pink and black, post-hippie blouse that I bought for a song at Opitz, the single coolest shop in the world. Opitz is a discount store in Minneapolis that has deals on designer clothes to die for. It has fashions you can't buy in Florida and normally couldn't possibly afford at list price. For example, I bought the fancy little frock I'm wearing for $12. Yes, $12. I love you, sweet Opitz.

* The countless pink stickies I have plastered on my vision board, modem, printer, and anywhere else I randomly look throughout the day. The two that are catching my eye right now is the working title of not the next book I am going to write, but the one after (It's gonna be sooooo good!), and a note from my daughter from a long time ago that says, "I love you very much Mommy and Mim and God." (Translation provided by Mommy.)

Obviously, with the predominance of pink and black objects I choose to have around me, they must make me happy. There's just somethin' about the whimsy of hot pink and black as opposed to the humdrum of charcoal gray and muted pastels. Somehow they strike me as sassy, feminine, and powerful. Unusual.

Just like me.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What are your favorite colors lately and why?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Cruel Arrival of Backfat

2009-02-19T09:47:00.001-08:00

I have been sick for over a week (hence, no blogging). Thankfully, I am nearly back to health, save for one nasty offshoot: I swear I've gained at least 10 friggin' pounds.

It's not that I've gone overboard on the food consumption front (I've certainly done much more damage over my lifetime of binge eating). Yes, I've eaten slightly worse than I normally do -- I admit to a Haagen-Daaz single scoop cone of Chocolate Peanut Butter, two slices of Filippo's delish Pizza Margherita and a glass of wine, more than one of those evil Decaf Mochas from Starbucks that I just can't seem to kick, and a few extra handfuls of my tasty home-roasted cashews and almonds. I ate and/or drank these delectable extras because I was sick, dammit, and I deserved it. (Oh yeah. I also pilfered my daughter's Valentine's Day box of goodies, unbeknownst to her.)

Combine my diet wagon-diving with a total absence of physical movement, and what did I get? A nearly instantaneous arrival of BACKFAT. This morning, I was greeted by a larger-than-usual roll at my backside that wasn't there two weeks ago. WTF???? Can I not have a moderate therapeutic slide down JunkFood Lane without my body immediately responding with the unpleasantness of a bloated bellly and tight jeans? Criminy! Life isn't fair sometimes.

I guess that's what I get for getting older and getting more in touch with my body. Somehow I have arrived at a point where my body is now used to eating healthy and being moved on a regular basis (Who'da thunk it?). So when I shuck the healthy lifestyle thing in favor of comfort food and growing roots on furniture, it responds with physical reminders of its displeasure, a la Backfat.

I'm in the middle of the "Boo-hoo, poor-poor-pitiful-me, this-sucks-ass" phase of weight gain. However, I have also decided to eat a healthy lunch today, avoid the beckoning call of Haagen-Daaz and do a little booty-shakin' in the hula hoop later. My deepest wish is that my body will be so happy to be back in the groove of health, that it will remove my Backfat roll just as quickly as it took putting it there.

Do you hear me, my beautiful body? I promise I'll be nicer to you...

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is the first change you notice on your body when you gain a little weight?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Getting Schooled

2009-02-13T10:02:00.000-08:00

I am immersing myself in the promotion of my book and speaking engagements. My swirling, twirling eyeballs are pretty accurate indicators of how I am faring.

There is so much to understand. I had a two-hour consultation with a speaking coach today, and I scribbled every last bit of info that was hurled toward me in rapid-fire fashion. I learned about angles, hooks, pitches, segments, discounts, contracts, press kits, show producers, and other critical elements to a successful brand launch. (That's what I am now -- a brand. Eeesh.) Of course, I am hugely grateful for the opportunity to learn from someone who knows the ins and outs of my industry, enabling me to hone my message and save a bunch of time and energy. I knew meeting her was a good thing even as I felt my guts churn and my hair fall out from the stress. There is SO MUCH TO DO! I am having a serious "Calgon, Take Me Away!" moment.

Here is a sample of the chatter in my brain: What non-profit organizations will I contact about speaking engagements and will I remember everything I need to negotiate? How can I morph the teachings of Opening the Kimono into acceptable and desirable corporate-speak? How will I get all of the pieces together for my Press Kit? What are the dozens of 30-second pitches I need to create in order to call TV producers? (Uff da...that last one makes me want to urp my healthy Whole Foods lunch.)

Such is the life of getting big. We run into our crap that keeps us small. Our fears. Our doubts. Our negative self-talk. Our deeply-held beliefs that we can't possibly pull this thing off. ("Who the hell do I think I am?" is not-so-silently running in the background.)

Just when I feel like I want to hurl myself in front of a bumper-stickered hybrid car in the Whole Foods Parking Lot, I get an email from a long-lost friend who just finished reading Opening the Kimono. My buddy reminded me of what was truly important. Here is a portion of what she wrote:

"Wow. I mean, some people have funny, and even poignant tales to tell, but it takes a real talent to put the words together to make a meaningful and interesting story. You have a gift. I think you’ve found your calling girl! Your book arrived in my mailbox last week. I was busy that day (Wednesday I think??), so the book sat on my kitchen counter screaming “read me, read me, read me damnit!” So the next afternoon, I took the book out onto my sunny deck and started reading. During the course of my read fest, the kids came home from school, the sun sank behind the trees (creating a chill that I was oblivious to), and dinner time was approaching. I finished the book in one sitting. It really touched me. I was literally laughing out loud through tears in my eyes...I’ve loaned your book to a good friend of mine who I know will love it. Hope you are well, please take care, and hurry up and write another book. The world needs to hear more from Theresa Rose."

I'm workin' on it, girl, I'm workin' on it.

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For our consideration and/or comment:

Do you ever freak-out when you start going after your dreams?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Not So Bad, Really

2009-02-12T10:01:00.001-08:00

Just when I think I'm a terrible mother, I get validation that I'm not so bad after all.

No doubt about it, there are nincompoops out there that never should have spawned. A case in point is a total friggin' goober who got high off Xanax and decided to let his eight-year old drive the family roadster. As you can imagine, this didn't end well for anyone. His little guy almost ran over two people before he plowed into a tree, wrecking the car and his father's future chances to win Dad of the Year. All of this happened in my quiet little hamlet, just a few miles from my house! What a moron.

Then there's the goofball unemployed mother of six in California who decides that she can easily handle another eight children by herself while collecting government disability checks. I'm sure each and every one of her fourteen children will get all of the love and nurturing they need to become healthy, vibrant, confident, successful men and women. Yeah. Right. Oh, by the by, she has set up her own web site to collect "donations", citing that no one person can raise fourteen children on her own. No shit, Sherlock.

Finally, there's the story of yet another sad sack of characters who allowed a five-year old to be abducted from their mobile home. The little girl and her three year old brother were being "watched" by the father's 17-year old girlfriend at the time. The girl who was "watching" the girl said, "She was sleeping right next to me. I can't believe I didn't hear anything." (Cue the banjo music.) Come on! Either something fishy is going on, or this dolt of a teenager should never be responsible for taking care of anyone other than herself and possibly a very hearty goldfish. Also, here's a quick piece of advice to the teenage girl: Don't Date Dads.

So, as you can read, I have my knickers in a twist today. It pisses me off to see people acting so casually with the lives of children, as if they are something with which to be trifled. Children are glorious little people -- people who look up to us big people for guidance, comfort, safety, encouragement, support, and love. Hey Doofuses, don't bring the little ones into your own personal nightmares. They didn't do anything to deserve it.

(Theresa officially steps off of her soapbox.)

That being said, I feel pretty good that the only numbskull parenting thing I did today was spill orange juice on Emma's beautifully decorated Secret Valentine's box. I know; I'm such a shit.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What do you think makes parents do crazy things?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Sick Day

2009-02-10T05:17:00.000-08:00

Last night I could feel it starting -- that familiar scratchiness and subsequent closing of the throat. Argh.

Ironically, I had a medical appointment just yesterday where our family doctor informed me of the results from my recent diagnostic lab work. It turns out that, contrary to my hypochondriac tendencies, I am a picture of health: low blood pressure, low glucose, low cholesterol, healthy liver and kidney function, no lifestyle risk factors, sufficient exercise, and normal weight. (Did he just say I possessed a normal weight?? Yippeee!!!)

Despite my stamp of physician approval, I started feeling icky around 8:00pm. It all started while I was waiting for my daughter to finish her Karate class. A little snotty munchkin about four years old (I'm not being mean; the kid was literally snotty) was hovering over me, watching me fiddle with my new Scrabble iPhone game designed exclusively for nerds like me. Little Snotty Scotty was within a foot of my face, captivated by the colorful squares and alphabet tiles displayed on the tiny screen. He would stick his goobery face between my phone and me, saying, "Whatcha doin'?" over and over again. I lightly told him that he was crowding me and that I couldn't play with his head stuck in my face. He thought my comments were cute; I knew I was breathing in his sick-little-boy-who-never-should-have-been-let-out-in-public germs. Sure enough, an hour or so later, I started to feel horrible.

Last night's sleep -- which is a generous way of describing the fitful tosses and turns I endured between the hours of ten and six -- had me resting my hands around my achy, inflamed throat in a brave attempt to thwart impending illness through some good ol' fashioned energy healing. Thankfully, my juju worked and I am feeling better than I did in the middle of the night. However, I still need to be diligent in knocking this bug out of me before it takes hold. Here is the day I envision:

* Gargle/gag/gargle with a God-awful salt water cocktail a few times
* Regularly check email even though I promised myself I was taking the day off
* Try to nap, but eventually get up and watch The Daily Show instead
* Lay in the sun and try to cook this nasty thing out of me
* Feel guilty for not having worked
* Write out tomorrow's extra-unrealistic To-Do list to make up for the "lost" day

That's it. That's what a Sick Day looks like in my world. Thank goodness I don't have these very often; I don't do sick very well.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What do you like to do when you are taking a sick day?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net for your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Blissful Monday Morning

2009-02-09T06:21:00.001-08:00

It isn't often that I can claim to be having a blissful Monday morning, but this is one of those rare moments.

Early on in the weekend, I got all of the laundry done. All critical domestic chores have been completed. Last night, I prepared hubby's and daughter's lunches in advance. I slept like an angel, having wonderful dreams of standing-room only speaking engagements, runaway book sales, and cute man-boys. This morning, I was awakened by my beloved in the most delicious of ways...twice. :) WOO HOO! I'm ready to kick off a glorious day.

Yes, there is a lot of work to be done. There's always a lot of work to be done. I have serious work to do with Serious Mojo Publications. But I am happy to say that I have love in my heart, wind beneath my wings, and a righteous circle of family and friends that make this journey so damn joyful.

What a great way to start a week.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What is one amazing thing you have in your life?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net for your Daily Dose of Mojo!

Blissful Monday Morning

2009-02-09T06:21:00.000-08:00

Livin' on EmmaTime

2009-02-06T06:55:00.000-08:00

My li'l punkin' has finagled her way into staying home from school today, citing a bad case of the sniffles. What does that mean for my work day? HA! What work day?

I had originally scheduled two important appointments and planned on attacking several big To-Dos. However, when I got "The Call" from Emma's teacher yesterday afternoon informing me that Em seemed under the weather, I knew it meant only one thing. My Friday magically morphed into Her Friday.

Needless to say, a list revision was required. I rescheduled the two appointments -- yet again -- and pared down my To-Dos to include only the essentials. There are now four things on the list, two of which are a phone call and an email. God willing, I'll get one of them done.

It is nearly impossible to work when Emma is home, because she thinks it's FREE day! It's time to spend with Mom talking or playing!! When I push back on her, gently telling her that Mommy still needs to work, she looks at me like Christina Crawford must have looked at her Mommie Dearest after the wire hanger "incident".

As I write this blog, Emma is laying right behind me, reading her Rosa Parks biography for her upcoming book report. She is somewhat appeased since she can still be in Mom's vicinity. If I'm lucky, I'll finish my tasks before she finishes her book, and everyone will be peaceful and happy. (Although it's difficult to concentrate when she informs me of her progress by announcing, "Look, Mama! I'm on page 166 out of 188!" after every friggin' page.)

Actually, I don't mind having to forego my workday in favor of a Momday. This week has been a very productive one for me, and, frankly, I deserve to chillax a little bit. Once we both finish our respective duties, there's a very good chance that we'll be watching Scooby Doo and the Witch's Ghost or Willa Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I think the best medicine my daughter needs right now is a heaping dose of of movies and Mom-cuddles.

It will do me some good too.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What was your favorite thing to do when you were home sick?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
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Running Up That Hill...Again

2009-02-05T05:40:00.000-08:00

I'm about to do what I promised myself I wasn't going to ever do again: I'm gonna mail query letters to literary agents again. Ugh. Double Ugh.

It's not that I have anything against literary agents; I'm sure they are wonderful people. They certainly have a way with words, as evidenced by the stack of rejection letters I have received so far. Last year around this time, I started the painful, laborious process of sending out query letters. I researched, wordsmithed, polished, and otherwise blew kisses on my perfectly-crafted queries in the hopes of acquiring someone who would recognize my literary diamond. I had visions of the perfect agent shepherding me as I navigated the treacherous terrain known as the publishing industry. Alas, all I received for my efforts was a steady stream of "Dear Author" letters. (sniff sniff)

Instead of pounding my head against the wall month after month, year after year, I felt driven to get Opening the Kimono out into the world ASAFP. As such, I manned-up and ponied-up the dough to publish the damn thing myself. I hired the cover photog, the interior page designer, the cover designer, and all other manner of services to make my book Barnes & Noble-worthy. After a few short months, I was blessed to hold my book in hand. Very soon thereafter, many others started holding the book in theirs. People are digging it, and I'm digging life. Happy Dance!

With everything going so well, why in the hell would I want to subject myself to more agony, more rejection, and more heartache? I don't honestly know, other than I have been receiving information from Spirit about it. I am having dreams about it; agent names are finding their way to me; I have seen what the new query letters will look like. Believe me, I'm not overly jazzed about reopening this can of worms again. I'd much rather go on my merry way without having to deal with the body-blow known as the rejection letter. However, when Spirit compels me to move forward, there's no amount of wishing, tantrum-throwing, or ignoring that will make it go away. I need to run up that hill, dammit.

Time will tell if my agent querying will net me anything other than another valuable life lesson. Maybe it is the perfect time for the perfect agent to see the glorious manifestation of Opening the Kimono and want to take it to the next level. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll be schooled again in the act of surrender. This time, my goal isn't to put my faith in the timing of literary agents; it's to put it in Divine Timing.

That's all the Time I need.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What gentle nudge are you receiving that you need to act upon?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net for your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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God Bless Nitrous Oxide

2009-02-03T10:29:00.000-08:00

I had my first Laughing Gas high this morning at the dentist. :) 'Twas good.

The dentist's office and I have a love/hate relationship; they love to take my money, and I hate them with a bloody passion. I had dental trauma several years ago after getting into a serious car accident, and I've never been able to get over it. Every time I set foot in that wretched office, my palms start to sweat, my jaw clenches, and my shoulders hike up around my ears. Every second is torture. Even with my trusty iPod playing my favorite tunes in my earbuds, I still can't shake the near-paralyzing anxiety. By the time the plastic sucky-thing is put into my mouth and I'm told to open wide, I morph into a certifiable raving ninny.

Today was different, because I saw a different dentist -- a female dentist. After she saw me have a total freak-out in the oh-so-comfy horizontal chair, she looked at me with compassionate eyes and said knowingly, "I think you're a candidate for Nitrous." I didn't know what a candidate for Nitrous looked like, but I was pretty certain that I looked like a petrified cat with its claws stuck in the ceiling tiles. I was ready to try anything to get through this nightmare without having a full-blown panic attack.

Within a few minutes, they had strapped a doo-hickey onto my face and instructed me to breathe through my nose. After a few minutes, my arms and legs started getting heavvvvvvvvvvy and I entered the coveted "Twilight Zone" for which the dentist prepared me. After a couple of quick shots of Novocaine, I was off to HappyTown.

For the next 45 minutes, the dental hygienist pinched, poked, stabbed, scraped, sandblasted, powerwashed, and vac-dried my mouth, and I didn't give a crap. I was off offf offfff into my own fabulous world.

I'll be honest: I had fantasies about boys. Cute boys. Famous boys and local boys. Boys I knew and boys I didn't. Singer boys (i.e. Jason Mraz), and actor boys (Zac Efron). Boys with big shoulders and cute butts. Boys with open hearts and soft lips. Boys. Boys. More boys.

I was blissfully swimming in a sea of testosterone when I heard my iPhone ring, temporarily pausing my Jason Mraz Playlist. The ring tone was "You Sexy Thing" by Hot Chocolate. Only one special person is assigned that ring tone: Mr. Michael Rose, hunky husband to the fantasizing almost-middle-aged woman who was currently hyped-up on Nitrous.

It was then that I got the biggest high of all; I realized that I met and married the boy of my dreams.

Mmmmm...'tis good indeed. I can't wait for my beloved to come home to me!

Maybe I'll feel my lips by then.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

How do you handle visits to the dentist's office?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

Bruuuuuuuuuuuuce!

2009-02-02T07:09:00.001-08:00

Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band made my heart ache.

I have been blessed to see Bruce & the Best F#@king Band in the Universe live in concert. There is simply nothing like it. I once described it as a 3 1/2 hour orgasm that you share with ten thousand other people. It's THAT good. So, imagine my pain when finding out that Bruce was the featured performer in last night's football game. Why was it so painful? Because I didn't watch it. Instead, I heard the hoots and hollers from my surrounding neighbors as they reveled in drinking of the tasty Bruce Juice.

If you are a frequent reader of my blog, you know that the Rose household is a TV-free one. We don't have television. OK, so we have the box, but we don't have the service. There's no cable, no satellite, no local broadcast, nada. If you turn on the Sony Trinitron in our house, all you see is snow. For 360 days out of each year, that suits us just fine. We use our Sony as a monitor, watching the occasional DVD. Our boycott of the boob tube allows us to have more time to spend on real life instead of reel life. I know, we're freaks.

(Feeling extra sorry for myself last night, I forced my husband to watch Chocolat with me -- there's nothing that a healthy, sultry dose of Johnny Depp can't cure.)

Last night was one of those nights where I missed TV; I really really really really really really missed it. Bruce Springsteen has the nickname of The Boss for a reason. The guy is a friggin' monster! He can charge up a dead man. The pain in my gut grew exponentially when I found out he belted out two of my all-time faves: "Tenth Avenue Freeze-out" and "Born to Run". Oh, the agony!

The first thing I did this morning was visit YouTube on BigMac (the Apple desktop we have) to watch the Must See TV that I didn't see. Thankfully, I quickly found the links of my desire. A big shout-out to YouTuber Spud1200s for the links. Thanks, my online savior! Here they are, for those of you who want to check out the righteousness of Bruce & the E Street Band: Part 1, Part 2.

I turned up the volume as high as it would go (as per The Boss's instructions), and recalled times past when I danced in the stands to my Jersey hero. I feel blessed to have experienced those times, and I am blessed to have watched his performance from last night. I decided to be grateful for the opportunity to have seen the performance instead of bitch about how tiny and fuzzy he appeared on BigMac.

Bruce gave me a great reminder to appreciate what's most important: the music.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Who is your favorite performer you have seen live?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Happy Dance!

2009-01-30T08:56:00.000-08:00

I am all warm 'n fuzzy inside!!!

Last night I went to a networking function for West Coast Woman magazine. My alma mater, Eckerd College, was giving away a signed copy of Opening the Kimono in a raffle drawing, and I was asked to be there in support. Never turning away an opportunity to blah-blah-blah with some cool chickadees, I immediately said yes. When I walked up to the booth, a woman was reading the book. I sidled up next to her, waiting to chat her up. She looked up with wide eyes and enthusiastically proclaimed, "This is an EXCELLENT book! You gotta read it!" I blushingly responded by saying, "I already have read it. I wrote it!" While not exactly acting as if she had an Elvis encounter, she was definitely impressed to be talking to the woman who wrote the words with which she was smitten. Like the Grinch whose heart grew 2 times on Christmas Day, my head grew two sizes -- temporarily. (It was deflated when I saw the ballroom dancing demonstration across the room with a drop-dead gorgeous diva dolled up in sequins and 4 inch heels. I felt like Charlie Brown watching the Little Red Haired Girl.)

Still high from my brush with mini-fame, I popped onto my Amazon page this morning, wishing, hoping, praying, that there were a few more Customer Reviews. (I have a goal to reach 50; I'm at 29.) I'm happy to report that there were two new glowing reviews, one of which was from someone in Alabama I didn't know. This anonymous Divine being has made my day by penning a few simple words:

"This book is headed for Oprah's book club and the author, Theresa Rose, for Oprah's couch. We'll be hearing lots more from this author. Can't wait!"

From your fingertips to God's ears, sister. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

PS. I'm now feeling a lot more like Peppermint Patty than Charlie Brown. After all, I love a ballsy chick with a high degree of sass, and my hair is freaky-deaky like hers.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Which Charlie Brown character do you relate to the most and why?

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Visit TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

The Lone Pubber

2009-01-29T08:01:00.000-08:00

I used my new credit card processing machine for the first time. Yippeee!!!

Last night, I hosted another wonderful installment of Club Kimono, the monthly women's discussion group dedicated to All Things Juicy. I chose yesterday's topic from the Career section of my book and read aloud an excerpt called "Failing Forward". This story illustrates that no matter how crappy our circumstances seem to be -- lost jobs, failed businesses, unknown direction -- that everything is in alignment with a Divine Plan that we simply don't know about yet. The resulting discussions were lively, emotional, and as always, empowering. At the end of our sharing session, over half of the attendees bought copies of the book, and a few bought additional copies to give to their peeps back home. I'm so blessed! Kimono Clubbers are the coolest chicks in the henhouse.

When I came home, Michael showed me the front page of yesterday's New York Times. One of the articles (above the fold no less!) was "Bright Passage in Publishing: Authors Who Pay Their Way" by Motoko Rich. It talks about how the traditional publishing industry is dramatically cutting back, while self-pubbers are popping up all over the place. Yes, most of us will never have more than our beleaguered family and friends read our masterpieces. However, there are a few of us lucky writers (me included, I hope!) that see success beyond our initial circle of supporters. I believe with all of my heart that lots of people will find their way to Opening the Kimono, and a few of those readers will know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who knows Oprah. :) Short of that, I'm at least hoping to get a decent agent out of the deal.

I admit that it's great to see my book getting noticed, and I am starting to get paid for my efforts. Who doesn't want to make a living? Let me tell ya, it costs a butt-load of money to make Opening the Kimono and all of its marketing stuff look so darn purdy. There is no doubt that I'm ready for some green energy to start flowing my way. I warmly welcome the revenue (since I have that pesky credit card debt), but more importantly, I love the thought of people all over the country diggin' it's vibe of love, self-acceptance, and trust. Each one of us is amazing and beautiful and powerful and delightful beyond measure, and my little book of stories helps people to see that.

It is, after all, why I write. It isn't about the money; it's about the Mojo.

Suck on THAT, Stephanie Meyer!

P.S. On the off-chance that the hottest bestselling author in the world would happen upon my little bloggie, I have one thing to say to her: "I humbly apologize, Ms. Meyer. My sarcasm is purely for entertainment purposes. I'm a huge fan. Would you like to receive a free review copy of Opening the Kimono? Maybe you'd like to introduce me to your agent afterward?"

Cosmic, Dude!

2009-01-28T06:46:00.001-08:00

As I was fretting about what to write this morning, I found inspiration on my screen saver.

While I have a few things on my mind that are reasonably blog-worthy -- the righteousness of a Good Hair Day, connecting with old friends on Facebook, and embracing our Divine Purpose, you know, standard Serious Mojo fare -- I felt preoccupied by my Bank of America credit card statement I stupidly opened earlier this morning. I couldn't find the juju to write about the good stuff, because the specter of Not Enough punched me across the face with a killer 'Balance Total, Available Balance' one-two punch.

So, instead of writing, I began to stare out into space. Literally. A few days ago I added the "Cosmos" screen saver to my trusty MacDaddy, but since I've been click-click-clicking nonstop, I hadn't yet seen it in action. This morning, my literary constipation prompted it to present itself. It's incredible! Those crazy kids at Apple really know technology.

For minutes on end, I stared at picture after stunning picture of the endless stars, planets and galaxies we take for granted. The Universe was presenting itself to me in gorgeous technicolor. As I lost myself in the beauty and wondered what it would be like to see Mars, Saturn, or Mercury close-up, I got a greater appreciation for the vastness of All That Is. There is sooooooo much majesty around us, from the furthest galaxies to the smallest shell on Sarasota's Lido Beach. Spirit has created an interconnected system of spirals and vortices that defy full comprehension. Humans are infinitesimal in the greatest scheme of things, yet we are constructed of the same quantum building blocks as the greatest cosmic treasures. Whoa. Heavy.

When I look at the Milky Way courtesy of the fine folks at Apple, I forget about the silly BofA bill sitting atop my Inbox (at least for now). There will be plenty of time for me to freak out about how I am going to pay down my debt. At this moment, I am just happy to play a bit part in this incredible play.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

If you could travel anywhere in the Universe, where would it be? (And don't say Uranus.)

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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The Tao of Granola

2009-01-27T08:04:00.000-08:00

There are profound lessons to be found in our cereal bowls.

My seven-and-a-half year old doesn't like raisins. In fact, she abhors them. Yet, ironically, when the Rose clan goes to Richard's Whole Foods to pick up our edible necessaries, Li'l Miss EmmaBean picks out a variety of granola (Ultra Natural Country Pumpkin Spice or something like that) that is peppered with the wrinkly objects of her derision. I've had numerous discussions with her about it, but she simply refuses to select a different granola. Whenever I surreptitiously pick out a different kind and sneak it into our cereal container, she sternly admonishes me. She is the Princess and the Raisin.

This morning, we all broke our fasts with the aforementioned granola. Emma ate hers with almond milk, while Michael and I had fruit and yogurt with ours. (Emma is still boycotting the fruit-as-breakfast option; she prefers to slurp her first meal of the day.) When she finished, a pile of neglected raisins sat at the soggy bottom of her bowl. She briefly reflected on her raisin remnants and cheerfully said, "Isn't it cool how you can eat around the stuff you don't like?" She looked so proud of her accomplishment.

Aha! THAT'S why she chooses to eat granola with raisins, even though she hates raisins. She has made eating her breakfast a meal, a test of skill, and a game all rolled into one yummy, humming delight.

I can take a cue from this grain game of hers. Life inevitably has raisins mixed in with the granola; my raisins are fear, doubt, and insecurity. The trick is to know how to get around the bad stuff, delight in the good stuff, and celebrate our victories no matter how small.

Thanks to the wisdom of The Bean, I'm gonna do my best today to joyfully leave my raisins at the bottom of the bowl.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What are the life raisins you want to leave behind?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Bye Bye Burnie

2009-01-26T07:15:00.000-08:00

I am happy to report that my recent cheek-branding from the vicious barrel of my curling iron is nearly gone.

Last week, however, was a totally different story. I was a disaster, both physically and emotionally. My hot-dog sized burn had morphed from a beet-red color to dark purple-scabby. In my hyper-sensitive, ego-fractured state, I felt like I resembled a burn patient on E/R. The look of the wound was getting worse, and my emotional state was in perfect sync with it. The creepier, darker, and flakier my wound became, the creepier, darker, and flakier I became.

The extent of my breakdown reached a crescendo on Friday afternoon. I had a subtle crying fit while dining with Michael at Tandoori, obsessively avoided all human interactions, and felt unbridled panic that I would forever be scarred by my stupidity and carelessness. In fact, I was so distraught that I didn't even want to have sex. THAT'S F@#KED UP!

During my dermal drama, Michael adopted his classic Prince Charming role. He listened to my whines, complaints, and fears without hesitation. He cuddled with me, assured me I was the most beautiful woman in the world to him, and lovingly stroked my four-alarm face. I cried and cried, wishing he wouldn't lavish me with so much tenderness; I felt unworthy of it. Eventually, his gentle words and touches broke through my wall of fear, and I surrendered to our love.

After receiving the World's Best Medicine (nudge, nudge, wink, wink), I was on the path towards recovery. Before I went to sleep, I washed my face with my friend Bev's "Aroma Borealis" natural facial cleanser and tonic, and gingerly covered my wound with my friend Elizabeth's primo grade lavender oil. My last step was to gaze at my reflection, trying my very best to see the beauty that my husband did.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, I was delighted to see that my burn had gotten significantly better. Instead of obsessing over it all weekend, I decided to focus on having fun. When I gave myself permission to be happy instead of pretty, I had a glorious weekend full of cuddles, conversation, and connection.

Over the next forty-two hours, I made a miraculous recovery after receiving continuous doses of lavender oil and love. Lo and behold, I woke up this morning with a fresh, new face. The scary hot-dog purple burn is completely gone and has been replaced with a tender, new pink patch of skin. My face seems to be a reflection of my current outlook. This morning I feel renewed, refreshed, and back in my power. Thankfully, I am no longer seeing myself as teeny, tiny, Victimgirl.

Here's a big shout-out to Michael for the love, Emma for the positive attitude, Bev and Elizabeth for the healing products, and Spirit for everything else. Thanks for helping me to rediscover my missing Mojo.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What or who makes you feel better when you are down in the dumps?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Acquiring Writing Material the Hard Way

2009-01-23T08:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I came up with material for my next book. Drats!

I will most likely break ground on mi libro numero dos in the next few months. I have already received downloads on the title, high-level content, and structure. I have also been given assurances from Spirit that I will be living some of the featured stories in the coming months. Oh joy. More pain.

In the last forty-eight hours, a confluence of circumstances have prompted me to begin noodling one of the first chapters, tentatively titled, "The World's Ugliest Person". Who is this hideous creature that I'll be exposing in Opening the Kimono-like raw detail? Me, of course.

I woke up yesterday morning with one overriding thought: I am officially the World's Ugliest Person, at least at that moment. Bleary-eyed from a disastrous night's sleep in which I had nightmares about running into the most foul of creatures from middle school, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. In the cold, harshness of the early morning light, I did NOT like what blankly stared back at me.

While looking at my reflection, I discovered:

* A three-inch, beet-red blotchy burn the size of a small hot dog emblazoned on my left cheek, courtesy of an altercation with my curling iron

* A massive pimple explosion thanks to my upcoming period and consuming far too many mochas from Starbucks. My facial eruptions included several painful, unpinchable lip-zits which spontaneously appeared on the ultra-tender spot where my lower lip meets my chin

* A patch of unsightly grey roots nestled in my previously-blogged-about lion mane that my hairdresser inadvertently missed during last week's touch-up

* Deep pillow creases all over my face, including over the 3-inch hot dog on my cheek

* Pesky extra padding around my mid-section that quietly mocks me

* Scant remnants of the previous day's eyeliner which gave me a Marilyn Manson-as-linebacker look

I admit that I couldn't summon the balls to take a picture of myself at my most heinous, but I somehow found the nerve this morning. While not as super-scary as yesterday morning, I could still vie for Miss Ugly USA.

WARNING! View the following picture at your own risk!

So there it is. The World's Ugliest Person. A Glamour 'Don't'. The love child of Quasimodo and the Joker. I wondered how the hell I was going to have enough confidence to solicit speaking events to organizations in this ghastly frame of mind. I could just imagine it..."Mr. Event Planner, would you like to hire me to speak in front of 500 professionals so I can be stared at in horror and mocked en masse?"

Thankfully, with the help of my friend Shellie I was able to talk through my bilious self-judgment and realize that we ALL have the World's Ugliest Person days. There are some days where we convince ourselves that we too fat, too skinny, too pasty, too sunburned, too unkempt, too boring, or too damaged to be attractive to anyone, much less ourselves. It is the universal truth born out of our modern Western culture: I think therefore I think I am ugly.

Then I realize the glorious gift contained in my gruesomeness: I'm gonna write about this! It's funny! It's perfect for the book! People will relate to it! Hallelujah!

Even though I still resemble a troll-woman who got into a back-alley fight with a cat brandishing a branding iron, I am reveling in the fact that I received some juicy new material to write. I got a tasty shot of literary adrenaline that will propel me to tackle that most daunting of tasks: staring at a blank screen, waiting for my pain to turn into words which will eventually turn into inspiration.

How interesting it is that I chose a career where insecurity and vulnerability are its building blocks.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Do you have World's Ugliest Person days, and what makes them so?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Ch..Ch..Changes

2009-01-21T07:03:00.000-08:00

Change. Hope. A Fresh Beginning. Yes we can.

These are the words that dominate our airwaves, and justifiably so. Our country is just starting its dramatic shift from Bush to Obama, from crisis to confidence, from anger to acceptance, and from fear to hope. Regardless of what political party to which you belong, chances are that you are ready for some change. All of us want to hear happy news again. We want our family and friends to find or keep good jobs. We want to feel safe while still preserving our national integrity. We want leaders we can believe in.

Yesterday, my family and I drove three hours to my BFF's house to watch the Inauguration festivities. Since we don't have television, yesterday was one of the handful of days when it's a total bummer to be unplugged from The Machine (Golden Globes and Oscars being the other major miss-outs.) Jean and Kris graciously hosted us as the three Roses plopped in front of their glorious, gargantuan high-def box and devoured All Things Obama.

I ate it all up: the pomp and circumstance of the event, the preciousness of Malia and Sasha, the hotness of the First Couple, the stirring and passionate speech from our 44th President, and the multi-hued, multi-generational throngs of supporters who braved the DC winter to celebrate the historic moment of one man breaking through the very ancient and imposing ceiling of prejudice. I was not only in awe of the Obamas, but I was equally in awe of every American who recognized the magnificence of the moment.

Now, after the parade has ended, the dancing has stopped, and the TV coverage is over, real life begins anew. We are tasked with helping the Obama administration and Congress to dig us out of a very deep hole. There are many ways we can serve, whether it's volunteering, donating to charity, or simply showing more generosity of spirit to our fellow man and the big, blue, beautiful rock we are blessed to occupy.

I know of another way we can help too. We can take these words -- change, hope, a fresh beginning, and 'Yes we can' to heart, and put them to work within ourselves. The next time we find ourselves having a miserable day, fretting that we'll never succeed, allowing ourselves to remain victims of our circumstance, blaming others for our pain, or harshly judging ourselves or others, let's remember that all of that negativity contributes to the whole of humanity. Let's remember that we are better than the poor choices we have made in the past. Let's remember that we can change our lives simply by changing our attitudes. Let's remember that hope is so much more powerful than fear. Let's remember that every day marks a new beginning for us to live juicy, joyful lives.

Let's remember that it isn't up to Obama to change the fate of our country; it's up to each and every one of us.

Yes we can.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What have you been called to do in support of our country?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Basking in the Moment

2009-01-19T06:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Michael, Emma and I took an afternoon stroll around Island Park along the beautiful bayfront of downtown Sarasota. I snapped this pic of my little EmmaBean basking in the glorious moment.

I can learn so much from her.

A Visit From Big Me

2009-01-16T06:46:00.000-08:00

I am a little bummed this morning; I think I am in need of a session with the Big Me. Big Me is the grounded, centered, balanced woman within who knows that life is wonderful and perfect, exactly as it is.

Big Me: How are you doing today, Little Me?

Li'l Me: Um, pretty good, I suppose. I don't have much to complain about.

Big Me: Then why do you want a session with me?

Li'l Me: Well, I guess I'm just a little 'off' today. I feel good physically and emotionally, but things are just kind of flat.

Big Me: OK. Is there anything big going on in your life that would cause you to have a case of the funks?

Li'l Me: I've had a mild case of envy and anxiety this week. I got tweaked by a high school friend who has a hugely popular blog and an upcoming book coming out through a fancy-schmancy agent and publisher. I'm also getting squirrelly about getting my book trailer edited, nailing down the details of the Serious Mojo Radio Show, and writing next month's Daily Doses and newsletter. Yes, Big Me, I am already obsessing over February's mailings. Can we focus on my current malaise and not delve into my hyper-obsessiveness during this session, please?

Big Me: Those things all sound completely normal -- for you. It's natural to get a little tweaked when you see someone having what you want. As long as you recognize that you, too, will have that soon, you can celebrate her successes with her instead of reacting negatively either towards her or yourself. Remember, there is enough success, joy, and abundance to go around.

Li'l Me: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'm still in a funk.

Big Me (sighs): All right. How about if we do the exercise that you know will get you out of it? Are you up for it? Do you want to feel better, or do you want to wallow a bit more (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Li'l Me: Give me a minute, will you Biggie? Sometimes I like holding on to my funk. Let me take a few deep breaths and see if I am really ready to be happy today. (Inhaling...Exhaling...Inhaling...Exhaling...). OK. I think I'm ready to be happy.

Big Me: Great! I'm glad to hear it. OK. You know what to do. Simply start rattling off everything for which you are grateful. Don't stop until you start feeling that warm fuzzy feeling inside. Ready? Begin!

Li'l Me: Here it goes...

* Listening to Van Morrison's "And the Healing Has Begun"
* Receiving Emma's hugs first thing in the morning
* Looking at an empty laundry hamper
* Connecting with Spirit through meditation
* Seeing my book in a bookstore
* Wearing cute jeans that fit
* Having newly-colored, touchable hair
* Taking Walk 'n Talks with Michael around Bird Island
* Receiving blissful massages from Rob
* Meeting new friends
* Learning to let go of other people's opinions of me
* Finding $5 in a side pocket of a purse
* Getting heartfelt thank-you emails from readers
* Having my BFF live driving-distance away
* Sunday nights!!!
* Watching "The Daily Show"
* Receiving checks in the mail
* Belly-laughing to Tina Fey
* Drinking cafe mochas with smart, funny, beautiful women
* Hearing my daughter sing in the bathtub
* Drooling over Johnny, Daniel (both of them), George, Edward, Bono, Bruce, Paolo, Jason, and Kate
* Loving what I do
* Being in love
* Being alive

Big Me: Is that it?

Li'l Me (smiling): Yup. For now. I feel soooooo much better. I am so blessed! Thanks, Big Me.

Big Me: Anytime.

Anytime.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What are you grateful for?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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Lights, Camera, Action

2009-01-15T06:03:00.000-08:00

I've decided to make a movie. A five minute one.

I am currently in the production phase of creating the Opening the Kimono book trailer. Several nights ago, I received the storyboard while dreaming, and yesterday I filmed the two live action shots (Shout-out to my tough-as-nails director, Jean, a.k.a. Sophia!). I now have to gather the still photos, choose the soundtrack, write the titles, and put the whole thing together in iMovie. Since I have made my YouTube videoblogs for the last year or so, making the movie isn't the daunting part.

It's putting my "fat" pictures in it.

In the film I will be providing a brief description of Kimono, showing personal pics that coordinate with each section. For example, in the "Love & Sex" section, there will be the wedding photo of Michael and me. In the "Raising Kids" section, a precious one of The Bean and me will be included. In the "Death" section, there will be a very touching picture (and the last one we took together) of Mom and me. And since I discuss my lifelong struggle with weight in the "My Body" section, I'm gonna use a pic where I am a porker.

If I can find one.

Unfortunately, during the height (or width) of my obesity -- when I tipped the scales at over a deuce -- I went on several rampages and ripped up any pictures that made me look like a house, which were most of them. Sadly, I have very few pictures of me growing up, because most of them got angrily destroyed in multiple fits of bubbling self-hatred. The scant snapshots that remain are of me when I am at a somewhat "normal" weight (like I am now), or slightly heavy (like I am now!). The real Dumbo pics are nowhere to be found.

Still, I have not given up hope. I am confident that there are a few cringe-worthy photos buried in a neglected photo album somewhere. I think Emma has one or two in her baby book. (Eeesh! Post-baby flab. That'll be pretty.)

I find it ironic that, after twenty-five years of artfully dodging the camera, I am now frantically trying to find those same photos that caused me so much pain. Not only am I trying to find them, but I am going to include them in my book trailer for all to see.

Yes, Virginia, I've come a long way, baby.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What kind of reaction do you have when you see photographs of yourself?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!

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