Ok, so we have explored my voices, these aspects of me that make me, well, me. What do I do now?  After revisiting these aspects, acknowledging them and recounting some material that in the past would have been grist for the mill, I have to learned to appreciate the party in my head. It is my very own soiree and nobody else’s.  I will continue to hear “were gonna party like its 1999”, in my head when I get that all of them are chiming in at once, some in an effort to guide me.

I can appreciate the days where I have conversations with these aspects, I laugh, I cry, I talk out loud recognizing the risk that someone may think I am a bit crazy and that is ok too. What I have come to appreciate most is that these experiences are uniquely mine. How I observed what happened is also uniquely mine. Thus any upset, any misinterpretation of events or things that were said,  those are mine too.

In the past I would have zeroed in on the mishap, the meaning, the injustice and have created a beautiful story about what happened. I think now I have a jury, they may have a slightly twisted view on life but I can check in with them all and respect why and more importantly how they got into the party in my head and often times operate with reckless abandon in regards to what is happening or what it is I need to do.

I have learned to appreciate each of these aspects. I do get it, that in the past many of them have served me well and showed up to the party for good reason.

I also really get that without them, some of the stories I have shared, had they not happened? Let’s just say they provided me the lessons I needed to learn and they served as really good entertainment value in conversations over dinner with friends. I have said this before sometimes you simply cannot make this shit up.

So as you can see I have provided some photos as proof. The pig, the skydiving incident, I only wish I had a picture of the blind date, although clearly girls you all can get a visual of that. I have been truly blessed. I get it some of these aspects brought me pain, some pleasure, I should revisit the coy one as her section was PG rated perhaps I could have been more graphic.

What I also understand is that each of these aspects brought me life lessons and if you know that life is like school and school is in session, Then it was important for me to receive this particular curriculum so that I could pass the test and get new material to experience, write about, create fabulous stories about and eventually one day pass the test with flying colors. Or not.

Either way I can say this that learning doesn’t always have to be painful.  Grandmothers aren’t always out to get you, boyfriends don’t always fib, and I will not have to lie on the bed to zip my jeans up for long.

My best friends can still talk me into some really silly things but for certain,  no more blind dates, no showing cows as a favor and well it is and will always be true, that it ain’t over until the fat girl sings. Oh and does she ever have a voice… it is filled with soul, you know the kind of voice that has experienced some things you can hear it and she is ready for the world to hear her too.

It is time to choose powerfully. How do you want your experience to be while you are here in school?

Life is too short not to be in love, to be love and to love.

Yes, we are here to love.

Finding that true inner guide to listen to isn’t as difficult as it seems. Sure there are many events in life that we experience, some on the mental level, some on the emotional level and some at the physical level however sometimes the meaning we make of it occurs deep within the unconscious level.  This is really where all of the voices resonate from, it is where they express their attitudes, beliefs and the scope and tone of their responses are all related to the degree and on what level they experienced the events that happened to us.  

Finding that true inner compass is as simple as deciphering the feeling that you are experiencing inside of you. Another way of asking the question is in response to life and its events; Are you coming from a place of love? Or are you coming from the space of fear?

If you are coming from fear, if the voices deliver messages of needing to be in control, of needing to be right, of somehow you’ve been cheated out of something, then the victim story is running you. Victims have given up their power and life will occur as something that simply happens to them. They hold others responsible for their experiences and blame them when they are disappointed and or dissatisfied.  Many times when we are in our victim mode, we don’t have access to how we are being in our story and the behavior that follows is conditional, or could be habitual. If only we could stop and see that fear is what is driving us. Then ask yourself fear of what? For some of us it could be every little thing, like the following list to start with;

Fear of success

Fear of failure

Fear of being alone

Fear of not being loved

Fear of being too healthy

Fear of getting sick

Fear of not being heard

Fear of being complimented

Fear of being put down

Fear of not being seen

Fear of being wrong

Fear of being loved

That is a pretty good list to start with.

We are all battling our inner demons at one time or another. My suggestion is to stop the fighting, embrace all of the characters in our heads recognize the lessons we are learning and find our way to acceptance. When we can accept our selves and others as divine beings, having a human experience, we can recognize within us and others that we are really doing the very best we know how at the time.

This really starts by accepting ourselves first, our glorious and divine inner self only then are we able to recognize that same quality in others. When we begin to do that, the experience we have changes dramatically. We are more forgiving of ourselves and others. We begin to come from a place of love. We are getting closer to our authentic self. At the authentic self level all there is, is love. So, how do we find that place? It is not as elusive as you think. Simply look for any judgment, look for fear, look for where you are blaming others and when you move past that feeling, on the other side there is love, acceptance, and personal responsibility.

You have the choice and your choices always have consequences. So know this, whatever you choose, if it does not serve you or enhance you, you can simply choose again. Whatever you create, you can UN-create and choose again. Choice becomes the thing that sets us free, so why wouldn’t we choose powerfully?  And if you forgot somewhere along the way, that you can choose what your experience will be like here in school on planet earth?  All you need to remember is that you have a choice. And I think Aristotle said it best, “Happiness is a choice”. If that in fact is a true statement, then coming from love is a choice we can make.

Why wouldn’t we choose love? Because we are choosing to operate from fear, conditional maybe but still our choice. I say choose to let that go, we gain nothing from holding on so tightly. Find your cosmic delete button or cosmic plunger and let go. For me that includes compassionate self forgiveness when the fear and judgment shows up and a regular free form writing practice to rid myself or plunge any negative energy, emotions or feelings I am experiencing.  Both work very well.

So I choose love. I choose happiness. I choose to be grateful for all of my characters and their experiences and mine too. I know that when I come from love, my authentic-self will  never steer me wrong. Because in that space, in that place there is no right or wrong, there is only love. Finding your true inner compass is as easy as letting go of “being right” and moving into acceptance of “what is”, looking at life through rose-colored glasses is not so bad either. For me that means seeing the love inside of me and the love inside of others too.

My suggestion is get to know your inner guide, connect with your inner counselor, and really listen to your authentic self. Spend some time finding the love inside of you then honor yourself and recognize the very preciousness that you are. Once you do this, go and share it with everyone you meet. You will be so glad you did.

Oh and when you need a little help along the way, your authentic self is always there to lend a hand. Yep, You’ve got a friend.

Sometimes that feeling would leak into my consciousness even when I am sleeping safely next to someone resting peacefully, delighting in my serial aloneness. How sad it is to be so alone in the world?  The wise one, she is an expert at withdrawing and analyzing everything. She is masterful at it, in fact.  Watching, pondering, theorizing, analyzing and ultimately strategizing none of those come in handy in a relationship either…hmmm something to ponder.

I learned to retreat to my thoughts and observations early on. I had an overly active imagination, one part worry wart, one part the wise one. I could draw for hours in solitude. I spent hours pondering the world, how things work, why people act the way they do, I watched. There have been times when the wise one has gotten me into trouble off in the mind wondering about staring not to get attention, but staring while analyzing and coming to one or more conclusions about a situation. However the recipient (s) of this sample gaze would or could become self conscious.  There are times when my friends thought I had checked out, I had not. Physically I was there but mentally I was off in the future formulating or prognosticating.  I used words they questioned too. I was the first in my family to go to college; I started when I was 16. I took advanced genetics and was fascinated by how people operate in the world. Psychology should have been my major. 

I remember getting asked to out to the bar on campus after a test, I didn’t look 16. I would eventually have to fess up, and when I did I was usually forced to present my ID to prove that I just barely got my driver’s license let alone enter a bar and order a beer although I secretly wanted too. I left high school because I felt it was wasting my time and in part, I didn’t fit in. I took the GED and SAT’s at the end of my sophomore year. I was accepted at Cal Poly and had letters of interest for Berkley and Stanford although leaving the house unattended was not going to happen. I had a curfew and I wasn’t allowed to date as of yet. I had to be home by 10pm, 11 if I had a test or study group.

I felt awkward in college and in high school. I was in the middle, barely past what they now would call a tweener.  I worked too, in a saddlery.  I was independent, I was a free thinker.  

I considered myself a redneck beatnik if there was such a thing. I grew up in the country with parents who did not graduate from high school, but I was an old soul, who understood things and had an insatiable appetite to learn. Perhaps I still do, which is why at the age of 46, I decided to return to school to pursue my Master’s and my Doctorate. Sometimes the information is not enough, we need to read it, learn it, demonstrate it and let is seep in to our very core.

That is what I have done at USM, I have not just learned the material but it has permeated my cells.  For the first time I think I have found my tribe. The long time unanswered existential questions, Why am I here? What is it I am meant to do? Are in fact questions we address at USM.

Learning to get out of your own way, to move down mentally past the unconscious material and upwards consciously residing in our authentic self. To actually call ourselves forward to our future or as someone would say get out of our own way.  

What I know now, is the wise one can sit back and reflect and ponder that is perfectly ok, especially if her answers come from the heart then I know she has found her inner counselor and is exactly where she needs to be at the time.

Why is it we second guess ourselves? I have come to understand that the Ego will only fight for or against three things, security, comfort and change. The ego likes the known quantity, it panics with the unknown. The ego prefers for things just to continue on the way they have always been and will always be. Change is the ego’s enemy. You want to change?  Oh my countless conversations I have had in my head, when the music has died down and I am left to the voices at the party, invited or not. Wilford shows up loud and proud proclaiming “I told you that’s not going to work, but you wouldn’t listen.”  Really, you know how many times I have listened to him thinking he is right, what was I thinking? 

He should be uninvited or given a new job description. No poop. No negative stuff, no unnecessary scenarios or negative future fantasies. Zip it lock and put it in my pocket, I say. There is not much that bears repeating, or should be listened to. Your ego will always fight to win, even at the cost of a healthy body. It must survive. It doesn’t have to win though. You can push through, tune out the noise and do it anyway.

I remember once my girlfriend Peggy and I were attending a conference, we were both in the same industry however we worked for different companies.  Our firm’s were picking up the tab for the weekend and we decided instead of listening to the economists giving yet another forecast  bearing bad news that we would attend a motivational training taught by Bob Davies a performance coach, former Football Coach and player.  I should have known something was up when I read his tag line. Conquer fears. Overcome obstacles. Get results. So here we are two of 200 in the room, sitting in the front row.  He takes us through this exercise talking about the power of the mind, our thoughts and what we could do by creating mind tapes in order to create breakthrough results. This guy is good I thought. He even did a little mind game/exercise with the audience to show us the power of suggestion. Peggy and I were impressed.  He asked for a volunteer and of course Peggy jumped at the opportunity to be on stage. So off she goes, now mind you my friend Peggy is brilliant but has the attention span of a gnat, how she volunteered for something that might have involved mind control was beyond me. So Bob says to Peggy, close your eyes, and imagine your body as stiff and rigid as a steel pipe, he kept saying it over and over again. I am cracking up on the inside just waiting for her to start laughing. She didn’t, then two stage hands proceed to place her on top of the backs of two metal folding chairs. So now she is lying down and her body is straight as could be. Strange.  Bob kept giving her the mental picture of being stiff and rigid as a steel pipe and she was. He then kicked off his shoes, climbed up on a third folding chair and stepped up on her stomach. I have never seen anything like it…Party in my head full swing, how is this possible? Peggy has the attention span of a gnat? He is standing on her stomach? I shook my head closed my eyes, in total disbelief. He climbed off of her, told her to relax and she fell limp into the two stage hands arms.  My inner naysayer is chiming in.  It’s a trick, it’s an illusion, and maybe there was something under her?  I was only just a few feet away, How was this possible I asked myself?

 I was convinced this man was a genius, if he could get Peggy to do that, what could be possible with his training? At the end of the seminar he suggested that anyone who really wanted to be unstoppable, who really wanted to create a mind tape that would last forever could join him in a skydiving expedition that next morning. Of the 200 plus attendees, Peggy and I were the only one who raised our hands. Naysayer or not I wanted whatever he did to her, to happen to me.

So off we went driving from San Diego to Elsinore. We got geared up; we signed a whole bunch of legal releases, watched video, signed more releases and were assigned our sky diving team. Peggy went ahead of me in a medium sized small plane with an ex-military skydiver who swore she would have the time of her life. I followed with Javier my skydiver who was handsome and big, and my fat girl said inside my head, “well the worst thing that could happen is one of us lands on top and the other on bottom,” either way was fine with me.  I started to get nervous when we headed to the plane. My naysayer was looking for any possible reason to back out. I wasn’t going to let Peggy go alone, although she was in a separate plane, I am not a quitter. 

 We take off and as we are approaching ten thousand feet alititude, I start to look around at my little plane and I notice all of the wires were hanging exposed and looked patched together with electrical tape. This is not good.  Javier was strapped to me, but what if we crashed? The big shocker was when I looked to my right and noticed that my pilot was wearing a parachute.  That’s it, I wanted this plane to land right then. Worry wart is out in full force, every single thing was wrong with the plane, the excursion and what a stupid idea. What was I thinking?

It was too late,  we were at the jumping point and Javier tucked my jump suit in so he could see my altimeter. He said lets go and I froze. This plane unlike Peggy’s required that I step out on a little strut by the wheel and then jump, hers? all she had to do was rollover and she fell out. Javier helps me with my first leg as it wouldn’t move.  I am silent and convinced I am about to die, then he helps me with my second leg it wouldn’t move either. And just as we practiced we rocked once, twice and the third time we jumped and I yelled a very specific four letter word but extended it to at least 10 syllables.  What was I thinking jumping out of a perfectly good airplane? I was so consumed by my fear I forgot that I had a camera man directly in front of me filming my great adventure to remember forever. I didn’t even notice him. All I wanted to do is open my shoot, but not before five thousand feet and not after either, at precisely five thousand feet. And I did.

Oh My Goodness What Was I Thinking

Then words fail to describe the experience, the calm, the serene, the floating sensation, the view, the toggle straps they cause you to sway and spin. It was breathtaking, all I could say was “E” Ticket, most people don’t even know what an “E” ticket is, back in the day when they had ticket books,  it was reserved for only the very best, the scariest and fastest rides at Disneyland.  We made it safely to the ground text book landing and I gasped, out of breath, voiceless.  Bob Davies was right,  a mind tape that even when I play it back now gives me goose bumps. I might add that after this I went on to have a banner year in sales, I got promoted twice and was unstoppable in my field.

I still struggle with the negative self talk now and then, the inner grump who keeps me bound by not doing, not dreaming, discounting my experiences and has me playing small.

Maybe Bob Davies had it right, conquer your fears, overcome that inner critic, stop listening to your inner demons, the naysayer that keeps shoveling out poop. I might, rather I must consider giving Wilford the nag, a new job description, perhaps Cheerleading is just what is needed to stand forward and to claim all that is mine to have, that which I am meant to be.

Unstoppable.

He delivers life lessons to me at the most inappropriate times. He tests me and my metal. Shelly the street fighter hates the good girl and the truth is she wants to kick ass, take names and numbers and be the last one standing. She is tired of getting the short end of the stick and her whole existence stems from “when people lie, I pay the price”.

How did she arrive here? When I was very young, my brother found that in seeking out attention, the negative version was a much faster payoff, than the positive version i.e. good grades, good work, chores done early etc. So he would do things, sometimes out of stupidity and other times I am not sure what he was thinking but the end result was the same, he got noticed.  

For instance once he decided to pour my cough syrup in the utensil drawer to see if the forks, knifes and spoons would stick together. It’s amazing they actually did.  Duh.  He then decided to tell my very angry mother that I did it. What? I was shocked, at age 5 I knew that was a stupid thing to do however at the time my parents didn’t know who was telling the truth. He was older and supposedly knew better. In the end we both got spanked.

The disparity between that which appears to be and that which really is, continued along with joint punishment until I was age 8 or 9. By then they my oblivious parents started to figure out I simply was not that dumb to continue doing stupid things in order to get myself caught and in trouble. Hmm must be the one who was in desperate need of attention? Which was not me. By the time is I was old enough to understand what he was doing and having paid for it with various forms of punishment I formulated the story that when people lie, I pay the price. Oh and I was pissed.  So much so that I would throw things at him, yell at him, and tackle him and make him suffer dearly when he did lie.

Here comes Shelly the street fighter, a lean, mean, lying, busting machine. My brother lied about everything. I was so frustrated by his inability to recognize the truth, respect it, or understand the consequences of his lying I literally lost my lid when he did. Clearly, I have struggled with this issue most of my life and you know how the saying goes…What you resist, persists? Men keep showing up and not telling me the truth.

I found small pleasurable ways of paying my brother back for his treasonous ways. Like the time I had convinced him to come out and ride a horse that I touted as being broken to ride not only bareback also with just a halter and a lead rope. He of course, fell into Shelly the street fighters trap. This mare was cuckoo. Absolutely nuts. I never knew if I would be riding her or thrown off of her. I gave him a leg up and then slapped her in the butt and off she took, leaping, hopping, snorting, her eyes rolled back in her head, come to think of it my brothers did too. My brother is 6’4” and all legs, if you can imagine his legs were flapping like a set of wings trying to stay upright and upright on this mare. I was so going to pay for this. I had already cleared the first fence by the time she had bucked him off. Revenge can be sweet. I thought as I was headed over the second pasture fence and figured I was easily going to clear the third and make into the barn office where my dad would offer protection. My brother hopped both fences and was clearing the third, as I was heading into the main office, where my dad was both laughing actually snorting and denying my protection in the same breath. He watched the whole thing happen and said I was on my own, even if my brother was dumb enough to get on that mare. In an effort to get away, I rounded the office and headed out the back door and was heading for refuge on the other side of the horse pool when my brother caught up with me. He got me by the back of the pants, a grip even street fighter wasn’t going to lose. At once I knew my fate, in the horse pool I was tossed fully clothed, wranglers, ropers and all. Only one small problem, the pool was a round with slanted sides and was ripe with green slime you know just enough scum to be slippery. My dad let me dog paddle around a bit before he threw me a rope so I could get out. Do you know how hard it is to swim in tight jeans and cowboy boots.  Did I actually say that revenge can be sweet?

I continued to deal with my brother and his little white lies until I was in my late teens by then Shelly the street fighter was outsized and out muscled by him my paybacks became more verbal in nature and well I got really good at it too. I had perfected my verbal attacks and was quick to go to battle and would verbally fight until the death or the last word, hence my new nick name, Last Word Cofini. Lying to me was the trigger and Shelly the street fighter loved to go to war over the injustice.  What you resist, persists? This aspect surfaced later in life too.

Did I mention Mickey fibs a lot? I tease him of course, but behind the laughter is an ouie…of disproportionate pain.  Hence the battle of 2006 to 2008, it was a long and drawn out war, inspired by many told untruths and fueled by alcohol. Thank god I can’t throw well. Small kitchen appliances were thrown and dodged. There were many casualties. At least our neighbors didn’t record the myriad of noises erupting from our small little quaint white picket fence beach cottage, as it would have moaned in agony. We were supposed to be happy there. As a result of him not telling the truth and me reliving my painful past of punishment is coming. I know it is. There were some long-term injuries too and a few things that will/should/must be forgiven and forgot in order to get past them…otherwise it will be the destruction of what was once thought of, as the perfect partnership. War is never pretty and lying rarely benefits either party. It will be the death of a relationship. I mourn the past, he relishes in it.

As for the street fighter, she will have to learn to accept the good girl as she is better equipped to communicate, she is loving and supportive. She handles conflict constructively and her upsets aren’t as frequent, in fact there is very little that disturbs her peace. She is a lover not a fighter and she is here to stay.

The coy one falls in love way too easy. She is so wants to express herself and her feelings and in the past that got confused and jumbled with her sexuality too. While the coy one was never promiscuous she definitely made choices based on the ever changing climate in her head which has a lot to do with the party people and listening to too many opinions about who she should be or better yet how she should be. She was confused and she is reserved and she is sexually charged and not easily satisfied in love.  There are many times in my past where she simply got me in to a whole lot of trouble. Choices have consequences and there are incidents where she was driving the bus and got us stuck in traffic, lost in part of town we had no business being in, and on an occasional blind date I wished I hadn’t gone on.

My girlfriends used to tease me and tell me I was like flypaper, if I entered the room, there would be one or more guys on my trail. What they didn’t know was inside of me I was torn between being painfully shy and wanting to be wanted, I didn’t know. Ah! that old story surfaces again. In my relationships I would liken it to having one foot in and the other out the door but sitting on a banana peel. I could stay or I could go. A slippery slope for me to operate on, this is the coy one at work.  She can be trouble for sure, clingy and distant all at once. I cannot tell you how many men she has fallen head over heels for and all at once decidedly she was not interested any more. I am not sure if it is the conquistador or concubine she prefers.  I know that she prefers to be noticed, seen and affectionately sought after, being pursued is better than pursuing,  although she equally is equipped to do both.

How in the past has this shown up for me? Well, for instance my girlfriends once formed a club called the ABS club, defined as “the anybody but Shelly club”. I was not invited to their outings because they said if I entered the room whatever available or non-available men within proximity would be buying me a drink.  They meant it as a joke, but deep down I think they were trying to tell me to turn it off, whatever it was I had turned on. The coy one in her very paralyzing shyness is an expert flirt.  Eye contact that goes beyond a friendly gaze, more like an internal longing trying to connect with a soul,  wanting to fall in love if only for a moment.  She watches, silently, she notices everything too.

It is when she is conquering she does the most damage. Like the time when dating a wonderful guy Tal, she decided to accept a dinner date request from a man I had been talking to on the phone at work for several months. He had the sexiest voice I had ever heard. We had not met in person, and the coy one in her full out conquering mode decided one little dinner date could not hurt. She wasn’t satisfied; she needed more of something, if she had only known what.  I remember asking him what he looked like; the alarm should have gone off in my head when he said “GQ”. I thought well ok, sexy voice and body.

She had conspired a time when he would be in town to meet for dinner.  The day prior he sent a dozen roses, a teddy bear and bottle of champagne to my office, the coy one was very pleased. She insisted I buy a sexy new top and skirt to wear to dinner. She conspired with her two roommates too; logistics and whereabouts had to be coordinated.  Peggy and Mary promised to keep the date a secret. They were secretly conspiring with the coy one too.    

So the coy one agreed to pick him at the orange county airport, we would go have a few drinks, some dinner and his hotel was right around the corner from the restaurant so I could give him a ride there afterwards.  The coy one tells my, at the time very gorgeous young Elvis look alike boyfriend, Tal that I had a dinner meeting after work with a colleague flying in from Phoenix. She told him it would be a late evening and I would call him the next day. I coordinate with Peggy the emergency out, which is to call me should this prove to be a disastrous choice and tell me her mom needs to go to hospital or something like that. The coy one always has a backup plan.

As I am leaving the house my stomach is filled with butterflies of anticipation, anxiety and guilt for telling Tal a lie. Peggy wanted to follow me to the airport I begged her not too, in fact she needed to stay at home on standby should I call to check my messages. She was my backup plan remember?

So I am off to the airport, as I turn the corner I think I see something running after me but I dismiss it, it must be my nerves. Back in the day you could just pull up to the curb and pick up someone as the orange county airport was one level, quite small and had virtually no traffic.  Dan aka Mr. sexy voice told me he was carrying a blue overnight case and had on a grey jacket.  Remember, I have not met him at this point I have no idea what he looks like and the coy one is in love with his voice.

I pull up to the airport loading zone and park. My phone rings, it was him telling me he is walking out from the plane, “Great, I am out front”, I said. My phone rings again, while I am turning down the radio, a series of events play out so quickly and yet so slowly that I cannot imagine this is happening to me. As I am ending the call with my client and I look in the rear view mirror and I see something move abruptly.  I look again only with more focus and I realize that my best friends, my roommates Peggy and Mary had followed me to the airport and when they saw me look in the rear view mirror they both scrunched down in their seat so all I could see is two pairs of tennis shoes up on the dash of her car. At first I was confused, then shocked and then pissed. At that precise moment this man walked up to the car, all I saw out of the corner of my eye was a grey member’s only jacket?  Personally, I despised them as my ex-husband used to wear one everywhere we went, yuck I thought what a tacky jacket.  Then I looked further and in his pocket he had one of those plastic pocket protectors with several pens in it… I gasped!  Oh my god, coy one what have you done? I ask myself.  It gets worse. He starts to reach for the handle on my car door. I look in the rear view mirror, Peggy and Mary are laughing and all I see is 4 tennis shoes wiggling about on the dash of her car. He opens the door and bends down to reveal to me he is wearing coke bottle thick glasses and sporting a seventies side swept haircut. GQ? I thought, GQ? He said GQ? I was thinking the Calvin Cline Ad, the coy one is thinking Mark Vandorloo. That is GQ? Members only? Pocket Protector? Glasses of the blind sighted variety? He was carrying a blue overnight case. It was him, this was my blind date. It all happened so quickly, in my mind I watched it in slow motion. In my hands were my keys which were in the ignition. I could have started the car, I could have driven away. I froze. In the rear view mirror were 4 tennis shoes dancing on the dashboard, clearly Peggy and Mary were peeing their pants laughing at Mr. GQ.

He pops in the car excited to see me and reaches over to give me a kiss on the cheek, with my head pressed up against the driver side window in an effort to pull way, he kept coming at me, and like a dog happy to see its owner planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.  I check the rear view mirror one more time, and the party in my head is going on full swing, how did this happen? How did I get here? All I see is tennis shoes on the dashboard dancing about. Best friends suck.  

I composed myself and then proceeded to the restaurant.  Shelly the good girl showed up and felt bad about judging him solely on his appearance and the coy one she was angry, she was stuck on the GQ explanation and huge disparity of our perceptions of what GQ meant.  

We went to Prego a restaurant I frequented then.  I knew the staff and the chef, they wanted to give me the prime table upfront, and I gracefully declined and asked for a table in the garden room (it was in the very back the restaurant). I promptly ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio, I quietly figured out this was a two bottle blind date for sure. Dan gazed at me convinced that we were destined to be here at that precise moment, he reached for my hand. In order to not lead him on any further I kept my hand occupied with my glass of wine, at first gulping it then slowly turned to sipping it frequently. It kept my hand moving and free from his clenching grasp.  I made it through dinner with moderate composure and a slight buzz. My best friend Peggy finally called with my backup plan after desert had come… Best friends? Huh. He wanted to go dancing. All I wanted to do was to call Tal and fess up, I was not in control it was the coy one and her need for conquering that caused me to lie, to go on a blind date and to orchestrate such a fiasco.

I took Dan back to his hotel again with my face pressed up against the driver side window he planted an overly zealous wet kiss on my cheek. I said “thank you for a lovely evening.” He then reached in his bag and told me he brought me a present. I inwardly felt really awful at this point and said “oh, no that is not necessary.” He said, “I insist” he then handed me two Wells Fargo branded beer coozies. I paused for a second and then smiled and said “thank you, these will come in handy by the pool” and said goodnight.  I did not speak to Peggy or Mary when I got home, although I was met at the door with several drunken apologies spliced together with laughter and snot coming out of their noses. Bitches.

The next day Dan had called me at work at least 15 times before lunch. The coy one had to break it to him, she told him that he is a wonderful person but there was not a possibility for a love match.  That night after work I drove straight toTal’s house and confessed my sins. He forgave me and the makeup sex satisfied the coy one. Go figure.

The coy one is trouble for me for sure. She falls in love way to easily,  with way too many men all at once. She is a hopeless conqueror and she is the cause point of great heartache, an insatiable sex drive and the fire and fuel of my passion for romantic love.  I have learned to appreciate her inner sweetness, her shyness and her endless flirtation, after all she is a part of me that makes me, me.

The Voice of Reason and My Best Friend, where did you go?

This voice of reason thing deserves to be explored on a deeper level, we know it is there and there are times when it is like a siren in our head, just short of the red flashing light atop heard saying “don’t go there,  really don’t do it… ever”. Other times it is a subtle whisper, you can barely hear it, saying something like, “well I personally would think about this twice before you jump in.” And then there are times where it is non-existent. You look, you listen and where did it go? You ask and ask and ask again, nothing.

That is where best friends come in. With your best friend you have no voice of reason. My best friend aspect will do anything to help a friend out. She will agree to show a dairy cow at a fair, go on a blind date with her boyfriends best friend who doesn’t look anything like her hot boyfriend, she will wear a really awful bridesmaid dress a not utter word about the color peach, she will corroborate stories and locations for best friends boyfriend, boss or mother, she’ll even tell little white lies just to save her friend from well having her life ruined by some minor indiscretion, even if he was your ex-future husband.   I have had plenty of these moments in my life and there are a few which are frozen in my memory, stuck in time when I look back and say you cannot make this shit up…really you can’t.

The bulk of my learning came from my best friend aspect; she is the one at the party who will arrive early to help and stay late to clean up. She will pull your hair back while you are vomiting, because you drank too much and she will tell you that you drank too much and finish with how you look great in those jeans. You know what I am talking about right? She will also withhold unnecessary details about the guy you were making out with by the bathroom in order to save you the embarrassment of it later.

For instance, when we moved to the ranch in Riverside, I joined a school association called Future Farmers of America. So in FFA you were responsible for having a project and projects usually included attending a local fair, writing to local Bank presidents to come and bid on your pig, while competing with other pigs, you get best pig, you sell it…and off it goes…somebody will get USDA grade A bacon soon.

Ok, back to my best friend Cindy and the dairy cow incident.  My best friend Cindy decided to buy to two Holstein Heifers, breed them and take them to market, two? One is enough but two that is some serious cash and a whole lot of work.  You wondered how all those country kids drove around in those brand new supped up pick-ups? Future Farmers of America. Should have been named Future Entrepreneurs of America.

Ok, so Cindy talked me into helping her out and showing one of the heifers at the Chino fair. This story is absolutely true. What you are about to read I couldn’t possibly make up. What she failed to mention to me is the heifer I would be showing was “in heat” and this will play out in a series of events that proved to be life altering for me.  My voice of reason had clearly disappeared, for what I had thought to be for good.  

So I am at the Chino fair, in my brand new white wranglers, polished roper boots and my blue corduroy jacket, hair done neatly ready to assist my best friend. My best friend aspect is there too ready to do whatever is needed or expected of her within reason. Reason? Hmmm.

We washed the cows, no problem, brushed them, combed their mane and were ready to apply some hoof dressing, kind of like polishing shoes. I bent over to put the “blacker than black” polish on my heifers’ hoofs, since I would be showing her, I wanted her to look perfect, that is what best friends do right?  Something  just awful happened.  It was at this precise moment when I bent over to put dressing on her front hoofs, that she decides to attempt to mount me… Remember that “in heat” part that my best friend Cindy failed to mention? I spill “blacker than black” all over my brand new white wranglers and  truth is I am ready to die of embarrassment. (This is an important part to remember) I looked around to see if anybody saw what happened. Voice of reason should have said “don’t walk, run”…But no, I am a loyal friend, a best friend so I soldier on. Voice or no voice of reason.

In the showing ring this cute, not so little heifer decides she will try to mount anything that moves including other cows, other kids, even the judge. I could swear someone was filming this…am I being punked? I kept circling her around just to keep her moving and away from anything standing still.  I make it through the incident but I know my mom is going to kill me for messing up my new jeans. Best friend remember?  I survive with or without my voice of reason.  No inner guide here…just pure stupidity.  What was I thinking? Best Friend?

Best friend Cindy, talks me into buying a pig for my project she sold me on the idea that pigs were easy to work with. She said were really smart and had short growth period and would sell for quite a large some of money at the fair.  Hence the best friend project, the pig I named “Junior”.  I paid $90 for the piglet, with the idea of feeding him up and fattening him up for the fair. Little did I know?  

You train pigs to walk about by tapping them on gently on the cheek with a cane, it guides them and in the showing ring and it is important for the judges and buying public to see them move about,  instead of burrowing in a corner. Junior didn’t like the cane; he liked burrowing in the corner. I worked with him for months and months, prodding, poking, tapping, whacking and nothing worked. Where was Cindy, the best friend? Too busy with her two heifers to care.  My voice of reason, asked “ is it possible I bought the stupidest pig ever?”

Show time is around the corner, the Victorville fair. I wrote to every bank president with in miles asking them to come and bid on my pig.  I was sure he would go all the way to grand champion, even though he clearly had a negative IQ.  They weren’t buying him for his brains, it was his  bacon quality they were after.I am ready for the trip, I get dressed in my white pants, remember these were the ones soiled   from that heifer that was in heat? My mom refused to buy me a new pair so she just bleached the crap out of them, this part is important. They look good and still fit so what, or so I thought.

My pig, Junior does very well, even though he is stupid and prefers digging his nose in the corner. He is a healthy Duroc pig with great confirmation and the judges really like him. I get invited to show him in the main arena, go figure we are up for grand champion; this is a very big deal…Best friend Cindy shows up for that too. For me it translates to more dollars per pound (I am secretly thinking of a down payment on a brand new pickup truck)  

Best friend  where did you go? I am in the main ring, there are hundreds scratch that, at least a thousand people watching as I move Junior around the ring. Just then he burrows his nose in the corner…uggh “How are the judges going to see your great big bacon butt if you are in the corner?”, I say to myself…I am SO done with this pig, thanks Cindy, my best friend.   I tap him with the cane and nothing….Oh God, please don’t do this to me now. This is the main event.

In my head the party is in full swing the voices are saying, “this is the show” I see Kevin Costner in my head talking about the pro’s, “In the Show… I am meant to display my superior handling skills” and “In the Show… the judges need to see your superior meat quality”, back to present…”please Junior move”, I beg.  I squat down to give him a shove, gently. Then not so gently, no one can see me, we are huddled in the corner, or so I thought,

 At that precise moment, my perfectly white “like new” wranglers that my mom bleached so perfectly clean, split right up the inseam from knee to crotch. In front of everyone. I froze.  I wanted to die. Voice of reason bailed…nowhere to be found. Cindy she split too, I believe the laughter and snot coming out of her nose had something to do with her vacating the scene of the crime. I had to walk like Carol Burnett playing the secretary whose skirt was too tight…actually I waddled. Of course I might add that these pants were a just bit too tight and perhaps I might have laid down on the bed to zip them up, with pliers? See The Fat Girl post.  Not the first time I have done that.   I stood still while Junior burrowed and the  Party in my head was in full swing, voices from every direction…Whose idea was it to buy a pig? Who invented Clorox? Who thought of the stupid white pants as ideal outfit to show farm animals in? Why is my mother so cheap? Where is my best friend now?  Doesn’t Cindy sounds like a pig when she snorts? Best friend my butt. Why does this stuff always happen to me?

 I waddled and he burrowed our way to Junior Grand Champion.  I got a Blue Ribbon and he got $11.00 dollars per pound ,that is me kneeling behind him so no one could see the rip in my pants, Yep, me and Junior the pig…

It was at least three days before I spoke to my mother.

and My Best Friend Cindy?

Cindy who?

The good girl well she is hell-bent on being perfect. How long I have tried, how gosh darn tired I am of being good, trying to be good, wanted to be liked, desperately needing to be liked. All in an effort to support the story I bought in so many years ago. If I am good, I will be noticed and loved.  Being good just for the sake of it of being good. It‘s the right thing to do I’d say. My goodness she is well liked for sure, super sweet, loves being in service to others, you can count on her, give it to Shelly she will do it.  But all the effort it takes to hold up that stupid old story, my biceps should be tired, hell my whole body. 

I have spent years living in the “if I am a good girl” I will be noticed, appreciated, loved, honored, respected. Blah blah blah… I mean listen to it, just thinking about it makes me tired. Technically it makes me want to vomit.  If anyone ever recorded the voices in my head how many times I secretly said WTF. I say it on a regular basis in my head, well I’ve said it before you cannot make this shit up. 

So the good girl soldiers on, she cannot say no most of the time and deep down feels guilty even if she thinks about it.  The good girl trusts when she shouldn’t. She hangs on to a glimmer of anything good, a tiny bubble of hope it fuels her to keep holding on, waiting for someone to notice how good she really is. The good girl has some great stories to tell too. 

The Good Girl

An example of the good girl moment would be after I found out my ex-husband was having an affair with the next door neighbor, my best friend at the time,  Marla.  I decided after trying to save my marriage to no avail, as “he was in love”,  to pack my stuff up and put it in storage, I dreaded this idea.  Everything in the house for the most part was mine, the furniture, electronics, computers, art, dishes etc…So while I am still in shock, my mom and my girlfriends rallied,  they all showed up to help me pack. Myself? A total wreck kept alert and coherent only by my mom feeding me Xanex and white wine spritzers, a wonderfully dangerous combo, oh don’t forget the keebler butter crackers too,  as I had no appetite. The affair came as quite a shock.   

Mom was bound and determined to pack everything up including the toilet paper, bags of sugar, (storage?) paper napkins partly used, the foil off of leftovers…she wanted everything to go. I think in part she was making the statement how dare you cheat on my baby and in part for her own healing of a failed marriage. I proceeded under the influence and partly being run by the good girl to following her around taking out of the boxes one roll of toilet paper, one set of silver wear, one plate, one cup, one set of bath towels, one set of sheets, one thing of mustard?… 

By now I was keenly aware he was sleeping at her house, the girls had nicked named her “Marla the Matrimonial Moocher” and yet I here I am worried that he won’t have dishes to eat on or towel to dry off with. My lord the good girl can be dense sometimes. Bless her heart. 

It was pretty funny how my girlfriends and mom convinced me that perhaps I should not be worried about his well being, his stomach, or what he wipes with…for that matter that  I should turn my to focus on starting a new. They began following me around repacking the stuff I so carefully unpacked. He was left with not much, a chair and some cheesy bachelor stuff he had prior like the pressed wood waterbed he so loved, his 70’s art and his bong.  The good girl was so guilty. They even put his dirty clothes on the patio dumped out of the hamper to just blow away in the wind. Those nasty girls. 

I got tougher over time but the good girl still prevails and it usually coincides with the time when I need to grow some serious balls too. She is the one who puts me in compromising positions especially when the words Fuck-off would do much better.  She is proper, polite and sometimes she is so gullible. I silently hate her for that…She’s the frickin wall mart greeter.   

It’s time for her to dump the rose colored glasses and trade them in for something more useful like a pair of readers bought at the drugstore with leopard print, 2.0 magnification used to make things bigger, bring them to light, make them clearer, more in focus and seen for what is, real.  Then she needs to equip herself with some great one-liners like; 

That’s your stuff not mine. 

You’re kidding right? 

Not my job man. 

I wish I could help you but? 

I really feel your pain. 

You will get through this. 

Tomorrow is a new day. 

Anything is possible. 

This too shall pass. 

Tough break. 

I hear you and I hear what you are saying 

Oh and the most important one of all 

NO.

As such it is  necessary to have a closet that is sorted  in size sections, 6, 8, 10 and then 12, 14 and for a very short period and I hate to admit it size 16 (ps. our secret).  Now please understand I am not judging anyone else at this point, I have no right to point a finger no matter what your size. This is just me judging me and exploring  as you will  find out that it doesn’t matter if I am 8 or 16, the Fat Girl is at the party, large and in charge.

She is sassy too. Where did she come from, well I could say it was my brother teasing me when I was little?  But blaming him is weak and so sad too.  My brother did not make me fat.  I remember at age 7  buying one of the halter swim suits with the top that had a a skirt to hide my belly. Shelly, Shelly, Big Belly, Banana Fana, Mo Mani, Shelly,  she got a belly…  He would say, Shelly Belly. I found a picture this week and looking back I was not fat, but at the time I remember the thought of a two piece made me want to cry. I knew that only ‘fat girls” wore one piece bathing suits, so the halter tank was the perfect solution, or so I thought.

I can’t remember how I became so self-conscious? but I was and it felt like it was all-consuming too. Was my hair done just right?  How did my clothes fit?  Did my stomach stick out too far?  This lasted for quite sometime, until I rebelled for a year or two… I can tell by looking at the pictures of my childhood especially the 4th and 5th grade…let’s just call them “bad hair years” not days but years. It is clear to me now that at that time I was fighting for my self-image or lack thereof. I have pictures where I am convinced a hair brush or comb  was not in my possession at the time.  I was a tomboy.

Oh and you cannot be fat and hang with the boys… you got teased.

The girls were meaner, much meaner I must admit.  So except for other tomboy’s fitting in, seemed like a full-time job. By 6th grade my self-image was back at the top of the order.  Hair, clothes, weight, it all mattered. It took time too. It was painful and it was nerve-wracking. My hair was curly, I wanted it straight. It was short, I wanted it long. I was always struggling with my weight, the 10 lbs., seemed like a ball and chain I carried with me. I was cute but would have been cuter without the 10 lbs.; I was popular but would have been more so without the 10 lbs. The clothes I wanted to wear, were just 10 lbs. away from fitting  10 lbs. was the difference between being happy and blissful.

Self-judgment began to take its  hold and so the story was created, “The Fat Girl” had to compensate for. She became funny, she was goofy, she was  the class clown, very witty, she flirts a lot and she’s known for telling the truth, the whole truth. She’s  fighting a battle she would never win, secretly getting dressed alone. Staring at the mirror in shame, part disgust and part empathy. I remember in an effort to not wanting to move up a size in my wrangler jeans, I would lie down on the bed just so I could zip them up.  When that didn’t work I reverted to using  pliers to help.  It is funny to think of now they were so tight, I could barely hike my leg up high enough to put my boot in the stirrup to get on the horse, once I was up there I could barely breath…Oh vanity has its price.  

My mom had a fat girl too, I watched her struggle with her weight as well.  Only she is 5′ 1/2″, (the 1/2 is very important to her) as for me, I am 5′ 9″.  I can hide my extra 10 lbs. easier than her. She was skinny too, then fat, then skinny, then fat; a revolving door for clothes shopping. I am referring to her sub-personality here not her physical size I doubt that my mother was ever really “Fat”,  just 30 lbs. away from being her normal size. I have pictures of her at 99 lbs., at 110 lbs., 140 lbs. and well it would not be proper for me to disclose the rest. A lady never talks about her weight or her age. Right?  She drank diet Dr. Pepper, Diet Tab, and ate french fries, cookies and powdered sugar donuts. Sometimes she would make us chocolate chip pancakes for dinner with peanut butter and syrup. The fat girls loved that.  Ok so a good diet was not a household commonplace with dishes such as chicken fried steak, fried okra, fried potatoes, homemade gravy, biscuits, biscuits, biscuits and gravy did I say biscuits?  need I go on. Now I am hungry. Go figure. Ha. No pun intended.

My mom would make butter cream frosting and freeze it…we used to eat it like candy. When I got older I would do the same thing, the men in my life would never understand this, who needs cake I would say? I simply cut to the chase I am only interested in the icing.  Then like her, after the sugar rush was on full tilt,  I would follow it up with eating a sliced lemon with salt.  I know it makes no sense but that is how she did it and now so do I,  except for the icing part I gave that up years ago. Don’t think, I don’t think about it…the icing or the craving.

My grandmother would feed me ice cream with PDQ on top (chocolate sprinkles) after a storm or tornado hit when I was visiting in Oklahoma, for her it was a way of calming my stomach. As a little girl I would get very upset during tornado warnings, I was so so scared. Yes, my family had a sweet tooth. Perhaps that is it. My fat girl didn’t have a chance in this family, although my Grandmother is 4’11″ she was never fat. 

I now buy the little single servings of ben and jerry’s so I don’t over indulge…on a stormy night it hits the spot. Did I learn to use food for comfort? I was asked this at class, I said no but now I think so. Who eats chocolate chip pancakes with peanut butter and syrup for dinner? I know it sounds disgusting but when I was younger it was good and now I have no idea why.

My fat girl carried over  into adult life, as way for me to perpetuate my story of not being wanted. I have since found out “that story” was not my story, clearly it was my family story passed down to me from previous generations. Thank God. Thank you, Geneogram.

When I felt a big change was eminent or on the horizon, the extra pounds would show up.  Slowly, I mean barely noticeable at first then overnight…who is that in the mirror? All at once I am 30 or 40 lbs heavier. I am way past the extra 10 bls. Nothing fits.  I hide the weight with trendy trench coats, long jackets, mens shirts.   Today it is Five O.   Yep, 50 lbs.  How did I get here?  I have in the past,  blamed it on my  thyroid, and part of the 50 lbs. is that for sure, plus no one would dare hold me responsible for it. Oh, yea, she has thyroid issues. Poor thing.  Never mind she inhales m&m’s like a vacuum sucking up dirt. Bless her heart.

But remember the fat girl tells the truth, the whole truth. So the truth is, the 50 lbs. is protection, period. It protects me when I am having man issues, money issues, self-esteem issues, diet and exercise issues, feeling wanted issues, allowing verbal abuse, suppressing my anger and resisting saying something I really need to say. Whew…that was an extraordinarily long list of issues.  She shows up pre-issue, and post-issue.

She quietly suffers when her man stares at every perfect body that walks by. Yes, I feel shame, I feel embarrased and I feel less than.  Remember where I live Newport Beach- The OC,  the land of the make believe. We cannot go anywhere where I am not reminded of what I am not; perfectly thin whether natually, athletically  or doctor assisted.  He will look, he will notice them all and my fat girl simply cannot hide that kind of pain or shame.  The other women will always notice me when this is happening, I wonder what it is they are thinking?  is it;  ”Oh look who he is with, that fat girl”  that hurts no matter how much I know that is self-judgment in action. Then sometimes I secretly think maybe it’s  ”hmmm…why would she be with him?  that guy…you know the one who is always checking everyone else out but her “ Either way…it hurts.

How does she cope?  She is overworked, she undersleep’s and she laughs about things that are very painful when internally deep down, she really wants to cry.  She is the nice, sweet big-hearted, big girl that would take a bullet for her friends. The kinda a girl who is way too giving of her time, too open with her heart and unbelieving of her own essence and expects little in return. 

 Because the truth is she just wants to be loved, appreciated, admired, respected, honored, and cherished.

She is just  50 lbs away from total bliss.  And she knows it.  Or so she thinks.  I believe that Aristotle once said “Happiness is choice” and so it is. It is time for me  to stop waiting for the storm to pass, and start dancing in the rain.

Go Shelly Go Shelly Go…

The Indentured Servant Girl…she is an amazing character I think she is an offshoot of The Good Girl, but really and I mean really she embodies this deep-seated desire to be trapped and bound by her suffering of her own cause. She is the consummate servant… Honey can you do this for me? Yes, I am happy to. Do you mind stopping by and picking up so and so? Not a problem it is out of  my way, but I will make it work.  On your way home can you stop by the store and get me…? Oh, sure I have only been sitting in class all day and drove home an hour in traffic, all while you were sitting at home watching TV…but yea I can stop.  Can you help me with this it will only take a minute? I am happy to help you…just let me know what needs to be done I will get it done.  

To serve others in such a way she continues  to feed off of the incessant need to be acknowledged and needed, liked and appreciated. Without the ability to say no, or lack of courage too….she is shackled and chained  so desperately wanting to be set free from this bondage.  

She was last seen trying to break free in a  recent dream, running along a river bank, climbing under fences stopping only to catch her breath, but truthfully I don’t think that burying disposable razors is going to do the trick, in the dream this was her device for cutting herself  and others to follow  loose…go figure. I was black and I was beautiful with my bosom bubbling over my civil war era southern servant girl dress with a corset so tight that made it hard for me to breath. I was escaping and I was scared. I have no clue where the disposable razors came in but at the time in my dream they were a key to freedom. Maybe it means I/she feel like we are disposable? Maybe the razors and just a metaphor for something you only keep around for a little while? Maybe it is because Mickey keeps using my razors in the shower and I have switched to buying disposable which I do not like so that I can have new clean razors to shave my legs with, without getting nicked….ahhh so many ways of looking at this dream.

She serves others because it is the “right” thing to do. Like paying for my brothers bus fair or covering his rehab visit so my mom will not worry. Or staying up late ironing shirts for Mickey because we didn’t have extra money for dry cleaning or laundry service for his dress shirts for work.  Even though he slept in that day and was perfectly capable of ironing a shirt himself.  I am searching for the answer as to when she came into being, how she got into the party, I know that it started with me stepping in financially for my brother when I was in my early 20′s and she has shown up to the party every now and then ever since.  I don’t want to feel trapped I want to be free. So perhaps learning to say no is my starting point? No you were not invited to this party. No I am so so sorry but I cannot do your job for you. No, I don’t Iron.  No, you know that is something you really need to figure out for yourself. No you may not use my razor…No. No. No. No. No.

Perhaps she has some courage afterall.