I watched the movie AWOL last night, and the truth is, it was just an average movie. But I was fascinated by it. I was fascinated by it because the movie is set in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, where I grew up, and everything from the trailer to working at the ice cream stand was the spitting image of a life I once knew so intimately. It was like stepping back in time—the junk yard pick up truck; the boozy men; the
You Wanna Be a Killer? Ask Yourself This Question Every Single Day
Alright, hotshot— so what are you going to do today to change it? *los you dead in the eye* *walks away*
Burnout Doesn’t Come From Your Business
At one point or another, you’ll question your work. You’ll question what you do, and whether you like doing it, and you’ll wonder if you’re on the right path, after all. At one point or another, you’ll be convinced that you hate your work. You’ll be disappointed by clients, discouraged by logistics, and burnt out from the routine of it all. And then you’ll remember. One client will remind you. One project will invigorate you. One spark will blow your
Working Yourself to DEATH: A Twisted Badge of Honor Reserved for The People Who Are Really Hurting
I remember when I was a little girl, I had a brilliant way of dealing with problems: Take one slice of American cheese. Fold it into fours. Pile two squares onto each cracker. Get as many crackers onto the plate as you could. They say that some people “stuff down their pain” with food, but I think it’s the opposite: You want your pain to be noticed by somebody else. It’s the only way you can show just how much
“Getting On the Phone With Clients Makes Me Want to Projectile VOMIT”
“Let’s hop on a call” strikes VAMPIRE-LIKE-TERROR into the heart of new business owners and experienced ones alike. When I to a survey asking why, here were some of the answers: Just puhleezze buy it…don’t make me ask!! The first 10 seconds are so awkward! I hate small talk but never know how to start the conversation right. I want to sound like a girl with brains and someone to be reckoned with—but I have no idea how. I hate
It Is a Tragedy, To Spend So Many Hours Working, and Have None of Them Matter to You.
It is a tragedy, to spend so many hours working, and have none of them matter to you. Why would we ever do this? Why wouldn’t we do something we care about, fiercely? Maybe we just aren’t sure what that is. Maybe that’s the real problem.
My Favorite Line for Handling Angry People With Dignity + Grace
“Why don’t you tell me what you think would be appropriate?” Useful language for handling complex situations like: A customer is unsatisfied. An employee is complaining. A friend is upset. Your sister is angry you don’t see her enough. A gorgeous Italian man is holding a very serious grudge because you denied his advances as you pranced into the sunset before you realized you were very, very stupid, and now you’re begging his forgiveness. (Torturous, I am sure.) Most of
Change Is Fucking Messy (Thank God)
Change is fucking messy. You’re effectively molding yourself, and re-molding yourself, the way a sculptor would a piece of clay. And yet, nobody says to the sculptor: Shame on you, butter fingers, for not having it perfect the first spin. Rather, there’s an expectation of process. Of trial, of error, of slow transformation; of forming, fashioning, shaping and smoothing. Nevertheless, we—masochistically enough—don’t allow ourselves the same courtesy. We expect flawless perfection, right out of the box. We beat ourselves up
How Do You Survive? How Do You Make It Through the Shitstorm—With Grace?
You forgive yourself, over and over and over again. You build little glass cases around your emotions, one by one. You don’t always like feeling sectioned off—but you forgive yourself for that, too. You are fragile now. You learn how to be fragile. Fragile means you need to play by different rules, for a while. “No” becomes your religion. Solitude becomes your faith. Your entire life pulls backward, like a tightened bow and arrow, going backwards, backwards, backwards, backwards,
Having Trouble Committing Yourself to That Project You Really, Really Wanna Do, But Can’t Seem to Get Started?
I’ve been writing a bo for nearly two years now, which sounds absolutely homicidal when I say it out loud. I mean, let’s be honest: most of my romantic relationships haven’t even lasted that long. (OKAY FINE, UNTIL NOW, BECAUSE THE LOS AND I ARE ON, LIKE, YEAR #BAZILLION.) I’ve learned a lot about commitment, these last two years, which means I’ve also learned a lot about myself. (For example, apparently I know jack shit about hyphens. Who knew?) But
Success Isn’t More Deserved When It’s Hard . . . BRAH
Can we talk about the fact that today is February 2nd? How is it February the 2nd already? Am I eighty hundred years old yet? Because time seems not to be going my way. (Though a friend did recently compliment me on my skin, however that was only because she didn’t see my neck. Is this the decade in which we slowly descend upon a dysfunctional, passive-aggressive relationship with turtlenecks?) Speaking of time, you ever notice that when you’re away
Lack of Sleep Turning You Into a Pissed Off 2-Year Old? I HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS.
Get a load of this insider information: Did you know your brain actually needs SLEEP? I’m pretty sure that none of us are ACTUALLY SLEEPING, and you know who I blame this entirely on? Wine. Holy mother of dragons, discovery of the decade: If I have wine at night, I will not be able to sleep. And by “not be able to sleep,” what I mean to say is that I’ll be laying there in bed like a pissed
So This One Time I Thought I Had Breast Cancer—And The Doctor Was a Huge D*ck
So today I placed my boobs into a giant, hospital-grade George Foreman grill and held my breath as the nurse to the X-ray. Let me tell you what, there is nothing quite like hoisting the flesh of your nipple onto a cold metal surface while a stranger watches. I mean, they’re definitely judging you. If not the size of your areolas, your dexterity. They’re there tapping their foot while you’re fuddling along with some necklace that never effing clasps when you want
Personal Sovereignty + Giving Yourself Options + Who Needs a Vodka?
So that happened this week. There’s a lot that could be said, and a lot I’ll refrain from saying, but I did want to send a courtesy note to say, first of all, that my new on business mentorship program is still moving forward—and starts tomorrow—and second, that holy moly, it’s about so much than your career. You know, I’d never thought too much about on business as something that could save the world—at least, not in much
UNF*CKWITHABLE BOSS: Red Hot, Brand New, Business Development & Refinery Program. Now Open for Enrollment!
Hang onto your pumpkin loafs! (By which I mean, eat all the pumpkin loaf and then get yo’ glasses on, because there’s big news in the house today.) My brand-new business mentorship program has just rolled up in a Cadillac and is currently swigging vodka before making its debut onto the red carpet. It’s called UNF*CKWITHABLE BOSS, and it’s here to change the face of modern work forever. Unconventional name? Check. Unconventional purpose? Double check. If you’ve been thinking about striking
Self-Hatred, Low Self-Esteem & Firing Those Lying Pricks From Your Payroll
Alright, real talk: It’s 4:27am and there should be laws against writing at these hours. Is this what drunk driving feels like? Because I’m pretty sure my eyes are doing cartwheels and my brain is like, “What the ****?” and all the while my stomach is all, LISTEN LADY IF WE’RE DOING THIS I’M GONNA NEED SOME ASSISTANCE DOWN HERE. I mean, I normally wouldn’t mind dragging a bag of Doritos into bed with me at this hour (it’s
Your Opinion About Yourself Doesn’t Matter
Real talk: I think you’re a liar. A very, very convenient liar. I can call you that because we’re all in the same club. Because the thing is, when you’re out there doing creative work, and new work, and work that has no manager, no support team, no pat on the back, there are days when you will wake up and be convinced that you’re a total fuck up; that you’re not any good; that you’re in over your head; that
“Never Lose Your Sunny Disposition. It’ll Be the Most Important Asset You’ll Ever Have.”
Her name began with an H. I brought the card down to the hotel lobby with a little swing in my pulse—not because I was nervous to give it to her, although in retrospect, maybe I was. I didn’t want it to seem like I was bribing her. (Or, you know, ASKING FOR SEX.) “My first Kate Spade!” she exclaimed, swinging the lid off the round pink and orange box with the same overflowing enthusiasm that had been the very
If you’re terrified you’ll be judged online, then you need to slow down, have a vodka & read this immediately.
Ohhhhh, fucking shit. Those are kind of the words I want to say all the time, except if I did say them all the time, I’m pretty sure I’d start to get sick of them, like one does after eating tuna fish every day (not like I’d know anything about that) and that’s really my greatest fear, really: Lackluster profanities. I mean, talk about losing the will to live. And then there are other reasons, of course, like the
You cannot be a sane person all the time. But you *do* get to choose where you spend your sanity.
You know what’s a real mind fuck? The whole “getting taken seriously” thing. Let’s be honest: How much do you just wish you could just hammer down some Doritos and blog about your mother-in-law? Or talk about the fact that, yes, you definitely swore under your breath at tourists last night, who, in their “Pura Vida Costa Rica!” childlike optimism, declared that the city-wide blackout—the one that happened RIGHT BEFORE YOU WERE ABOUT TO MAKE CHICKEN QUESADILLAS—was “charming.” Charming? Did
“Ding, Ding, Ding! You Can Have Fun Now!” <—The Universe Is Never Going to Send You This Email, Yo
I’m going to England tomorrow. By which I mean I’m stepping inside a long metal torpedo and sitting my fat ass down on some murky blue pleather for an exact distance of 5,429 miles across a cold, dreary ocean that always makes me wonder things I shouldn’t ever wonder. Like: Would I actually remain calm in case of THE BIG EVENT, like I think I would? Would I place my oxygen mask a top my bouncy little cheeks, knowing exactly
Stop Peeing Apologies Down Your Leg: Instead of Saying “I’m Sorry,” Say “THANK YOU”
I used to be a really nice person. I was the kind of person who would nod sweetly and enthusiastically, as if I had a permanent coating of cotton candy on my lips—even when I was seething inside. (Whether this made me nice or a moron is still up for debate.) I would never question anyone else’s opinions, assuming that if they thought it, that made it true; that they saw something I didn’t. I would never tell anyone “no,”
We Desperately Need to Learn How to Be Mothers to Ourselves
New life rule: If your mother is dead, DO NOT GET ON FACEBOOK ON MOTHER’S DAY. Not that it’s not pleasant to see the resemblance between every friend I’ve ever made and the woman that birthed her (THOSE EYES! THEY LOOK LIKE SISTERS!), but when you don’t have anyone to celebrate, and you’re not a mother yourself, you can end up feeling like everyone is having Christmas without you. In other words: Where the f*ck are my banana pancakes? Which is
The CEO might be her own boss, but she does not have to be her own bitch.
Being in business for yourself requires three things. A sense of discip. A sense of self. And a motherfucking tube of lipstick. When you run a business, NOTHING about your workday los like anybody else’s, and soon it follows that nothing about your life los very much like anybody else’s, either. Late nights. Unusual schedules. Working than everybody you know. Feast and famine. Elation and despair. Freedom on a Monday. Shackles on a Sunday. And your hilarious diet, which probably consists of
The Key to Fooling Everyone Into Thinking You’re a Natural at Public Speaking (Bye Bye, Stiff & Stuttery!)
“How many pisco sours have you had?!?!?!” The words galloped out of my mouth when my best friend, M, asked me—the girl who spells god with a lowercase g and who has openly questioned the institution of marriage—to officiate her wedding. The first image that came to mind was me standing on an altar wearing a maroon-colored robe, flicking water onto their foreheads and cueing Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act. The fact that my fingers wanted to type “alter” instead
There’s So Much Drama Around EVERYTHING.
There is so much drama. Around. Everything. I hear it everywhere. In es. In tweets. In friend’s secrets. In whispers across the internet. Should I launch this? But what about that? What if I fail? What if nobody buys? What if I wasted my time? What if my heart breaks in the process? Should I name my business something traditional or creative? But what if I hate it later? What if I decide to go in a different direction? Should
On Getting Old, Having No Idea How to Make a Soufflé & Consciously Choosing to Do What You WANT.
It’s 2:42 in the morning and the reason I’m awake is called CHARDONNAY. People talk about getting old—buying crock pots, nonchalantly cutting your spouse’s armpit hairs, relating to The Golden Girls than The Gil Girls—but they do not prepare you for the one thing that will change your life even than tiny packets of GrillMates: Insommeliernia. Which is obviously an evil-adult-spelling-bee hybrid of “insomnia” and “sommelier,” which if I’m being honest I still really don’t know how to pronounce. (Note to