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
You Don’t Have to Run Some Big, Cheesy Sale to Do Well
Picture it: Your d ones are sitting around roasting chestnuts on an open fire, while you’re hunched over the (pumpkin-pie-greased) keyboard, biting your fingertips and worrying whether or not you’ll have enough money to pull through to January. But what if you didn’t have to run some humongous holiday sale? What if you didn’t have to put ALL the pressure on yourself? What if you could make a few small changes and have it double your revenue in December-so January
Please, Don’t Get Hard (Even When Life Is)
So, I’m standing there at this bakery in Costa Rica, trying not to order the things one orders at a bakery, because if I order bakery-like things from this bakery, I might as well give my stomach pooch full on permission to never, ever fucking go away. And then what will become of me? Forget the fear of becoming a cat lady; I’m far terrified of becoming an angry, bitter old wench who could never stand to lo at
On Not Allowing: A Message for When You’re Feeling Whiny
“Just to let you know,” the massage therapist warned over the phone, “I’m blind.” She arrived to my house by taxi, and as she pulled up, she loed out the glass toward me as if she could see me…even though she could not. The art of the gesture stunned me. “Hello!” I greeted, wanting to be helpful without being condescending—a I wasn’t sure how not to cross. As she exited the car, the taxi driver—a shy, round thirty-something man
When You’re Scrappy, You Don’t Give a Sh*t
I like the term scrappy. I’ve always pictured some femme fatale bobbing and weaving and diving and into any number of ways to get the one and only job done that she’s there to do: Win. It reminds me of my favorite Will Smith quote (oh, you don’t have a favorite Will Smith quote?) “The only thing that I see distinctly different about me is I’m not afraid to die on a treadmill. I will not be out worked, period. You might
Remember When Life Was Easy? BECAUSE APPARENTLY I DON’T.
I used to know how to dress myself. Or at least, I used to know how to put on pants before putting on my shoes, because apparently when you make the decision to PUT A SHOE WITH A GIGANTIC SPIKE on your foot before you put your pants on, you spear a giant hole right through your pant leg. Remember when life was easy? Because I don’t. Because this is just one example of how I’m old now. And ain’t
A Story for the Downtrodden, Destitute, Distressed & Despaired
I come from what you’d call a humble background. I grew up in rural poverty in the poorest county of Pennsylvania, where we hung out at stone quarries and had the first day of hunting season off from school. We lived in a gold and white trimmed mobile home I was horrified of, and I would purposely walk the long way around the block to the bus stop so the other kids wouldn’t know where I lived. (They did.) My mom
There Are Much More Interesting Things You Can Be Doing With Your Time Besides Answering Some Nitwit’s Email
There I was, minding my own business, going about life as usual: Wondering how to substituting vodka for water, telling lies to small children (actually the boogieman will beat your ass) and thinking horrible things about other people. And then I flew to Guatemala last week. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Guatemala, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you probably haven’t thrown on a poncho and andale-ed on down recently.
Because You Don’t Want to Show Up At The Pearly Gates With a Big Ass Moral Hangover.
The phrase is simple: Goma moral. Here, where I am in Costa Rica, it translates into “moral hangover,” and you’ve got one if you stayed out too late, drank too much, said something you regret, or acted in any way irresponsibly the day before…and you feel guilty as sin. Forget the physical hangover; the moral one is the one that’ll get you. The one that hijacks early-morning positivity and manhandles it right into the trunk of a Caddy, causing you to wonder
Job Searching: Extending Your Cupped Hands & Hoping Someone Takes Mercy.
“Land of the free, home of the brave” should really have some fine that reads, “as long as you stick your tail between your legs, binge drink at baseball games and lo the other way.” As a population of people horrified with the slave practices of the past, it’s a bit ironic that most go through life participating in a slave practice of the present. As a society based on ‘time is money,’ they’ve got you by the balls.
Slow Down, Sign Your Name With Gorgeous Intention & FEEL.
Today would have been her 70th birthday. I’m wearing her gold aquamarine ring. I’m wearing it to remember to be gentle, to slow down, and to offer every stranger who ever sets foot in your house the biggest Italian bread sandwich known to man. To garden always (or at least try), to worship tomatoes, and to write fancy sick notes for my future children (complete with pressed flowers and calligraphy pens). To see the best in the cranky gas station
You Are Not a 7-Eleven.
“People need to understand what the fuck BUSINESS HOURS mean. I’m not 7-eleven, folks. I am not. If I wanted to be, I’d just run a 7-eleven. Big Gulps all the fuck around.”– Got that e from a frustrated business owner yesterday. I laughed so hard I almost spit wine on my bed. (I said almost. You know I wouldn’t be that wasteful. And yes, I DRINK WINE IN BED.)– Raise your hand if…you’re running yourself ragged trying to please fifty
You Know You Need a Change When…
The year I tried to juggle 1,407 balls in the air and still be nice to strangers in the super market taught me an important lesson: Busy isn’t a synonym for happy. Full doesn’t mean fulfilled. And people are pushy assholes in at the i counter. All of us are busying ourselves to death—sometimes quite literally—and the parade has got to stop. Are we really so strapped for time we need to be composing es on the toilet? Dear
You Think The Stakes Are High Now? Please.
I wonder about people. Specifically about the 50-something woman speaking softly at the table next to me, telling another woman how she desperately wants to go abroad—because, verbatim, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime—but… And her words trail off. JUST LIKE HER DREAMS. Kidding. Dramatic doesn’t lo good on me. But, really. What are all these buts holding everyone hostage? I want to start a business but… I know I need to end the relationship but… I know
When Faith Has an Affair And Walks Out On You–And Doesn’t Even Have the Decency to Look Back.
My mother had severe anxiety disorder. Diagnosed. Verifiable. Psychiatry level. She’d sit in the living room, what iffing life as it passed her by out the window. What if that check doesn’t come? What if that bill is high this year? What if I can’t go? What if it snows that day? My 16-year old go-to response was always, “Mom, everything’s going to work out. Everything always does in the end. Don’t worry.” And at the time, I truly believed it. Whether
9 Things Everyone Needs to Know About Success, Reality & Being Human.
There’s a strong possibility I’ll be diagnosed with systemic lupus on August 15th. (Update: I didn’t. In fact, I’m healthier than ever. Blood tests are crafty little fuckers, huh?) My latest bo proposal was rejected. I had to fire an employee yesterday because she neglected to get a client contract signed. I ignore friends and people I care about because I don’t have the mental energy to keep up with everyone. In fact, I have 64 unopened personal messages–and
The Moments In Between – PAY ATTENTION.
Success is shit. (Hang on – the punch is not what you think it is.) We’re always working toward it. (Are you rolling your eyes?) Listing out goals. (Inevitably on some overpriced moleskine.) Sweating. (A lot.) Hustling. (As much as we can before insanity sets in.) And pushing people out of our way to achieve it. (Violently. With tattered red heels.) Success. As if it were this tangible thing you can reach up, grab with your hands and cradle like a pudgy little
Shit You Should Never Feel Guilty About, Ever. Plus At Least One Johnny Five Reference.
There are a few things we need to get straight. Shall I make a list? Because lists seem to be in. And lists also mean I don’t have to figure out creative ways to transition paragraphs and actually think COHESIVELY. Because who does that shit on Fridays? Not me. Thinking cohesively, I’m pretty sure, is only reserved for Tuesdays. The rest of the week is some amalgamation (I actually spelled that right on the first try – na na na
It’s Friday! 3 Things To Make Your Day EVEN BETTER.
1. Gawk. Learn a thing (or two.) Get inspired. Giggle like crazy. And size up the raw beauty that is humanity–in all its patterns, glory, weirdness, cracks, eccentricities (can’t believe I spelled that right), and unpasteurized honesty. Go here to do all of that ——> www.humansofnewyork.com– 2. Someone needs you to believe in them right now. Because we’re humans. And we need one another. And just maybe? Believing in yourself isn’t always enough. We need the support of others. Give some.
Success Is Where the Heart Is
He sat in the far corner of the room–no clip board, no notepad, no smile. I couldn’t make out his face–the room was dark and the curtains were drawn. I waited for Al Pacino to bust down the door, cigar in hand. I was seated near the door, at a table, with a woman named Carol opposite me. I was to address Carol–not the man in the corner–and, most importantly, stay focused. I trembled as I pulled a box out
Paper In Your Coffee
There are some people who don’t get the whole concept of an assembly . You know who I’m talking about – those hanyacks at the Starbucks who come up beside you at the milk station, their panties in a bunch, tapping their foot, doing the hey pey at 8 o’clock in the morning because they are trying! to get around you! to use! the creamer! And then the pressure’s on. Oh is it on! You start to get flustered. They’re
The Numbers Don’t Mean Jack.
Hi. It’s me, Ash. Was that obvious? I’m sorry to pardon your regular programming, but today we’re going to talk numbers. I hate numbers–you can go square root your mom. But sometimes, you’ve got to lo at ’em. You know…like when it’s tax season. As you may remember, in 2011 I publicly showed the world how to make $100,000 in a year with a blog, using TMF as a case study. Just this past year I was pleased to see TMF alone pull
Your Life in 6 Words.
Remember that one time I got loose, drank too much eggnog* and packaged everything together in the TMF store for a wild, wild west of a discount–and then told all continental U.S. buyers that I’d even take it a step further and send a surprise to their doorstep? Right. That time. Just last month for the holiday. After purchase, all buyers were then sent to a humorously long, semi-sadistic questionnaire to fill out about themselves, so I could hand-pick a
Always Do. You’ll Be Glad You Did.
If you walked in the door right now, I don’t know if I’d run and hug you hard, or if you’d seem like a stranger now. I’d like to think that I’d hug you. I’d like to think that I’d bury my face into your chest and you’d smell like your old cologne–which kind, I can’t remember. I was too young, barely a pre-teen, the night we got the call. But I know you’d laugh and hug me back, saying
I Got You Something! Happy Holidays, Sexpot. (Also: Worms, Vomiting and Fire Extinguishers).
I Christmas. I’m a sucker for the jingle bells and little white lights, which I shamelessly string EVERYWHERE. What’s that, a bathroom vent? Must! Have! Lights! My mom and I used to make these “Italian Christmas Coies,” which I’m pretty sure was not the official name, but since we had the recipe scrawled across some wrinkled piece of paper from the 1800’s, who am I to say? I’m also pretty sure these coies were the sole culprit of my
Marilyn Monroe Wouldn’t Give a Damn.
Remember earlier this year… …when I sauntered over to Ecuador and had a twelve year old pierce my nose, as well as agreed to having a random Ecuadorian man sit on top of me on the beach to doodle all over my back with a mysterious black, sticky ink? Maybe we didn’t know each other then, which is a huge shame because I was clearly a lot fun. Exhibit A: Exhibit B: Exhibit C: And then, of course, since
Storm Down The Door of Life With a Hatchet + Some GUMPTION.
I always wanted to be the woman with the white floppy hat. The one with the easy laugh, where time had not made her older, but all the ightful. The one who carries a basket of strawberries wherever she goes, the one who frolics in fountains, the one who holds his gaze just a little too long, who doesn’t care if her hair gets wet in the rain, and whose signature scent is mystery–the straight up parfum version. For