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.
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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.
*********************************************************
For more inspiration and sass, visit me at http://www.TheresaRose.net!
*********************************************************
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.
*********************************************************
For more inspiration and sass, visit me at http://www.TheresaRose.net!
*********************************************************
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 13, 2009
I Swear, It's True!
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!
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!
Monday, June 1, 2009
An Upload of Shame
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.
************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Has a picture ever prompted you to make a change in your life?
************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Has a picture ever prompted you to make a change in your life?
************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, May 15, 2009
Beaner Medicine
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.
**********************************************************************
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!
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.
**********************************************************************
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!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Art of Downshifting
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.
********************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever go crazy right after vacation?
********************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
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.
********************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever go crazy right after vacation?
********************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Don't Let the Nutters Win
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.
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.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Perils of Eating Clean
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.
****************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What is your favorite "naughty" food?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
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.
****************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What is your favorite "naughty" food?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Dilly-Dallying
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.
***********************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What procrastination techniques do you use?
***********************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
***********************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What procrastination techniques do you use?
***********************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, March 9, 2009
Weekend Update
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.
*********************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What activity helps you get into your body?
*********************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
*********************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What activity helps you get into your body?
*********************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Day 3 of the Detox
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.)
****************************************************************************
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?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.)
****************************************************************************
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?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Starting Down Detox Lane
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...
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...
Monday, March 2, 2009
Doing It Blindfolded
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...
*****************************************************************************
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?
*****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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...
*****************************************************************************
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?
*****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, February 27, 2009
Stepping Into the Circle of Fear
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.
******************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What have you done lately that has made you step out of your comfort zone?
******************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
******************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What have you done lately that has made you step out of your comfort zone?
******************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Cruel Arrival of Backfat
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...
**************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What is the first change you notice on your body when you gain a little weight?
**************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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...
**************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What is the first change you notice on your body when you gain a little weight?
**************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, February 13, 2009
Getting Schooled
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.
**********************************************************************************
For our consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever freak-out when you start going after your dreams?
**********************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
**********************************************************************************
For our consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever freak-out when you start going after your dreams?
**********************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Sick Day
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.
****************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What do you like to do when you are taking a sick day?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net for your Daily Dose of Mojo!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
****************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What do you like to do when you are taking a sick day?
****************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net for your Daily Dose of Mojo!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, January 26, 2009
Bye Bye Burnie
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.
**************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What or who makes you feel better when you are down in the dumps?
**************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
**************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What or who makes you feel better when you are down in the dumps?
**************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Ch..Ch..Changes
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.
*************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What have you been called to do in support of our country?
*************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
*************************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
What have you been called to do in support of our country?
*************************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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