The Fallacy of Two Categories

Hey there!

I have rediscovered my Blogger account after years of neglect.  I'm thinking I want to share my new video blog series called "The HoopWoman Diaries" with the Blogger world.  If you would like to see some previous entries, please visit my YouTube page.  Otherwise, I will do my best to post these when I record 'em.

I have found that the medium of video is something I am more readily able to incorporate into my world, so I hope you find it to be enjoyable.  I am working on my next book, so I'll def have something to say about that when it's done.  Until then, please enjoy and make it a momentous day.

Blessings,

Mojo Mama aka HoopWoman

Grateful for the Gunk

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Give Up!

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.