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Never...

Never let others define your choices.

Never stay just because it's easier than leaving.

Never be dependent on anyone financially, emotionally or otherwise.

Never let others talk you out of something you know is right for you.

Never allow mediocrity. Period.

Never mistake fear for common sense.

Never be boring.

Never be less than you know you can be.

Never think about a "ceiling" where your goals are concerned and if you do, imagine it to be the fragile, breakable kind.

And mostly...

Never EVER give up.

Quote of the Day

The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any.

~ Alice Walker ~

Why Aging Doesn't Suck, Reason #29 - Tilda Swinton

Because at 50, she is the face of iconic Scottish label Pringle whose successful relaunch has as much to do with Swinton's endorsement as it does their clothes.

Because she openly lives, well.. openly - juggling a committed, long term relationship with additional paramours should the mood strike her (which is exactly how she met her current boyfriend whilst still married), and nary a modicum of shame about her non-traditional lifestyle is evident anywhere.

Because she makes makes androgyny sexy and gender irrelevant whether it's her Flock of Seagulls inspired tresses, or the roles she chooses (she has played Mozart on stage, an Elizabethan nobleman in Orlando and an androgynous angel in Constantine).

Because she made this startlingly honest declaration much to the delight of mothers everywhere, "I think I enjoy my work now even more simply because it's even easier than it was. It sounds sacrilegious to say that anything's a delight when you're away from your children, but the truth is that it is refreshing to only have yourself to dress in the morning, and to lie diagonally across the bed. Making films, going round the world on tour - all these crazy things that were so difficult before are so much easier than breastfeeding twins for 14 months that frankly it is a delight."

Merry Christmas Bitches

Here's to defining ourselves by virtue of our integrity, character, style, wit, empathy, love, selflessness and friendship.

Here's to injecting each moment with truth, levity, honor, and passion.

Here's to reminding ourselves never to sit in judgment, monitor all thinking and steering the mind from fear to faith.

And finally, here's to wisdom, women and a good glass of wine.

All Herald V Magazine

The always exhilarating V Magazine launched it's Who Cares About Age issue - a knockout featuring Jane Fonda on the cover and a stunning editorial featuring 4 former supermodels, all of whom are well over 50, and all of whom continue to captivate with their ageless beauty, divine style and of course the intangible special sauce that makes some women just get better with age. Check it out.

http://www.vmagazine.com/2010/11/v66-winter-20102011-the-who-cares-about-age-issue/

Outrageous Story from the UK on an Aging TV Host

Countryfile presenter warned over wrinkles
5 November, 2010

Former Countryfile presenter Miriam O’Reilly was warned “to be careful with those wrinkles when high definition comes in” just nine months before she was dropped from the programme by the BBC, a tribunal has heard.

O’Reilly, 53, is suing the broadcaster for sex and age discrimination after losing her job when the show was moved to a primetime slot.

In a witness statement handed to the tribunal, she said comments by Countryfile’s director Dean Jones “sent a shiver down my spine” when he warned her the high definition could be “crunch time” for her BBC TV career in February 2008.

In the statement, she said: “I do not believe that a man would be asked about his wrinkles nor offered hair dye.

“It was clear to me that this was a reflection of the BBC’s view that women on TV needed to look young.”O’Reilly was told she would no longer be working on the rural affairs programme in November 2008.

She said she was “devastated” by the news that she and three other female presenters would lose their jobs when the show relaunched in April 2009 with Julia Bradbury, then 38, and Katie Knapman, then 36.

In her witness statement, she said she was not told why she would not have a role on the programme in its new prime-time slot, only that the show was being “refreshed”.

Three other female Countryfile presenters - Michaela Strachan, 42, Juliet Morris, 52, and Charlotte Smith, 44 - were also dropped from the show, O’Reilly said.

Meanwhile, the show’s main presenter John Craven, 68, and Adam Henson, who was in his 40s, were to be kept on with Ben Fogle, 35, who was given Country Tracks to present.

She added there was nothing in the new version of the show, which now airs at 7pm on Sunday nights, that she could not have done.

The programme is co-presented by Julia Bradbury and Matt Baker.

The tribunal is expected to hear from former BBC controller Jay Hunt, and will look at footage of Ms O’Reilly’s work along with current examples of the show.

The tribunal, which is expected to last 12 days, was adjourned to Friday to allow the bench to watch video footage.

Letting Go of the List

How many of you have THE LIST? You know, that carefully crafted, painstakingly detailed overview of the necessary elements required in the dream man you don't have just yet, but hope to one day, the absence of whom is a daily reminder of the happiness that is pending (and will remain so) until he magically knocks on your proverbial door with at least 9 out of 10 boxes marked CHECK??? Don't be ashamed. For I had it too.

I made it about 4 years ago after a nasty and painful break up with my last serious boyfriend, a much younger man who when not surfing and getting stoned, spent his days in perpetual dreamland, skirting all sense of responsibility while simultaneously finding new ways to languish in mediocrity on our couch. He was nice, and generally good to me, but had one more move than a dead man. He was, in short, dead weight.

After finally wising up, and growing up, I got the hell out, pressed reset, and decided to carve out a future so big and bright, shades wouldn't cover the eclipse-size, storybook relationship I was conjuring up in my head. It's natural to come out of an experience that swings so much one way, the only reasonable response is to come out swinging completely in the other direction. Which is exactly what I did. Hence, THE LIST. Let it be said, I am aware that I over think, that I can analyze the life out of things at the best of times. But when hitting rock bottom in something as important as one's love life, well... I was about to start an all out smear campaign against anyone or anything that resembled my ex-boyfriend. My next man, I proposed, would be powerful, wealthy, alpha, in charge, older (pass the salt and pepper please), the guy who owned the room, any room with his presence and his pocketbook. Together we would over achieve, and become the quintessential power couple. This of course when not being promoted in our respective careers and buying property in many of our favorite global destinations, raising money for important causes not to mention a little family in our eco castle - one likely to adorn the cover of Dwell or Wallpaper Magazine.

What a plan, I marveled, each time I shared THE LIST with friends and family. I learned my lesson, boy. Never again will I fall for Peter Pan. And I didn't. Over the next 3 years, I dated a variety of Alpha's - successful attorneys, hedge fund heavy weights, a successful photographer who paid for his LA home in cash. They all looked good in suits, they all had big careers and they all bored me to death. Well, shit! What the hell was I supposed to do now?

About a year ago, I decided to act on a whim that took me miles off course from THE LIST - namely a sordid and hot affair with a much younger man at my office. It lasted only a few months, but it was more fun than I had had with any of THE LIST guys combined. Then along came an even younger guy - a holiday romance - that had my blood pumping, and my heart racing in ways the ones who were great on paper couldn't elicit to save their lives. Not even close. It was fun, it was sexy, it was LIVING. But in my usual form, I started over analyzing the loveliness the universe brought me in the form of these two fledgling 20-somethings. Why? Neither of these guys looked anything like THE LIST, so what the hell was I doing wasting my time having all this fun? And man were they fun...

As soon as I let myself go just a little, off I'd go with the mental check list of what they lacked, and all the subsequent ways they couldn't possibly be worth my time, for how could I build lives with guys who were just getting started in their careers and still had roommates? I couldn't get past the fact that neither of these zygotes had any of the line items from THE LIST. That fact alone messed with me, and I found myself making demands that neither were remotely capable of, demands that if they conceded, would turn them into exactly the kind of man I was convinced I wanted. They resented me for asking, and I resented them for not being able to step up to the plate.

My friends asked why it was I just couldn't enjoy them for what they were until THE LIST guy came along? To me, this felt like a colossal waste of time. Why expend energy on something that isn't destined to last longer than the dairy products in my fridge? I'd rather leave myself open for the real thing. And so for the next 8 months, I went virtually dateless, blaming the general hardships of co-mingling in the notoriously difficult dating pool of LA as the culprit for the spinster life that seemed destined to stay, not realizing THE LIST was the thing in my way, not Hollywood. What I would come to realize later is that geography may not have been the cause for my woes, but it would be the cure...

New York. New job, new city, new friends, new everything. The only remnants of my old life in Cali were my furniture, clothing, and of course THE LIST. The latter was still firmly ensconced in my belief system as the bullet point by bullet point way to a better life. Convinced I would meet THE LIST guy here - after all, this city is the holy grail for successful men from a myriad of industries, not just entertainment - my friends and I made it our almost regular mission to seek out hot spots where power players mingled, putting on cute dresses and perching ourselves just so, purposely thrusting ourselves amongst the male elite. Energized and eager to explore New York, going out on a regular basis with my girlfriends seemed the perfect remedy to not only meet THE LIST guy, but to leave the crappy memories of Hollywood players and bad boys in the dust.

And so I went on a slew of dates with a new group of alphas from all walks of life - a former professional soccer player turned high end jeweler, a wall street magnate, a partner in a Park Avenue mergers and acquisitions firm, and a famous chef with a stable of restaurants and cook books to his credit. Thing was, they all added up to one big yawn. Not to mention all this constant perching in dull places to keep the dating quotient high was more work than I had energy for. One night, while at an infamous Wall Street hangout where financial types were known to ravage burgers and women with equal aplomb, I found myself more entrenched by the tennis match on the tv, than at the table of suits in the corner. Seems this plan was quickly running it's course and still no sight of my power player. What now?

If THE LIST wasn't going to happen, perhaps I should focus my energies on my new job, making a lovely home for myself, and having fun with my friends instead of forcing the universe to find the needle in haystack when it came to my dating life. As I presented my new outlook to my friends, I was surprised to hear that they had always thought my list was ridiculous and were simply waiting for me to make that realization myself. They had hinted that perhaps I should give it up and just stay open. Which is exactly what I did. Then it happened.

I let go. Before I knew it men started coming in fast and furious. They were all fabulous and cool and smart and hot. They pursued, showed up, were attentive, often romantic, and totally and completely in to me. They all had one thing in common. They were much younger than me. But now it didn't feel wrong. It felt good. And right. I found myself going out more, and trying new things, a sense of newfound adventure that had somehow, over time, slipped away from my once very adventurous soul. Maybe it was LA that did this. Who can say for sure. But the more I thought about it, the more I became certain that it had to do with being so bogged down by a fabricated, self-induced idea of what my life SHOULD look like, I missed actually LIVING it. These younger men were reminding me of what I had been missing, just by virtue of their energy, and lack of agendas in their own lives. They didn't seem to question everything and "take life's temperature" at every moment like I did, virtually sucking the essence out of the gifts I kept missing simply because they didn't resemble what I thought my life should look like.

I started thinking about why the older guys and even men my own age I had dated bored me to tears. And why, as soon as I surrendered this love plan of mine did all these beautiful baby boys start arriving seemingly non-stop? I'm dubious that there is a definitive reason for things such as this but here's what I do know. I've never had more fun, felt more sexy (not to mention the sex itself), powerful, feminine and alive as I have in the last 2 months since I replaced THE LIST with simply following the good feelings that accompanied each lover as he showed up. And from that came the realization that not every dalliance has to lead to something long term or forever or love or commitment. These guys were present, and available, and fun, and engaging, intelligent, vibrant human beings who just wanted to spend time with me. Pure and simple, no agenda.

So that's where I am now. Juggling lots of lovely guys, enjoying each one, and not getting too focused or consumed by any of them. What's amazing is that at exactly the point that feels like it might happen, another one comes along to grab my attention. I can say with confidence I won't be marrying any of them. But I don't care. And that's a first. They feel good and so should life. Maybe I'll still end up with THE LIST guy in the end, but if I do, he'll show up when I least expect it. Because I'm not looking anymore. And I don't CARE. Man that feels good.

I'm Back

Hi all:

I've been away, settling into this crazy new life in NYC. So much has changed. A detailed posting to come. Can't wait to share with all of you my recent revelations...

A Short Article on Why It's Great to Age

http://holykaw.alltop.com/be-glad-youre-getting-older?tu2=1

A Great Article from the London Times on Aging

Losing the beauty of an older woman - Are we so used to airbrushed celebrity glamour that we can no longer see the beauty of an older woman?

By Janice Turner

When Madonna did a recent photoshoot for Louis Vuitton, the unretouched images were mischievously leaked to the press. An unflinching close-up of her face, before the airbrush artist had got to work, evokes a complex mix of feelings. Melancholy: even she who has applied her boundless wealth and energy to holding back time has sagging cheeks, an incipient wattle neck. Pity: how cruel to compare this with the “after” image, the tight, sculpted iconic face.

But finally fury: what is wrong with the strong, still-handsome face of a 51-year-old woman? No doubt Madonna has had a little “work” done here and there, but her face is still a fair reflection of her age, the accumulation of her experience, who she is. More so than the plastic fembot who appears in the campaign. Besides, middle-aged women are more able than twentysomethings to afford £700 Vuitton leather goods. Yet advertisers believe no one wants to buy a bag from an “old bag”.

Madonna has forged a career out of smashing taboos about female power and sexuality, but is not willing to take on the final challenge. To stand up, with her trademark insouciance and say: “Yeah, women age, so what. Here I am!” Instead, as Tina Fey put it in 30 Rock, she clings desperately onto youth with her “Gollum arms”.

The untouched image of Madonna would fit well into a photographic exhibition to be launched at the National Theatre, called Infinite Variety. It features images of women aged 48 to 95 and is curated by the actress Harriet Walter, who is appearing there in Thomas Middleton’s bloodsoaked drama Women Beware Women. Fittingly, her character Livia, a scheming aristocrat, reveals how the iniquitous treatment of older women is a timeless theme. In the play a 55-year-old Duke marries a 16-year-old girl promising status and wealth in exchange for sex. But when Livia offers the same deal to a lush young man, she faces public disgust. One is reminded immediately of Madonna and her 23-year-old lover Jesus Luz.

The exhibition, could not be more timely: older women broadcasters are rising up against the assumption their faces are repellent to viewers when they pass a certain age. After the sackings of Selina Scott, Anna Ford and Strictly Come Dancing judge Arlene Phillips, Country File presenter Miriam O’Reilly, 53, is suing the BBC for making her and three female colleagues of similar age redundant to be replaced by a younger woman. Meanwhile, older male colleagues kept their jobs.

In Infinite Variety we see plenty of characterful older faces, both actresses — including Vanessa Redgrave and Phyllida Law — and ordinary women, since Walter believes ageing is something “we are all in together”. But shouldn’t we be asking why women are perpetually judged by their physical appearance? Walter says she wasn’t trying to pretend wrinkles and grey hair are as sexy as youthful looks, but to break down disgust about ageing women.

“I think it is still important to broaden the range of what is beautiful,” she says. “What I am trying to put into the show is an inner light in these women, something about how they’ve lived their life. I want older women to feel happier in their skin and younger ones not to worry that the only fate ahead is the surgeon’s knife.”

Walter turns 60 this year, an age she describes as the “foothills of being properly old”. Yet with her trim, poker-backed classical actress’s frame she looks dashing on stage in her bustled red velvet dress.

“Older women complain that they can no longer turn a head,” she says. “Well, I don’t have instant beauty, but if you talked to me for half an hour you might get interested and start to see my face differently. It’s about animation, not just the texture of the skin. Now I look at people on the Tube and I think all of them are beautiful.”

Juliette Binoche once said that “actresses, ultimately, are responsible for the faces we give to women”. But now “civilian” women, as Liz Hurley calls us, have started to resent celebrities who, with their devotion to dieting and surgical procedures, have raised the bar to unattainable levels. Today it is acceptable to admit you are 50, but not to look it.

“Well,” counters Walter, “actresses like me are often not allowed to give women their faces.” She speaks of contemporaries who struggle to get any work. It is a view echoed last week by Juliet Stevenson, Gemma Jones and Lesley Manville, who accused writers of only creating parts for “nubile” women under 30. “All the executives are male,” said Stevenson. “They are chasing young skirt.”

But this is a perpetual lament from actresses. Maybe this disgust is too deep rooted and anthropolgical to overcome: attractiveness is so connected with perceived fertility, which seems why men — potent until much later — are forgiven for getting older. As Martin Amis once said “45 for women is an animal birthday”. Well, says, Walter drily “We have overcome our prejudices in other areas with our evolved intellects, so why not this one. We no longer drag women into caves by their hair, for example.”

If we stop being so repelled by ageing faces, we will bear to see them on TV, maybe then the experiences of a whole strata of the population will be told. “That is what upsets a lot of women: that my story doesn’t count. I play a small part on TV and I think “why don’t we focus on my character? She could be very interesting.” But they don’t. You’re just a function of the plot and that is very hard to swallow. And yet when you put a camera on anyone for 90 minutes, it is so intimate, you will fall in love with that person. It is just we are less likely to do that with an older woman.”

The problem is, Walter explains, women are cast in relation to men. A male detective can be anything between 40 and 55: but his wife or daughter must then fit a narrow age band. Also since drama is about conflict and responsibility it has been dominated by male figures and domains. “But now,” says Walter, “there are lots of arenas in which women are taking major decisions.”

And there is cause for optimism that film studios have realised older women will pay to see themselves on screen, will turn out in gangs to watch Mamma Mia or Sex and the City. Meanwhile, this year’s Baftas went to women playing middle-aged politicians: Rebecca Front as a minister in In the Thick of It and Julie Walters playing Mo Mowlam.

Moreover, when Harriet Walter rang her Los Angeles agent, to discuss working in American TV, joking that she’d obviously have to get a facelift first, he replied, “no longer”. Walter says: “He said it is becoming a problem shooting these faces which look so odd, they have to work out special camera angles. We were always taught at drama school that if you think something, it is reflected in your face. Surgery irons that out. You can’t do the often very minute expressions you need to do on screen. And facelifts homogenise people.

“We like to see real women’s faces on screen. Not just women but men too. I’ve never met a man who likes plastic surgery.”

Walter says she notices when friends have a little procedure. “I’m not a fascist about it. I sometimes think, oh, clever old you!”, but abhors the knife herself. It helps, she says, that she was never cast for her beauty, was accustomed as a young actress to see big parts go to more gorgeous near-contemporaries such as Greta Scacchi. And now she has crossed through from the tricky thirties and forties, when actresses are struggling to remain youthful, into the more forgiving territory of late middle age.

Indeed Walter, who has never married or had children, but lived for many years with the actor Peter Blythe until his death in 2004, has found herself a new man.

She won’t name him, but says he’s an American stage actor, a year her senior. “We met when I was doing Mary Stuart on Broadway. So he saw me looking like Elizabeth I. I said to him, ‘I may be the queen on stage but I’m not in the bedroom!’” She guffaws. They live on separate sides of the Atlantic but communicate for hours by Skype.

“The thing that younger women don’t understand,” she says, “is most of us don’t want to be younger. I am having a good time and my life is positive. I still dress well and have a sex life. What I want to say is it is not a crime or a shame to age. It is a fact. Let’s stop running away from it.” If only Madonna was so brave.

On Line Dating Deal Breakers - East Coast Style

I was hoping I would run out of items after the first, West Coast installment. But no, New York has offered up some new and dare I say, improved viral pecadillos.

(1) "Mr. Wink, Wink, Nudge, Nudge." If you cite possessing an "open mind" and seek the same in your ideal date, know that I'm on to your veiled code for "I want to have threesomes with guys and girls and do all sorts of weird stuff like pee on you." NOT - GOING - TO - HAPPEN.

(2) "Out of State Nate". My profile clearly states I am looking for someone "WITHIN 10 MILES OF NEW YORK CITY." Georgia, Florida, Texas, Arizona and (today's 'tard), San Diego do not qualify. Me with my 10th grade education should not be pointing out anything you can find in a high school text book. Like basic geography.

(3) "The Chubster". If your profile photo reminds me of a sumo wrestling, pie eating champion, citing "average build" on your profile isn't going to convince me you aren't a regular at your local all-you-an-eat buffet. See, the two holes in my face allow me to VISUALLY ASSESS THINGS. By all means, write what you want. The jig is up.

(4) "I'm ready for my close up. Not." If the only profile photo you post is shot with a lens longer than a schooner, I'm guessing you have skin like Edward James Olmos, or a belly that turns corners five seconds before the rest of you does. Women are way more forgiving than men when it comes to looks, and here's a tip; if you own your lack of physical prowess, and embrace things like humor, intelligence, and chivalry, we might just overlook your weird rib cage and unruly eyebrows.

(5) "Talky McTalkerson". Hey asshole, whilst on a date, try asking me something about myself instead of rambling on like Rainman on stimulants. While it would be nice to land a fancy hedge fund manager, I'm not interested in the historical, minutae of how you structured your latest venture. I know you're trying to impress, but when I rush the waiter to bring me my third espresso in as many minutes, you might want to take the hint that I'm about to fall asleep. And I obviously don't care about my breath anymore which should further clue you in to the fact that something has gone awfully wrong - namely your mouth!

You Can Always Go Home

It's been 6 weeks to the day that I made the move from Los Angeles to NYC to start a new life, a new job, a new everything. As I settle into my stunning, peaceful West Village abode after nearly three weeks of corporate housing in possibly the busiest section of any city, anywhere - Times Square (did I mention I also work there?) - I finally have a moment to take stock of this gorgeous manifestation I have managed to call in for myself. Not even 2 months into this new adventure and I can already honestly say, what a ride it's been.

The practical, logistics of a cross country move are challenging at best. Forecasting the laborious and consuming nature of closing up a new life while simultaneously trying to carve out a new one is as predictable as my iPhone dropping calls. This includes but is not limited to managing early morning crazies at the requisite garage sale as unwanted clutter is unceremoniously cleared away, packing (and unpacking), forwarding the mail, turning things off (gas, electricity), turning them back on at the new location, selling my expensive hybrid car in a recession, and getting Time Warner to haul ass and hook up the cable/internet before I'm officially too old to have children. This in addition to finding a new place, lugging my bare necessities from my friend's house - where I stayed the first week - to corporate housing (floor 3), packing that up and moving to floor 7 (where I was told it would be much quieter - it wasn't), then hauling it all to my West Village apartment while managing a disorganized, chaotic trifecta of movers that managed to lose my nightstand, among other things, and burned a hole in my Ligne Roset sofa.

There was a time, not that long ago, when a move simply entailed the transport of a few suitcases, putting my futon on Craigs List, and notifying the post office of a change of address. One can quickly define their level of maturity by how long it takes them to pack their entire life up, save for hoarders. For now I come equipped with designer furniture, a top of the line mattress (for proper support doncha know!), real china, and lots of things that need to be wrapped in protective layering. Yes folks, I am an adult. I have the Limoge to prove it.

What I didn't predict was landing at my good friend's NY home that first night, and literally breaking down in a fit of anguished tears, suddenly tortured by the thought that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life. I had no place to live, was about to enter the corporate world for the first time at a senior executive level, and essentially giving up a perfectly good, in fact great life in sunny So Cal. And for what? Long winters and oppressively humid summers, a daily pace so frenzied, millions of locals literally race to get out of town each Friday, just to regain their peace of mind. In fact so common is this practice, no matter what your price point, there's a place not too far away that can offer you respite from the rigors of life in New York City. Most of all was this overwhelming fear that I might not have what it takes to cut it at at my new job. It had all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to take stock. And here I was, a couple of glasses of wine in, sitting on the spare room bed at my friend's Long Island home, sobbing into my hands, wondering if I had just set myself up for epic failure.

I tried a succession of things to sooth my woes. Subtle pleas to my girlfriends both near and far that I need talking off the ledge. Easier said then done because when you're the one who everyone defines as brave, fearless, strong, and invincible, it's hard to get them to take you seriously when you finally need actual help. Strike one. How about journaling? I am a writer after all. Surely putting it all down on paper, stream of consciousness-style, will help me reach some sort of epiphany? For an hour I scribbled furiously in my notebook, hoping I could delve deep into my sub-conscious and clear the way for the reasons behind my sudden panic attack. Turns out, I'm far more psycho than psychotherapist. These were the illegible ramblings of a mad woman. Incoherent, aimless, and wild. Strike 2. If the 3 strike rule applies in emotional emergencies, I had better hit the right chord next. On deck... Mum.

Fancy china and designer furniture aside, there is a great comfort in knowing you can always go home. While I may be 40, sometimes all one needs is to be reminded by the one person who knows you better than anyone else on the planet, that you're gonna be ok. Three clicks of my ruby slippers (or the dial of an iPhone) and I was soon on the receiving end of my mum's heartfelt diatribe that I came to this position in life because I earned it, that I have the innate skills coupled with years of hard work that have prepared me for this moment, not to mention that feeling this way is completely, and totally NORMAL. "In fact", said mum, "It would be weird if you weren't questioning such a life changing event at SOME point. It just caught up with you today, now that you are in NY, and it's all happening." Simple, succinct and grounding. All in one fell swoop. And with that I hung up the phone, put my head on the pillow, and crashed like a mo fo.

The next day, I woke up feeling refreshed, focused and ready to hit the streets of the West Village in search of a place to live. As I walked around with my broker in the 100 degree humidity, overjoyed that the heaviness had lifted, I gratefully pondered the notion once again, that one can always go home. Not only can I call home for great advice, but it suddenly occurred to me - LA isn't going anywhere. And if by some off chance I completely blow this opportunity, what's stopping me from going back and picking up where I left off? Because where I left off was pretty damn good.

Truth be told, I know I can do it. I recently heard a statistic that a large majority of highly successful people not only doubt their abilities, but actually consider themselves frauds a good deal of the time. Yes folks, everyone from Bill Gates to Bill Clinton have, at one time or another, thought the rest of the world would figure out they had no idea what they were doing. And then suddenly they knew what they were doing because they hung in there. Only to be followed by the same doubt about the next achievement they were trying to attain. And so the cyclical journey goes. It makes sense. To think you can conquer anything without questioning it just a little, even for a moment, borders on the sociopathic, doncha think?

I did question, I questioned HARD. Even though it only lasted a few hours, it made me take stock, clear out the fear, and press reset. As anyone who has a computer knows, sometimes the best thing you can do is unplug, and start up again.

Oh and in case you're wondering how I've settled in? I'm kicking ass and taking names.

You Stylish Bitch, You - French Women

Oh French women, with your effortlessly stylish ways, I love how you communicate with your scarves, and fancy trench coats. Who needs words when Karl and Isabel, Christian and Norma are on hand to speak on your behalf?


Oh ladies of France with your laissez-faire attitude towards carbs, white flour and copious amounts of wine, both red and white. How your macaroons are ingested like pretty coloured children's vitamins and nary a word about weight shall ever pass your lips. The way you spend countless hours at sidewalk cafes, divinely dining and savoring each morsel, reveling in the joy of good company and the diversity of life as it walks by your cappuccino filled, tables.




Oh French women, how your men appreciate the way you age, and find beauty in your lines and wrinkles. How could they not, for you give them no choice- your body, age and sexuality is cause for constant celebration and celebrate you do. What is your secret?

Oh American counterparts, if only we wore frilly panties and a matching bra to take out the garbage, applied lip gloss to perform the most mundane of tasks and seductively allowed a door to be held open, instead of scowling with vitriol at the very same gesture. Ladies watch your men, for it's no accident "femme fatale" is a french expression. Is there a night class we can take?

Oh French women, Je vous admire et adore la façon que vous se déplacez par le monde. Tres bien.

Packing and Purging

“If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is the significance of a clean desk?” - Dr. Laurence J. Peters

The time has arrived to begin the arduous process of packing up my life in Los Angeles in preparation for the move to New York City later this month. And as I do, I have been pondering the above quote. Though I'm not cleaning out my desk exactly, it's an important question. The refining of ones life, a discarding of what doesn't work any more to make room for an influx of new opportunity and wonderment, is a practice I have long held.

While I don't particularly enjoy rooting around my dusty, spider-ridden attic, or making countless trips to the garbage and recycling bins with armfuls of waste from times long gone (why did I need 7 pairs of snowboarding pants, anyway?), there's something incredibly therapeutic about purging oneself of the things that no longer hold meaning or purpose. Sure it's hard not to get sentimental about old birthday cards, love notes, presents from grandma and photos featuring colleagues and friends you haven't spoken to in years. But with each toss into the garbage can, a small space in my energy field feels as if it's being immediately created - a space for something new, improved, and thoroughly concurrent with my needs as they stand now. Not as they were.

At 40, there seems to be a box for every decade lounging in the dark recesses of my little California Bungalow. There's the "twenties" box, complete with photos of my days in various indie rock bands, the very first piece of furniture I ever owned (a large, green futon), boyfriends I'd rather forget, and the general youthful, malay that comes with hanging out at endless concerts and clubs for the better part of ten years. Yes the countless snapshots of me with a beer in my hand (and several that show my affinity for double fisting it on big nights), arm almost always lounged across the shoulders of some random friend I haven't thought of in years but whom I once called my BEST FRIEND, such is the transient nature of that decade in general. These coincide with other assorted items including yellowed concert ticket stubs, signed guitar picks, grunge-era clothing items, and journals chock filled with my home made poetry, and partially recorded songs I was convinced would land me a huge record deal. They never did. Oh don't get me wrong; it was great fun at the time. But if I'm to be perfectly honest, the only thing that box does for me now is make me ever so grateful my twenties ARE OVER!

The "thirties" box holds more evolved memories, as it should. Gone are the halcyon days of non-stop parties, only to be replaced by such Kodak moments as my boyfriend and I ceremoniously dumping the futon at the curb and greeting the delivery guy dropping off our new custom made, mid century modern sofa, remnants of dinner parties and wine tastings, the occasional rock concert (sans beer), and work photos consisting of colleagues toiling away at respectable jobs in respectable offices, not bleary eyed, backstage blunders captured whilst on tour with my band - or as it's otherwise known, three quarters of my twenties. The thirties, while productive both career-wise (I found my path in tv) and personally (a long period of serious introspective growth and maturity), felt like a lot of work. Ten years of growing up, barfing up (all that childhood stuff) and trading up, makes Shannon a dull girl. What's next? My forties. Shit's getting good...

So here they all are, my life in boxes laid out before me, my living room turned into a sprawling, disaster zone as I walk down memory lane. I've pondered the idea of throwing the majority of their contents out before. However, I always felt compelled to hold on to them as it was impossible to conceptualize having a connection to my past if I didn't have physical proof it ever existed in the first place. Now, with such a hefty and symbolic move upon me, I feel a more pressing need to truly purge myself of the clutter. And by clutter, I mean anything that doesn't inspire or raise my vibration in a wholly positive way just by looking at it. The rest can go to hell. Or the landfill. Sure I'll hold on to the truly important stuff, but not EVERYTHING. And once I do I'll be ready to start my "forties" box.

So far the "forties" box is empty but for good reason. I've been hard at work manifesting a new, even more evolved chapter - hello New York - and I imagine once I get to my new city my box will runeth over with juicy new events. I'm hoping that when I rifle through it at 50, it will be filled with remnants of kid related tidbits - report cards, class photos, sports tournaments, music recitals and science fairs - honeymoon and a wedding photos (maybe - still pondering that whole notion), industry awards, press clippings of a career at the very top of the Hollywood heap, me in a private box at Wimbeldon and lazy summers in Tuscany, postcards from my parents, happy and healthy as they travel the world for the first time in their lives, and whatever other grand adventures I manage to conjur up with my gorgeous family in tow. Maybe this will be the first box I won't feel inclined to toss. I have a feeling it will. But first, another trip to the recycling bin.

So on that note, packing doesn't feel as arduous as it has in the past and cleaning out my proverbial desk is as enlightening as it is therapeutic. Because the only things I'm taking with me, are the things that continue to inspire me when I look at them. There's no dead weight - emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I'd like to think it's all been tossed in the garbage. Along with my Frankie Goes to Hollywood t-shirt.

Shirely Valentine Revisited

I stumbled across an old favorite film of mine last night - one I haven't seen in many years - called Shirley Valentine. In it, our lead, a put upon, middle-aged, bored Liverpudlian housewife who has no idea where the sassy, outspoken, rebellious girl of her youth went, buried she is under a rubble of motherhood, working class life, and perpetual servitude at the hands of her well meaning but self-absorbed, over-worked and ultimately miserable husband. Things have turned out terribly disappointing, Shirley laments to her kitchen wall, "I realized, I've lead a little life." She wants desperately to create a more meaningful existence and rediscover her former self - but where to turn and what to do?

The answer arrives in the form of a close friend's offer to join her on a 2-week vacation to Greece. Shirley has dreamed of seeing the world but thus far, has never made it beyond the borders of Liverpool, let alone abroad. The thought of going to Greece both elates and terrifies her at the same time. What will her family do without her? After all, who is going to wait on them hand and foot, a point they make more than clear when she announces her intentions? All that aside, Shirley wonders if she really has the balls to venture away from her little life anyway. And will she like what she sees when alone with herself for the first time in over two decades? After enduring further, brutal criticism and judgment about her decision to go, a fed up Shirley sneaks away and heads for the airport, determined not to let her family deny her curiosity about the world any longer.

Predictably, though gorgeously crafted, she reconnects with her old self, stretched and forced out of the comfort zone of her "little life", until she re-emerges a woman finally comfortable in her own shoes, deeply fulfilled at having stepped out into the vast unknown - in this case Greece - and decides to stay. "There's no reason for me to come home. They'll be mad at first but at some point they'll get it." Shortly after, her husband shows up, following a series of failed attempts to get her to return to England. Shirley observes as she sees him walking down the sandy beach path towards her, "He needs a rest too, from his life. He need to relax." He walks right past her, not recognizing his reinvigorated wife at first. As he joins her at a table perched on the edge of the ocean, we fade to black knowing this remote Greek island will restore him too. And ultimately their marriage.

Though I brush this wonderful film with the broadest of strokes, Shirley's quest and introspection hit a nerve. Sure our paths have been very different. I've yet to truly be in my comfort zone, at least not for very long. I attribute much of my success in life to constantly shaking things up. Just as I get to really know an aspect of my life, I switch things up by taking the next logical, but often unnerving step to ensure my evolution and growth is a never-ending process. Shirley doesn't discover this well into her 40's. Despite her latent realization, she has reminded me to ask myself one very important questions; have I done the most with my life so far or have I wished and pissed most of it away?

My 63 year old mother often talks about the recent realization of having 20 or so years left on the planet. When that perspective hits hard, it's natural, and healthy to take stock of how one will use the remaining time to the fullest. While I may have only reached the half way mark at 40 (should all go well), I've felt a similar shake up occur since turning the corner on my fourth decade. It's half over. More or less. I think of the days and weeks I merely tolerated, wishing it were Friday, or Tuesday or some other day I thought would make me far happier than wherever I was at the time. It saddens me to think what I might have accomplished, learned, soaked up and evolved into had I taken more care with my youth and the intervening days between then and middle age? If I had only appreciated the less significant moments of my daily existence, instead of the moments on the highlight reel of my life. For isn't that what our time on earth is primarily composed of? The little things? Sure the big, shiny events are the things we talk about the most, remember fondly when we need a pick-me-up, and brag about to friends and strangers alike. But they are few and far between. It's the spaces in between that count. They are our every day.

And the Verdict Is...

The Slowest Moving Day EVER!!!

This is officially the slowest moving day in the history of slow moving days. I am awaiting final word on whether I got the big, corporate job. Any minute now my new iPhone 4 will ring, and on the other end will be Lauren from HR giving me the good word. Or not. Gulp.

She'd better do it soon. I no longer have any finger nails to bite - they've been worn down to disheveled nubs, and my stomach has more knots than a sailor rope convention. I've already drafted the thank you note to my would be new bosses, thanking them for their faith in me, and ending it with a sign off along the lines of, "You won't regret it." It's waiting in my "drafts" box, waiting to be sent, waiting to see if my future is about to get a whole lot better. I know how it feels. I sense it's getting as impatient as I am, seeing as I wrote it 4 hours ago. It was cathartic at the time, but now I think it will just make it even more depressing if I don't get the job and I have to erase it. Oh God - imagine if I sent it accidentally?

OK, must go back to watching the clock. I still have 8 strands of hair to pull out and a hang nail I can torture. Stay tuned...

On Line Dating Deal Breakers

After having several friends, and friends of friends, and brothers of friends, and passing acquaintances regale me with their personal triumphs in the world of cyber love, I've finally put my giant ego aside, and taken the plunge into on line dating.

Yes, sort of gone is my previous notion that only losers and desperate fuglies pay $20 a month to be set up with perfect strangers. After all, if I'm a member, surely there must be someone else of equal quality roaming the endless supply of profiles in search of THE ONE. In the meantime, I've become quite expert at weeding out the misfits, miscreants, and miserly misogynists with swift aplomb. Here are my on line dating deal breakers:

* Guys with eye patches.

* Guys who have their shirt off in 50% or more of their photos. Yes I get it. You have a 6 pack. But can your washboard abs hold a conversation, pay the mortgage, and do the laundry? Next...

* Dudes who have no children but make sure to include at least one photo of them holding somebody else's baby. Simply stating you WANT children is enough. I don't need photographic evidence.

* No profile photo. Just what are you hiding, anyway? I'm gonna HAVE to see you at some point - might as well get it over with now. And if you think filling out your album with sunsets, dogs and a photo essay of that biking trip you took through Tuscany last year will suffice, you've got another thing coming. I've only rifled through that bore fest to see if there's any photographic evidence of YOU. If not, enjoy your continued existence as the Invisible Man.

* The "Lonely" guy. Yeah. Sign me up for that one. Please. I want nothing more than to fill the empty void that is your life.

* Right Wingers who hit me up even though my profile clearly says no Republicans. I believe in gay marriage, pro-choice and strongly support the Arizona immigration embargo. Still wanna take me home to mom?

* The geriatric contingency. Despite stating that my preferred ceiling age is 45, getting "Winks" and emails from the 65 plus set is understandably annoying. I get what's in it for you. Can't say the reverse is quite as clear. And I refuse to hear the "Charlie Chaplin had kids when he was 70" argument. Call me crazy but I'd like to think the father of my children won't be sharing the diaper supply with our off spring.

* The perpetual "Winker". You "wink". I "wink" back. You "wink" again. I begrudgingly "wink" back one final time, hoping you'll elevate things to an email. You opt for the "winking" trifecta. I block you. Twat.

* Bad grammar/spelling, etc. Call me an asshole but if you can't discern between THEIR/THERE/THEY'RE, think the concept of punctuation is for perfectionists, and possess inferior spelling skills to an 8 year old Eastern European immigrant, I suggest you move on. If I'm questioning your ability to fill out a check properly, me thinks this does not a good match make.

* The out-of-the-gate flirt. At least call me once on the phone before you start asking me what I'm wearing for Christ's sakes.

Why Aging Doesn't Suck, Reason #8 - Kathryn Bigelow

Because at the age of 58, she was the first female director EVER to win an Oscar for her heavily male-skewing, war epic The Hurt Locker, beating out heavy weight contemporaries like James Cameron, Jason Reitman and Quentin Tarantino.

Because in the same year, Time Magazine named her one of the most influential people in the world, after three decades as one of the few women at the helm of major motion pictures (Point Break, Strange Days, K-19 The Widowmaker etc). It's also worth noting that not one of her films is a romantic comedy.

Because she's maintained a healthy, collaborative friendship with her notoriously difficult ex-husband Jim Cameron, claiming they are now such good friends they often swap scripts and early versions of each other's movies. Remarkable given they both run in the same insular, cut throat, world where Hollywood directors often compete for the same tiny pool of financing and accolades.

Because she said this, "If there's specific resistance to women making movies, I just choose to ignore that as an obstacle for two reasons: I can't change my gender, and I refuse to stop making movies."