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His name was Joe. Rightfully so, because Joe was in charge of customer service at the Honda Dealer in good ol’ Scranton, Pennsylvania. And, I don’t know, I just trust men named Joe. I mean, you don’t want some jerkoff named Tucker invoicing you, do you? You’d leave and there’d be a doodle of a marijuana leaf next to your total. Tucker. Grab a pitchfork and get to work, boy. This is Scranton! We work hard ’round these parts! Anyway.

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Fun is underrated. It’s no longer enough to do a good job, provide good customer service or iver on time. Those things aren’t competitive advantages; they’re the expectation. And since they’re the expectation, you’re not impressing anyone. What isn’t always the expectation, however, is how fun it’ll be to do business with you. Not just pleasant. Fun. The noisier it gets out there, the less we should have faith in “business as usual”–because sometimes, business as usual is just that: The

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  I can’t do serious. I’m not sure if you could tell from the name of this blog, or from anything I’ve ever written, said, tweeted and/or mimed while naked, but it’s true. (There was actually no naked miming. I do a lot of stuff naked, but really, who the hell mimes these days?) I’m pretty sure this stems from a long-standing vendetta against elementary school library class. Hey, I have a good idea. Let’s put a bunch of 8

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Last week, I predicted that while I was in Buenos Aires, I’d either fall hopelessly in with an Argentine, or get totally pissed off because I didn’t. So far, the latter has been true. But don’t worry, I’m not slinging sauerkraut yet. There might have also been a suspiciously large sausage sandwich involved. [Insert ten off-color je here.] As well as the purchase of possibly the world’s sexiest vintage purse ever. It’s got red lipstick stains on the inside

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So, I’m flying from Costa Rica to Ecuador this afternoon. I like to leave these little announcements on the blog in the event of my sudden (and unreported) death, kidnapping, violent torture and just to give my ex-boyfriends a little extra something to be bitter about. If I never post again, will someone at least throw a birthday party in my honor? It’s on the 24th. Just stay away from serving smed salmon on those evil little crunchy tostadas. Those

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Well holy shit. It’s Thursday. An interview I did the other day with Bern from Your Great Life TV went live today, and I wanted to pass it along because I give some fast and dirty straight shooter (pow pow!) advice on running an on biz, copywriting like a motherfucker, and living a life you , already. (While wearing fake pearls. And after having a dirty martini with pineapple man. Shhhhhhh.) I’d it if you’d take a lo, because

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So here’s some Tuesday tough (which is not even a category, but I’m making it one today): You know why you’re not making the money you want to be making? Getting the clients you want to be getting? And/or living the life you want to be living? Do you know why? The reason is simple. Nobody cares. That’s it. It’s simple. Nobody cares. Nobody cares what you’re doing. And nobody cares about you. Period. That’s harsh, so let me

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It’s Sunday morning. I’m sitting at my dining room table with coffee, staring out the front door of my new condo here in Costa Rica, loing at this: That’s right. Pineapple man hoed me up with one of the new condos they’re selling. I spent a good portion of yesterday out there by the pool, barbecuing chicken with friends, having a few micheladas. (Michelada: Beer mixed with lemonade, served in a glass with a salted rim.) He’s made it incredibly

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I have a very important piece of advice for you. When in a foreign country loin’ all sorts of sexy at the mall (read: for once, there isn’t a mix of sweat, dirt and men’s cologne dripping down your neck) and the ATM eats your only debit card? Don’t storm out of the bank like a crazy person. It’s not very becoming. Particularly when it’s the one day you don’t have on waterproof mascara. Because then you lo like even

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Yo. Just wrote an update to my Behind Closed Doors group, and thought it might be useful to share with you here, too. (Behind Closed Doors is my insider group where several times a week I put out quick-hit es like the one below, sharing the deets on my own marketing + sales strategies for TMFproject, as well as share insights and useful information that I’m teaching my One Night Stand clients, and other advice that you can use to

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Your ability to get clients has nothing to do with the quality of your work. There, I said it. Bold statement. I brought this up the other day in my Behind Closed Doors group, and I want to bring it up here, too. ::   A lot of your future and continued success depends on your ability to perform, yes, but not initially. Initially your success depends on your ability to be perceived as someone who can perform.  :: And there’s a difference.

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First of all, if you want teddy bears, get off this blog. Teddy bears and hand holding is for other people. Here, we’re about fresh ones right across the face. I don’t have time for bullshit, and neither do you.–  Second, if you aren’t going to take the quality of your life seriously, get off this blog. I’m not interested in debating the merits of why you should or shouldn’t start your own projects and pursue financial and creative freedom.

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So once upon a time I dated a guy with lots of tattoos who worshiped his mom. Wait. Wait a minute. That has nothing to do with the story. Rewind. Back up. Let’s start again. *clears throat*– Once upon a time, my official job title was “Director of Business Development.” There. That’s better. Right story. As Director of Business Development, I flaunted my ass all over Philaphia, flashing biz cards left and right with that ridiculously long title ed all

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So. If you recall, in the last post, I made up a ridiculous scenario where you were headed to your fake neighbor’s house for dinner, whose guts you may or may not have secretly hated. She was serving you quiche, at which point you made a face that slightly resembled this—> ?!?!?!?!!!!!. As a result, you hesitatingly asked her to pass the salt. And then…we stopped the post there, leaving you with the question of…what does this have to do

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So let’s say your annoying neighbor invites you over for dinner. Huge bitch. But you decide to go, anyway, because you don’t want to feel like an asshole every time you see her backing her brand new Lexus out of the driveway at the same exact time you and your ’98 Toyota are pulling out. Which, conveniently, happens way than you’d like. On the night of THE DINNER, you head over with a bottle of wine–secretly hoping she spills

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So since I’m in the United States for a hot minute, I have recently acquired a smart phone. I have three things to say about this:– Apparently, I’m better at coding HTML than I am at texting. Considering I have no fucking idea how to code HTML, you can imagine what kind of interesting text conversations I’ve been having. Particularly when so-called “smart phone” decides to change my texts from, “We’ll be there soon” to “We’ll be there vomiting.” Obviously

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…yeah, you. Not so much in the, take-me-to-bed-tiger kind of way (that’s tomorrow. really. just wait.), but in a I-want-to-know-what-you-think kind of way. Not about the ozone. Or how much profanity I use. Or the fact that I apparently suck at responding to es. (Shhhhhhhhh. I’m getting better!) I want to know what you think about… *bongo roll* …the evil… …icky… …topic… …otherwise… …known as… SALES PAGES. *cue all hell breaking loose* *cue slow girl who loses shoe amongst chaos*

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The Scene: The United States of America. 9:57 am: Walk into L.A. Fitness. 9:58: Meet stunningly fit individual named Alberto. 10:00: Decide there is some fucked up pheromones wandering around body that insist on me + Latino men. 10:01: Wonder if Alberto’s name really is Alberto. Consider how unsexy it would be to call him Al. 10:02: Make mental note to call him Al in an attempt to become less attracted to him. 10:03: Wonder if he’s related to Vin

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Note:  This post contains adult language. It’s so adult, you might swear you’ve just been transported to a seedy, sme-laced Las Vegas strip club filled with large Italian men. The good news is that you haven’t. The bad news is that somebody let me have my own blog. And…so we begin. What I want to talk about is some weird shit. Weird shit always makes its way into my day, so why not talk about it here? You see this

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[The scene:  She apathetically releases a puff of sme from a pair of fiery red lips, before she stands up, yanks at her fishnets, props herself clumsily upon the bar, leans just a little bit too much (so you can kinddaaa see her boobs)…and makes an announcement…] Note: You should probably click below to listen to me reading this post partly in a ridiculous fake Russian Accent. Yes, that’s right. I actually did that. You’re welcome. You will either hate

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Holy disco ball, it’s 2012. I’ve (just now) decided that this year is going to be all about less vodka, water. …Maybe. It’s also going to be about silk sheets, billiards, baseball hats, and . Yeah, that’s right. Luh-uh-ve. I’m going to fall madly in this year. And that person is going to fall madly in with me back. I just know it. He better be hot. Anyway, while I was performing all of this high-level brainstorming, it

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You have your panties in a bunch. That’s not an assumption–that’s a fact. The reason why I know you have your panties in a bunch is because instead of creating–doing–progressing–experimenting–trying–you froze up, kid. You didn’t move forward on that idea you had (because what if it doesn’t WORK OUT?) You didn’t write that bo you wanted to write (because what if it isn’t GOOD ENOUGH?) You didn’t get that website up and running (because that’ll mean you’re really COMMITTED) You

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As an entrepreneur, sometimes you fall flat on your face. Figuratively–and, apparently, literally–namely when you’re traveling in the South of Chile pretending to be in better shape than you actually are while attempting to jump over pathetically small streams that you really should be able to fucking clear, but somehow, don’t, and manage to fall flat on your face, ripping your pants, embedding annoyingly small rocks in your hands, and making a goddamn fool of yourself. It happens. Behold. Thank you, Kyle

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Yesterday, I was certain I was going to die.  Not just on one occasion, but two. The first instance was when I agreed to ride an ancient, rusty, rickety, RIDICULOUS ski lift up the side of a volcano. Vollll. Caaaaa. Noooo. Obviously that’s what you do when you’re in Patagonia with a group of friends–ride volcanoes. The south of Chile, apparently, is loaded with lava. My head, on the other hand, was loaded with WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF. It

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So, I’m a huge salsa fan. The affair began nearly 10 years ago, when I first traveled to Costa Rica on an exchange program. His name was Alejandro, and he was the first boy to ever ask for my hand on the dance floor. He was golden tan with dark blue eyes, and long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. If there were a white stallion somewhere near by, it would have seemed perfectly normal for him to

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Remember how yesterday I tortured you with a story about 21-year old me + a boy + Christmas, and then turned it into a marketing lesson? Well, with this Christmas drawing near, and no over-sized, bear-like, tattooed boyfriends to buy thoughtful gifts for, I already feel myself tensing up about the whole thing. Not because I’m single, but because holidays are always a weird time for me. Typically, I give myself the gift of travel, so that way it never

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