Price

Busy week. Enjoy this piece from Price Pritchett:

Don’t live a life with a lukewarm heart.

Passion is a very important part of the process. It fires the soul and fills the spirit, energizing your heart and mind on your way to a higher plane of performance. Passion keeps you going when you’re hit with problems and uncertainty.

Passion must be fueled, and you feed that flame with visions of a dream that is dramatic. The emotional intensity inside must burn hot enough to protect you against the chilling effects of doubt, uncertainty, criticism, and failure. Only deep desire can generate such heat.

For you to care this intensely, of course, there must be something worth caring about- something remarkable, special, and precious enough to light the fire in your heart.

This means you must loosen the limits on your thinking, and give yourself permission to pursue what you want most. The climate is right only when you are passionately drawn to a particular goal.

So let your deepest desires direct your aim. Set your sights far above the “reasonable” target. The power of purpose is profound only if you have a desire that stirs the heart.

The inner drive must be strong enough to carry you past the point of wishful thinking. The dream must consume you, control you, drive you to action, disallowing half-hearted effort in the pursuit.

Let your heart take charge of your body.

I Don’t Know

Act I.

Boy 1 (Home from D.C. for weekend): What’s that smell?

Me: I made carnitas in the slow cooker.

Boy 1: Awesome! (Helps himself)

Me: (Watching him wolf down meat) Don’t you want to put that into a tortilla?

Boy 1: Nah, I’m good.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 1: Yeah.

Me: There’s all these fixings, though…

Boy 1: Mom, this is fine.

Next day.

Boy 1 (Headed back to D.C.) Can I take the leftover pork?

Mom: Sure. Do you want me to pack all of the tortillas and fixings?

Boy 1: Nah, I’m good.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 1: What is your fixation with these tortillas? Why are you trying to make me eat them?

Me: (Thinking) I don’t know.

Act II.

Boy 2 (Drops in to say hello): Mom, can I borrow the Nutribullet?

Me: Sure (I burrow into a cabinet, pulling out metal pieces). Here’s all of the extra attachments.

Boy 2: Nah, Mom, this is fine.

Me: But you can use these for so many different things.

Boy 2: It’s seriously fine, I don’t need those.

Me: But this one will zest lemon. This one will pulverize Swiss chard. This one grinds espresso beans.

Boy 2: I don’t need all that.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 2: Why are you trying to make me take these attachments?

Me: (Thinking) I don’t know.

Act III.

Boy 3 (Home for his last summer before his senior year in college): Mom, my phone doesn’t charge anymore, can I use the family upgrade to get a new phone for my birthday?

Me: Of course. Do you need a new phone case?

Boy 3: No, my old one is fine.

Me: I hear the yellow iPhone is cool, are you getting yellow?

Boy 3: No, I don’t want yellow.

Me: How about an Apple Watch for your birthday? It would only add 15 dollars a month to the phone bill.

Boy 3: Nah, I don’t want an Apple watch.

Me: Are you sure?

Boy 3: Why are you trying to get me to get all of this extra stuff?

Me: (Thinking) I don’t know.

I mean, I honestly don’t. Know, that is.

Bear Story

*Theodore Roosevelt once said, “Every human should have a bear story.”

Here’s mine:

By the third or fourth day at bear camp at Kachemak Bay State park in Alaska during summer 2021, I desperately needed some quiet time. Days spent socializing, smiling at idle chatter, and imbibing at boisterous group meals had left my social battery severely depleted.

So when our camp guides were informed that there was a particularly large bear in the area, and guide John decided to escort my group to the bear tower for the fourth time that day, I bowed out. I needed to shut my eyes near the firepit, take in the scenery, and maybe jot down some notes.

Our bear camp was cordoned off with a perimeter fence on the beach, and bears knew not to approach it. Supposedly. So as the group ambled away, the guides reminded me to stay in the perimeter, and not wander off.

As if.

I walked to the refreshment tent for a hot cup of coffee and eyed the hot chocolate. Mm. Never a huge fan of the sugary beverage, it somehow appealed to me in the below freezing wind chill. I walked back to the firepit area with my hot chocolate and settled in to relax.

(Note: I had forgotten the rule of never bringing any snacks or sugary beverages out of the refreshment tent. Black coffee and water only. Bears have a great sense of smell, if you haven’t heard).

Sipping my beverage, about ten minutes later I heard the walkie-talkie screech.

“Must have been a false alarm. No bear here. We’re headed back.”

I opened my eyes in annoyance, as I had expected more time to myself. Oh well, I thought, better than nothing. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I spied something moving down the beach towards me. A big something.

Yup.

Completely alone save for the chef and the yoga instructor in their tents, I had a front row seat to an extremely large Alaskan black bear walking straight toward our perimeter. He was very very close to me. I was frozen, and could not speak or move.

I heard my name being hissed. My group had arrived back, and was beckoning to me. Forgetting that I was holding hot chocolate, I crept toward them on the trail behind the tents. By this time, the bear had left the beach, so our guides were hoping that he was headed for the tower.

We tiptoed along the trail, whispering. Suddenly John gestured towards my mug.

“What is that?”

“Hot chocolate. I’m sorry, I forgot I was holding it.”

He shook his head, grabbed it, and passed it down the line until it reached guide Mark, who immediately turned to bring it back to camp. We followed this process with our heads and turned to see that same black bear right behind us, looking very alert and interested.

John instructed us to get down low, and he kept his hand on his bear spray. The bear eventually ambled away to the tower, and we got to observe him from a safe distance.

That evening it was agreed upon: the bear had been following the scent of my hot chocolate.

*Theodore Roosevelt said no such thing. But he should have.

Too Pretty to be Sad

This adorable video keeps popping up on Instagram of this baby girl who every time she looks at her mother, she makes this sad “boo-boo” lip, and when she looks back at her dad, she smiles. Her facial expressions go back and forth between mom and dad, and it’s super cute.

(I demand a granddaughter, pronto dente).

Anyway, when she does the pouty lip thing, you can hear her mother laugh and say, “Oh, baby, don’t be sad.” You can also hear her father say, off-video, “Oh, baby, you’re too pretty to be sad.”

If you’ve already figured it out, you’re quicker than I am. I wasn’t prepared, but now, of course, I realize I should have been. Silly, silly me. Here are some of the comments:

Too pretty to be sad? Ugh.

Bad parents.

In this day and age, seriously?

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

The implication being, of course, that the parents are sending this six-month old the wrong message, which will, ultimately, send her to her crib with low self-esteem and potential cutting issues. The message being?

That being pretty is everything. And that if a young girl is lucky enough to be born “pretty,” she has, and never will have, anything to complain about.

Yikes. Does anyone actually believe that, or teach their daughters that? I tend to doubt it.

Entire books have been written on the subject of women’s body image, societal expectations of the female body image, the effects of growing up as what society perceives as “attractive” vs. “unattractive,” etc. I teach entire classes on it, sometimes I spend weeks on it, sometimes I assign papers to be written on it. It’s fascinating.

And I’m not trying to solve it here.

I guess the bottom line is that you should see this baby. She is definitely too pretty to be sad. We all are.

LIV for Today

(Congratulations to Wyndham Clark and family. The following is simply satire and my sour grapes as I continue to wait for Rickie to win a major).

Baby is born. Mother and father look at baby, and smile.

“He looks like a Wyndham.”

Said no parents ever.

Who the hell is Wyndham Clark? No disrespect intended, but I wasn’t convinced he existed until Sunday, as he finally made an appearance, teeing off at the U.S. Open with Rickie. I thought perhaps he was like the pacing horse they let race with Seabiscuit, his proximity keeping Seabiscuit sharp and competitive.

I only know a few things about LIV, and even those facts might be wrong. I knew my favorite golfers all of a sudden disappeared, and I had to text my son to ask him why. Supposedly some major golfers Took the Money (30m, I heard?) and Ran to play for the Saudi Arabia golf league. Some, like Rory, didn’t, and stuck with the PGA. Now LIV and PGA have merged, the Big Boys are back in town, and people are mad because they shouldn’t just be allowed back in, just like that. Besides, we shouldn’t just forgive Saudi Arabia for 911 just because they’re financing Dustin Johnson’s yacht.

I say who cares? I missed DJ, and Bryson, and the others. It was no fun without them. With all due respect to Rory, and Jordan, and Justin, but we needed the bad boys back. No party is fun without the bad boys.

But even with the bad boys back, what I saw of the Open this weekend was mostly a Snooze Fest. #1 Scottie walking around looking goofy, Fleetwood making the lowest round in Open history, Bryson missing putts, and DJ looking like he just misses his wife’s ass, which if you don’t know is posted all over Instagram.

Hey, all the power to her. Everyone works with what they have, but how much attention does one human being need?

But I digress.

The antagonist of this piece would have to be the L.A. backdrop, looking dark and ominous, like Gotham City, even with the sun shining. The announcers kept calling the backdrop “beautiful,” as if we could ever forget what condition that city is actually in right now.

If you’re a Rickie Fowler fan like me, you’ve been waiting a long time for Ricky to win a major. I hope it’s today. At the time of this writing, baby Wyndham is -11, with both Rory and Rickie both at -10. I had to go to the driving range to work off my nervousness.

It’s Rickie’s time.

The Art of Living

The Master in the Art of Living makes little distinction between his work and his play.

His labor and his leisure.

His mind and his body.

His information and his recreation.

His life and his religion.

He hardly knows which is which.

He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does.

Leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing.

To him, he is always doing both.

-James Michener

Duck Tape

Who was the first person who decided to put cutesy cartoon characters on duct tape? If you ask me, it makes it more sinister, not less.

Why is duct tape so creepy?

I try to catch up on academic articles and literary journal essays on the weekends, and I was recently having trouble getting through this particularly obscure piece. I was not connecting with it even after several attempts, and ready to call it quits. Suddenly the phrase “duct tape over his mouth,” appeared, and I perked right up

“Ooh,” I thought, diving back in. “Whose mouth is getting duct taped and why?” I climbed back into the piece to find out.

Can you think of one good, happy reason that duct tape would be used? We use scotch tape to wrap gifts. Masking tape to hang cheerful posters. Packing tape to secure moving boxes. But duct tape always seems to cover mouths, broken car windows, and wall cracks.

My wall cracks.

I had a squirrel living in my foyer ceiling almost all winter, and into spring. It’s a long story I’m not ready to share in its entirety. Needless to say, whenever it gnawed a new spot into the ceiling, we applied duct tape to that spot. Then it would search for a new vulnerability, and gnaw that area. Duct tape. Gnaw. Duct tape.

I eventually ran out, and bought some cute duct tape with frogs on it. It didn’t make the situation any cuter.

The squirrel has expired, but now my foyer walls and parts of the ceiling are covered in frog-emblazoned duct tape. And as you might have guessed, when I peel it away, the artisan paint and dry wall comes with it.

Oi.

Know a good painter?

Floral Dress

So I have this dress in my closet that I can’t figure out how to wear. It was super cheap, a cool color, but a mistake. In my defense I didn’t know it was “Final Sale,” therefore unable to be returned. I tried.

It’s a long-sleeve maroon floral peasant dress, completely antithetical to anything I would ever buy, and I can assure you is as terrible as it sounds. I simply don’t know what to do with this thing. Here are five scenarios I came up with:

  • Find an empty field like the one in the picture above and twirl around in it.
  • Dig out my old cowboy boots and go line dancing at a honky-tonk.
  • Put it on when I get out of bed in my forest cabin, like the female lead in a really bad indie movie. I will throw a shawl around my shoulders, wander down to the dock barefoot, and stare soulfully into the sunrise while sipping my coffee. I will also need a golden retriever to pet when the sunrise hits my face.
  • Put my hair up in a really cute bun, throw on Doc Martens, and browse in a used bookstore in London, hoping a Hugh Grant lookalike will approach me and tell me I have “really eclectic literary taste.” I will ignore him at first, because that’s what I do, but I will eventually give in, and we will go out to lunch to debate Shakespeare vs. Marlowe over coffee and scones.
  •  Wear it to buy maroon mums at a garden market, hoping someone will notice that I match the flowers I’m buying.

It’s my only hope.

The Epicurean

I received an email last week, and darn it to heck if I can’t find it. This thing was a gem. I’m so mad, I always save stuff like that. So forgive me for not quoting it exactly.

In short, this individual wanted me to immediately deposit $400 into his crypto-account, or he would release the incriminating video he had, and I quote, “of you pleasuring yourself.” He had control of my laptop camera, apparently.

Dang. I wondered what he had on me. I pondered the potential ways I had immorally pleasured myself in front of my laptop lately, and came up with a few possibilities which, if released, have the power to destroy my reputation.

  1. Eating McDonalds french fries while pointedly ignoring the newly purchased fresh Jersey cantaloupe glaring at me from the counter.
  2. Moaning and drooling over Paradise Valley real estate.
  3. Shouting into the computer after reading a campus-wide email: “I’m not joining your damn textbook committee, it’s summer, leave me alone!”
  4. Turning on Photo Booth, turning this way and that, and deciding for the thousandth time that yes, by God yes, I will get liposuction for my double-chin.
  5. Watching Jordan Peterson eviscerate feminists on YouTube.

I could go on and on. My depravity knows no depths. But ultimately, I decided to NOT deposit $400 into this person’s crypto-account. Odds were good that he was bluffing. And if he releases any of the above-mentioned footage?

I mean, life is full of risks.

Bukowski

Seneca once said, “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

You want something so bad that thoughts of it consume you. You wake up, and it’s there. You go to sleep, and it’s there. You see how it can happen, and every day take steps to getting it done. Hurdles, obstacles, obstructions appear, and you find a way around them. Day after day. Week after week. Sometimes year after year.

It’s called the path less traveled for a reason. Because that path is a real bitch. Here’s a little bit of Charlie B. to continue that thought:

If you’re going to try, go all the way.

Otherwise, don’t even start.

This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind.

It could mean not eating for three or four days.

It could mean freezing on a park bench.

It could mean jail.

It could mean derision.

It could mean mockery- isolation, isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance,

                        of how much you really want to do it.

And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds.

And it will be better than anything else you can imagine.

If you’re going to try, go all the way.

There is no other feeling like that.

You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire.

You will ride life straight to perfect laughter.

It’s the only good fight there is.

-Charles Bukowski