The Prettiest and Least Cool Day of my 30's

The morning of the last day of my 30’s dawned and as the darkness in my bedroom faded to gray, I found myself completely, totally, and quite instantly awake.  Being someone who generally greets the onslaught of morning light as something to be ignored, then battled (with the appropriate angry huffs, squeezed eyelids, and blankets thrown over head), and then finally endured with bleary-eyed resignation—this instantaneous wakefulness was a bit of a shock.

It was as if my body was saying:

This is it, sweetheart. Better bleed every last drop out of your 30’s.  I’ll give you from now until midnight.  And, then, babe?  It’s all over.

Or something like that.

I’m nothing if not fatalistic.

So, I got up, showered and put my hair up in curlers (yes…curlers), and headed to my closet where I rifled until I found the pinkest, prettiest, most feminine dress I own. Donning the dress, I slipped my feet into my highest heels and headed back to the bathroom where I applied makeup with a level of artistry and care that I generally reserve for only the most special of occasions. Pulling my hair out of the curlers and, after styling and generously spritzing, I stood in front of the mirror.

I could practically hear Natalie Wood singing, “I feel pretty…oh, so pretty…

Because, my people, the very last day of your 30’s?  A girl should feel pretty…

and witty…

and bright.

I then walked into my kitchen, sat at my counter, opened my laptop and began to work.  Because, last day of my 30’s or not—I had work to do and really?  I didn’t have any plans other than work and maybe ordering some takeout for dinner.

Around midday, my husband wandered into the kitchen,

Chris: So, you ready?

Me: Ready for what?

Chris:  Your birthday gift.

Me:  It’s not my birthday.

Chris: I know that. But, I’ve planned a birthday surprise for you today.

Me:  But, it’s not even my birthday party day.

Chris:  I know that as well…

Me: What sort of surprise?

Chris:  Get in the car and you’ll find out.

So, I get in the car and he begins to drive us in the direction of downtown all the while saying things like,

So…are you ready for this?

And…

I hope your ready for this!

So, now I’m madly running through what he could possibly be getting me that I’d need to be “ready” for. All I can think of is that zip lining is on my bucket list and as I gaze down at the pink fabric of my dress, I think,

Well, if that’s the surprise…frankly…no, I’m not remotely ready for that.

I mean, I’m wearing a push-up bra and stilettos for godsakes…

Then, before I can further contemplate how utterly ill prepared I am for any sort of physical activity and wouldn’t it be JUST like a man to think that a girl could go zip lining with bangled wrists, a studded handbag, and liquid lined eyes—the car stops.

We get out and I find myself looking into a salon.

Okaaaay…

I did spend a ridiculous amount of time on my hair but, sure, why not? I’ll have a salon day.

Then Chris guides me away from the salon entrance, past two heavily pierced and tattooed women smoking cigarettes, and toward the entrance of a…

Tattoo parlor…

Sweet mother of mercy.

I mean, I’d been discussing for some time (and by some time, I mean literally years) a tattoo inspired by this picture:

But, I had never discussed a time frame for actually getting it done. 

And yet, there I stood, about to enter a tattoo parlor, on a day when I just happened to look more like a Stepford wife than I have ever looked in the entirety of my 39 years and 364 days.

Which, by the way?  I have never in my whole entire life even stepped foot inside a tattoo parlor. I honestly don’t even know for certain if their called “tattoo parlors." Maybe that’s dated. Maybe their tattoo shops now. Or tattoo galleries.  What do I know?

About tattoos?  Nothing. 

I walked in and was instantly and utterly the LEAST cool person in the entire place.

As we waited for Nick (tattoo artist extraordinaire that my husband had made a consultation appointment with), I stood and began to fidget with--what seemed now to be—the completely ridiculous bracelets on my left wrist.

Ahead of me, a gorgeous girl with a dark sleek pixie cut, casually torn jeans, and a stud glinting in her perfect nose was lying on her back having angel wings tattooed on her flat stomach.

To my right, a large, rough looking cat with tattoos trailing up his overly tan arms where they disappeared under his frayed denim vest was having what appeared to be an eagle tattooed on his scalp. 

And, you know what?

Say what you want, but I would bet every last stupid bracelet clanking on my ridiculous wrist that, that dude? 

He has never once in his life…

Fidgeted.

Nick, who was working on the upper arm of a man who was looking at me with an expression just shy of a sneer, finally looked up and said to Chris,

Oh hey!  Are you Chris?

Chris:  Yeah…

Nick: So you want a tattoo?  What were you thinking?

Chris: Oh no…not me…my wife. *gestures in my direction*

Nick, Sneering guy, Belly Wings, and Eagle Scalp’s eyebrows all shot up in unison.

Nick: (recovering) Oh…*clears throat*…Ok…sorry..what were you thinking.

To which, I might have replied:

I was thinking of a book with the pages bursting out and away as if birds in flight.

That would have at least given the gist of the thing.

Or I might have said:

I’m wanting a book themed tattoo. I have a picture I can show you.

Or, simply and succinctly: 

A book.

Or even, with the spirit of the tattoo parlor upon me, I might have said something like:

I was thinking of a book sort of …you know…fucking exploding.

Any single one of those things would have been better than what I did say.  But, no…what did I say as I stood teetering in teal heels, completely surrounded by a level of fringe oriented cool that I shall never attain? (mostly because I say things like “fringe oriented cool”)? I blurted with a level of urgency that was entirely unnecessary, bordering on inappropriate:

I like to read!

It’s as if my mind, taking in the situation, thought—You know?  I’m not sure this Stepford getup is enough to convey just how much of a straight-laced dork I am.  I know…how about I announce loudly and inexplicably to the entire room how I like to…you know…

…Read.

Wtf?  People seriously.  Can we just pause here to collectively shake our heads and mutter a perplexed,

Wtf, O? 

W….T…F?

I know.

Nick didn’t really know what to say.

So, then I began this quick speaking stammering thing I do when I’m nervous:

Me:  I’m sorry…I just didn’t even know I was coming here…Literally, I mean…we just drove up…I had no idea….and here I am…so I’m just trying to wrap my head around…

And, ended the whole thing with the urgent pronouncement:

Tomorrow’s my birthday!

Nick continued to look at me, his head cocked to the left, apparently struck dumb by my insanity.  Mr. Sneer transitioned to an amused expression.

I then took a deep breath and somehow came up with the words to convey what I wanted in a tattoo. 

Mr. Amused began to look slightly interested.

Nick began to nod. 

He then asked where I’d like to have it done.  To which, I replied my wrist and up my forearm. Nick’s eyebrows shot up a second time. Mr. Amused grinned appreciatively and muttered, “cool.”

I then busted out my cell phone and showed him my photo inspiration.  Nick was offering some ideas for how he might improve upon the idea and then quickly added,

“Or, I can do it exactly like the picture.  Either way.”

I was beginning to feel like I was hitting my stride with this whole thing and so I did the only thing to be done at that point:  I took it a step too far.

Of course I did.  This is me we’re talking about.

So, when he offered to adhere to the photograph or use it as an inspirational starting point, in a moment of total insanity, where I was clearly feeling more cool than I have any right to EVER feel, I stood there in my pink dress with my platinum curls and said very slowly, lingering over each word,  like I’m Louie Armstrong or…I don’t know…Jerry Goddamned Garcia,

Whatever…I mean…you’re the artist….

….man…

Because, 3 minutes post my, I like to read, urgent dork blurting—I’m now a super chill girl who says things like, maaaaannn--long and slow.

Yeah.  For sure. That’s believable.  I’m certain I totally pulled that off.

Good gravy.

Nick, for his part, took it in stride and replied the only way he could.  He laughed, nodded, and offered an appreciative,

“Right on…”

Several weeks later, my tattoo, or, as I lovingly refer to it: My--"I like to read" dork branding--is complete. I'm not even a little bit more cool and still occasionally look like a Stepford wife.  

My husband has taken to calling me his "tattooed mama." Timing this new term of endearment to usually align with my geeking out in some way:

Ie:  

Me:  It's crazy!  It's like the author is INSIDE my head...conveying exactly how I feel in words more perfect than I could ever muster. He's writes, "True Security lies in the unrestrained embrace of insecurity - in the recognition that we never really stand on solid ground, and never can." It's like...yes, yes, YES!

Chris:  Ahhh...I feel ya, my tattooed mama.

To which, I always reply,

Thanks, maaaannn...

Interesting Possibilities

Rick Bass once wrote:  "There's an enormous difference between being a story writer and being a regular person. As a person, it's your duty to stay on a straight and even keel, not to break down blubbering in the streets, not to pull rude drivers from their cars, not to swing from the branches of trees. But as a writer it's your duty....to view everything in life, however outrageous, as an interesting possibility."

I quote this now in the hopes of the slightest redemption for my behavior that perhaps doesn't always fall as neatly under the column of "regular person behavior."  But, I also quote it to say this:  "viewing everything in life, however outrageous, as an interesting possibility" is amazing.  It's makes life infinitely more entertaining. I highly recommend it for people of all sorts--not just the writing sort.

How is this accomplished?  Any number of ways.  An example:  recently I was texting a friend when, as usual, my phone autocorrected with something ridiculous.  As I began to replace the autocorrected word with the word I had actually been trying to type, I paused.  And, in an instant, interesting possibility met with my love of word games and nearly clapping my hands in giddy delight, I thought:

New Game!!

The rules:  Type out whatever text you're attempting to send.  When reviewing said text if any words are incorrect, you may replace them with the correct word, but must also use the incorrect word at some point in the text.

Sometimes, it's not such a big deal:

A text to Chris that should have read:  Well, since it's just you and I--I thought we could dine first and then hike?

But, my stupid phone made "you" into "toy".  So, now I have to use the word, "toy."  The resulting text is:

Well, since it's just you and I--I thought we could dine first and then hike?  Don't toy with me white boy!

He, I'm sure, thinks I've lost my mind--but, frankly, he's accustomed to it--so, not such a biggie.

Or, I attempt to text a friend about an incident she bore witness to:

Well, that was not terribly professional on her part.

Professional, became "prosaic".

So, she received:  Well, that was not terribly professional on her part.  In other news, buckle up boys and girls, this lady is feeling prosaic!

To which, she replied:  Like you wanna write something?  Aren't you always?  You know, prosaic?

She had a point. 

Then, another friend texts me about needing work-out inspiration and I try to say:

You could do my 90 day hiking challenge if there's a good trail nearby?

But, my phone made "hiking" into "hooking."  So, I say:

You could do my 90 day hiking challenge if there's a good trail nearby?  Or...there's always hooking! 

The pregnant pause after my text leads me to believe she was stunned into immobility.

Obviously, I could (and perhaps even should) have chosen a sentence like:  "Or, how about hooking things up with a local gym...getting a personal trainer?"

But, where's the sport in that?

This new game has led to all sorts of interesting conversations.  And, yes, were you to try this, someone, at some point WILL respond:  Wtf are you talking about?!?!

To which, I generally reply:  Wtf are YOU talking about?!?!


As for the rest of Rick's quote..well...unfortunately, I can relate to that as well.

My people, I have blubbered in streets.

I once blubbered on a street IN Disneyland (aka happiest place on earth).

And, I've pulled rude drivers from their cars...

Well...ok...not EXACTLY.  I didn't pull him.  But, once, when I was living in California and another driver was driving dangerously erratically, I confronted the driver at a gas station.  I was standing on a curb and he was at street level and still, he towered over me (and I'm 5'8"--so this guy was ginormous) and so I had to keep jumping to try to speak face to face: 

Me:  *jumps* What on earth ..*jumps*...is the matter..*jumps*...with you?!
Ginormo:  Lady...go get in your car before...
Me:  *jumps* Before what? *jumps*  Huh? *jumps and looks sternly into his face and points a disapproving finger at him*
Ginormo:  Lady...
Me:  *jumps*  What if...*jumps* my baby...*jumps* had been in the car?!?!
Ginormo:  Oh my God...Lady!  Seriously!
*crowd begins to gather*

I should maybe mention at this point that, as I jumped and had been looking directly into his face, I had noticed that he had a teardrop tattoo under his eye that I didn't take as a positive sign for my safety.  Plus, as I took in his attire, I realized that his wife-beater and torn jeans didn't exactly bode well either.  And, then, when HE noticed the gathering crowd and began to feel, perhaps, emasculated and proceeded to take OFF the wife beater, I began to think maybe this entire scene was ill advised.

My voice took on a shrill quality that I had never heard in it before, and haven't heard in it since as I shouted the only thing I could think:

Me:  *jumps* You should think...*jumps*...about your MOTHER!
Ginormo:  *throws shirt on ground*  Look, bitch...*looks confused*...wait...my mother?!?
Me:  *places one hand on a hip and points with the other*  Yes, your mother!  How would she feel about you driving like an idiot and practically KILLING a baby!
Ginormo:  *looks around nervously at the crowd* *whispers*  Shhh...c'mon...lady. *more loudly* Your baby wasn't even in the car!
Me: So, your mother would feel better that it was just the mother of an infant that you killed...I see...
Ginormo:  *looks around nervously again*  No...look, lady...I'm sorry, ok?  I'm sorry.
Me:  Good.  Stop driving like an ass. *storms off*

(o maybe more like *runs off* or even *runs away* or even more precisely *runs away, gets in car, locks car, and sincerely tries not to pee pants*)

And, I've certainly swung from trees (who hasn't?).

So, perhaps, the rude driver confrontation was a bit sketchy (please don't ever try such a thing--you'll be killed--I was lucky I wasn't killed--it was a very bad idea, indeed).  However, I'm here to say that looking at everything in life as an interesting possibility can be quite rewarding.  It can even lead to...adventures (one of the finest words in the English language).  Of course, sometimes, though entertaining for you, it CAN make you look like a crazy person to others.

*shrugs* Do you care?

As Emily Dickinson so eloquently wrote,

"Dwell in possibility."

Dwell in it.













 

Pie Tin Adventure

After writing my last couple of blogs, I began to contemplate all the trouble books have inspired in my life.  I also began contemplating the last time I went into a state of intense introspection ("intense introspection" is WAY too generous a phrase--but for lack of a better one, it'll have to do).  And, while contemplating both, I was reminded of an instance that was both inspired by reading as well as a woo-woo mood.  And, since I have never blogged about this particular adventure here, I thought I'd share it now.  A quick note:  Chris is Jack and Jack is Chris (it's a nickname, people!).

May I introduce, my:

Pie Tin Adventure    

The Path to Enlightenment is for me…a drunken one…

Somewhere in my bookish travels, I read about a psychiatrist (I think it may have been Jung…but I can’t remember for certain) who believed the most fertile time for the mind is the space of time slivered between sleep and wakefulness.  He believed (and it’s been a while since I read about it—years—so I’m paraphrasing and may be inadvertently adding my own notions to the mix) that if you could grasp, remember, and fully understand your thoughts during this small space of time—you would come as close to enlightenment as you could ever hope.  He claimed that his most brilliant theories were developed during this elusive period. 

In my limited experience, I would agree and would even take it a step further as my own (overly precious, I’m sure) belief is that it is in this precise space of time and consciousness that one’s soul and body meet.  This has been my working, and until recently, untested theory, anyhow.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I had a marvelous evening (I’ve had marvelous evenings since then…but none so very enlightenment-centric).  Jack and the boys turned in early and I was left blissfully alone and purposefully made no plans for the evening but that of beautiful solitude.  I pulled out a book of poetry (Mary Oliver), turned on some jazz (Dizzy Gillespie), and mixed martinis (Belvedere).  Yes.  Plural.  MartiniS.  So, after drunkenly deciding that Oliver writes the most transcendent poetry in existence, that Dizzy Gillespie was a cool cat for rolling with his wonked out trumpet, and that Belvedere was my soul mate in liquid form—I decide the time has come to see what my mind might produce during it’s “fertile” time. 

So…in the spirit of whoever came up with the notion—I stumbled into the garage and found a couple of good sized fishing weights and made my way back to the kitchen for a couple of pie tins. 

Yes.  You read correctly.  Fishing weights and pie tins.

So, the idea is (again as obtained from the super hootie whatsit of psychology, psychiatry, philosophy or just plain bizarre behavior), I was to recline, with my hands dangling at my sides, clutching the fishing weights with pie tins arranged so that were I to drop the fishing weight, it would land in the pie tin.  The idea being that just as I were to drift off into sleep, I would drop the weights, which would clang on the pie tins, and wake me in the very instant that I was floating in that narrow space between slumber and wakefulness.  And then…

Badabing-badaboom—enlightenment.

You follow?

Ok…my first drunken problem being that I don’t own a recliner (due to my long and loud contention that recliners are the very throne of Beelzebub).  So, I decide that the dining room table would work just as nicely (I know).  But, when I laid down on the dining table, my arms couldn’t really dangle, but rather stuck out, making my body rather cross-like (I contemplated trying my hand at speaking in tongues at this point—but decided that experiment would keep for another time).  So, my solution was to lay diagonally on the table, which allowed my arms to dangle and having rolled up a couple of place-mats and placed them under my head—it wasn’t all that uncomfortable (I was Belvedere blasted, I could have slept on the floor of my garage with my head in the recycle bin and been comfortable, but I digress).

Great…bring on the enlightenment.

So, sure enough, I drift off and down drop the weights.  Only, I don’t know that I so much drifted as sort of passed the fuck out—because their dropping did not jolt me.  It DID, however, wake up Jack.  And, for whatever reason, the bang, crash, boom of the weights didn’t jar me from sleep but Jack storming in the room shouting “what the hell?!?!?!?” did.  It shocked me so much, if fact, that I sort of roll/fell off the table.  And, since I had it in my head to remember what I was thinking upon awakening—I fell off the table while slurring “Salt peanuts,” which was the only thing running through my fool head, and which I continued to say over and over as though it were vital to my very existence (Jazz wisdom, let’s call it).

Jack took one look at me, the fishing weights, pie tins, and empty martini glasses and stormed out of the room muttering something that included the phrases “like being married to a drunk Lucille Ball,” “God knows I try,” and “Why?  Why?  WHY?”

Me?  Since I found myself a bit dizzy at this point and was conveniently already on my hands and knees--I decided to just go ahead and crawl to bed.  

So, perhaps your path to enlightenment looks a bit different than mine (I’m convinced there was enlightenment in there somewhere)…but let’s not judge (give the weight/pie tin/drift off a whirl—who knows where it might take you). 

And, remember: 

“There are many paths to enlightenment” -Lao Tzu

And:

“Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment” -Dogen

Plus:

“If you ever reach total enlightenment while drinking beer, I bet it makes beer shoot out your nose.” –Jack Handy

P.S.  7 days of 90 day Table Rock challenge done!!!  7!!

Woo-Woo

I've been feeling what my meditation instructor describes as, 'a little woo-woo', lately.  And, by woo-woo, he (and I) mean:  out-there, unconventional, fringe-oriented, hippie-dippy, overly philosophically existential, & etc.

Woo-woo.  

Basically, I feel like I'm on some sort of journey of self-discovery.  

(Sweet holy mother of patchouli--did I really just write the words: "journey of self-discovery"? Feel free to groan and roll your eyes.  Gag, even.  I totally deserve it).

I've been taking meditation classes (hence the meditation instructor).  I've read a bunch of Dorothy Parker poetry.  Ok, so Dorothy Parker isn't terribly woo-woo.  But she does deal with existence.  I mean, she DID write:

Razors pain you;

rivers are damp;

acids stain you;

and drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;

nooses give;

gas smells awful.

You might as well live.

A little dark, but an argument in favor of existence, if only for comfort and convenience sake.  And, I'm also reading Sue Monk Kidd's The Dance of the Dissident Daughter--A Woman's Journey from Christian Tradition to the Sacred Feminine, which, while not entirely awe inspiring (for me), definitely has inspired some deep thinking about my womanhood (you know...in a abstract kind of way.  Not in a--let's all stand on mirrors and examine our vaginas--kind of way).

So, in my current state of total woo-woo immersion, when my massage therapist called and asked if she could practice Reiki (ancient Japanese practice of energy healing) on me (she's just learning), it seemed right up my current--fringy-hippie-dippy alley. 

Reiki is a practice by which the practitioner acts as a conduit of healing energy from the divine.  So, they ascertain by manipulation and testing of your body, where you have blocked energy and then attempt to release the blockage and allow energy to flow freely throughout your body. 

So, yeah, totally woo-woo. 

But, it was a surprisingly intense, yet relaxing and stress relieving experience.  Plus, there are times when the practitioner is given (divinely) a word for the subject to contemplate.  

My people!  I do so love words.  Pair words with my latest inner-peace-quest?  

This was sure to get my attention.  And, my word of contemplation?

Happiness.

A wonderful word!  It's like a linguistic ginn fizz!  

So, there I was.  Having just had my energies unblocked, feeling really quite relaxed, and turning over in my head this word:  Happiness.  I begin to think what this word means to me.  I think of what my own personal definition of happiness might be.  I muse that it would probably be:  The feeling of certainty one has when one is following one's path.

Which, I realize isn't terribly articulate.  But, it's just basically the feeling that you are doing what you are meant to do.  You are where you are meant to be.  And, it was at this point in my contemplations that I had a moment of pause.  Why?  Because I never feel quite utterly and completely at home here in Boise.  I don't have any idea why that would be.  I have friends.  I have a full, lovely existence here.  And, yet...

And, yet.

So, I then begin to think:  If not here, then where?  Back in California?  No.  That doesn't feel right either.  Then where?  As I was thinking this, I was sitting at a stoplight and my eyes suddenly focused on the license plate in front of me, which read:  

Explore...Minnesota.

Now, if you know me even a little bit, you may be thinking:  Oh sweet mother of mercy...this is the precise moment when O goes right off the rails and crashes her woo-woo train right into the center of crazy town.

And, you'd be right.  

My people...it might as well have been James Earl Jones enthusing, "If you build it, people will come, Ray.  People will most definitely come."

Only his voice is booming: "Explore...Minnesota, Ophelia.  For reasons you can't even fathom, you must:  Explore...Minnesota."

I came home and immediately researched every aspect of Minnesota I could get my hot little keyboard blazing hands on. 

Let it never be said that Ophelia Michaels Oliveira ever ignored the universe (or James Earl Jones) when it (he) came a-calling.

Chris walked in the room and I said:

Let's move to Minnesota!

What?!?!  

Minnesota!  Let's move there.  

Why?

I, of course, at this point tell him about my recent experience (which, let's face it comes down to:  I saw a license plate while at a stoplight).  

Chris shrugs, says something about my being crazy and then says,  "Ok. I mean, why the hell not?  What the hell.  Let's do it."

We decide to take a hike up Tablerock to contemplate and discuss (plus attempt to burn off the two cocktails I'd consumed post Reiki--it was hot--a margarita felt in order...well, TWO margaritas felt in order).  The climb was not going well at all.  It's 100 degrees out, I've dressed inappropriately (ie:  I'm wearing all black--and not even black shorts--thick black yoga PANTS), and am forced to stop several times as I'm completely overheated and dehydrated (I should probably mention climbing Tablerock in inappropriate attire after consuming two cocktails and very little food that could be considered 'nutritious' does not work out terribly well--not that YOU'D consider something so completely idiotic--but a warning none-the-less).  So, I'm standing with my hands on my knees trying to catch my breath and cool down when I say (well, gasp, really):

Me:  Hey, babe...let's do this once a day for 90 days.

Chris:  What?

Me:  Climb Tablerock!

Chris:  Hon, I don't know that you're going to even make it this one day.

Me:  Oh, I'll make it.

Chris:  Well, it doesn't look fun.  You really want to do this 90 times over the next few months?  Seriously?

Me:  Sure.  I mean, it can't get much worse than this one, right?  It'll seem easy after this.

Chris:  You're nuts.

Me:  Does that mean you're with me?

Chris:  Babe...

Me:  C'mon!

Chris:  90 days?  NINETY?

Me:  Yeah...I feel like 90 is the right number.

Chris:  *shrugs*  Ok.  What the hell.

My people!  This man, right?!?! 

This, my friends, is what makes Chris the most perfect man in the whole wide world for me.  His ceaseless ability to be game for whatever crazy shit I fling at him.  No...not just game for it--enthusiastic.  He has since purchased me all manners of "Tablerock hiking attire".  I'm told a headlamp, camels back, and walking stick are in the works.  He now knows more about Minnesota than likely anyone west of the Rockies (except maybe, my dear Samantha) and has taken to giving me fun Minnesota facts on our hikes.   

Will we move?  Ahh...really...who knows?  I do LOVE it here in Boise.  Perhaps, I merely need a new Boise-centric experience?  Will I climb Tablerock once a day for 90 days?  Maybe?  I'm five days in.  So far, so good (I've beat my first climb time by 16 minutes already--it's amazing what appropriate clothing and proper food and hydration can do).  

Will I make it 90?  

I wouldn't count me out.  

What I do know for sure, what my husband has taught me time and again for 21 years now and Miss Monroe sums up quite well:  

"Ever notice how 'what the hell' is always the right answer?"

It is, people.  'What the hell' is ALWAYS the right answer.  

And, now...I leave with with this little gem from Sue Monk Kidd:  

"The True Self is not our creation, but God's.  It is the self we are in our depths.  It is our capacity for divinity and transcendence."

To our capacity for divinity!  To transcendence!  To all things woo-woo!

xo