Here is some wisdom I learned the expensive way:
Here is some wisdom I learned the expensive way:
Voters across the nation headed to their polling places to cast ballots on November 4th and I, as a proud American and resident of Chestnut Hill was one of them. I like many others I know, feel they don’t have a voice in our Democracy. Voting is supposedly where citizens have power to help create the change I want to see.
All candidates had a hodgepodge of issues and interests and were competing for the attention of an anxious electorate, with voters set to have their say. I am proud to say I cast my vote for Democrat Tom Wolf for Governor, who was victorious might I add, because we believe in the core issues needed. Here are a few:
All of the above goals are great. I stand by my choice but I was extremely dismayed when stepping into the ballad box, I realized I was not being represented by any party. My platform doesn’t exist, Canine rights! What am I barking about… trash cans. We have a dreadful crisis in the dog walking community in our beloved Chestnut Hill. There is a vexing absence of trash cans.
This has been bothering me and my pet, I mean owner for a long time. It should be my daily constitutional right for my constitutional to be dispensed of by my owner in this fashion: let me poop, scoop and toss in a timely manner so that we can have a lengthy dignified romp. That is not the case. Most days I have an urgent need to eliminate (poop) a few sniffs out the door at the beginning or our walk. Being law abiding citizens, the poop is scooped with a bag that is then tied closed. We do not defecate and depart my debris, leaving it for someone else to step in or pick up. That is not doggy dignified.
Here’s the rub. Once scooped, my walker must carry the bag of pungent poop for blocks because there is nowhere to dispense of it. Where are the trash cans? This is mortifying. How is one able to comfortably say howdy neighbor holding a stinky bag? I am a pedigree and find this undignified. I speak for all breads mixed or purebred. This situation has caused my walks to be shortened at times and that is unacceptable. A few walks our behavior has been unbecoming. How so? More than once we have seen a trash can on someones driveway or yard area and discarded said feces in it. We feel horrible doing so. Some folks are kind about allowing us to use their can. We like them and walk by if in the area and necessary. We don’t like doing it. Thursday mornings are the best because it’s trash day. Trash cans galore. Yippee!!
My point is, on behalf of the canine community and most walkers, we feel it is our right to eliminate the elimination in a timely manner and not have to parade our poop while walking. Perhaps a petition is needed by pets for a trash can policy to be initiated. I assume this is a local matter and it would best addressed for discussion at a Chestnut Hill community or board meeting. Perchance one of the elected officials can relate. Nationally, we believe feeding the needy and health care trumps trash cans.
Chestnut Hill is a dog loving town. It’s quaint, clean and the homeowners take great pride in their curb appeal. Let’s keep it that way with fresh air, clean streets and doody free dog walkers. I will contact Councilwoman Cindy Bass – 8th District: The functions of City Council influence a wide range of public affairs in Philadelphia and directly impact the quality of life for its citizenry, which includes dogs. Wolf Woof!
“Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.” – Woody Allen
Everyone wants a bargain right? Money’s tight and we all love a deal. I thought I found the big daddy of savings. Walking out of the store I was so proud of myself. I felt like I just won “The Price Is Right.” I outsmarted the corporations that over price products I resent. The products they sell we need, they know it and mercilessly overcharge us. Using these product is like washing money down the drain, literally. Well folks what I won was “The Price Is Wrong.” I was wrong, oh so terribly wrong and I learned a very expensive lesson. What’s the product I begrudge,?… toilet paper!
My son’s school was having a fund-raiser. There was a sign up sheet and I saw candy. That can’t be to expensive so I snatched it up lickity split. I have a membership to BJ’s that I never use. Considering the bulk bags of candy I relinquished myself to provide, I thought that the warehouse of a store Bj’s would be the best bargain. Wrong, candy caused my commode to explode. Here’s what happened.
Most every product costs $10. or more, it’s the bulk thing. I have a few staples I buy for my home that I could get there. Water, laundry soap and toilet paper. All three are my nemesis’. I grabbed my ridiculously high-priced candy (one bag was $20. hello, that’s not a bargain) and lugged my oversized cart down the oversized aisle to buy the oversized products that are over priced. Like I said, corporations have us by the balls or shall I say, in their pockets. I’m over it.
I swing around to the TP aisle and wham, I’m hit with sticker shock! Charmin, the one with the Bear, is my TP of choice. It was $29. I hung my head, took a breath, preparing to roll away when I spotted across the aisle a shelf of Bounty paper napkins, 200 for $9.00. BINGO, no one will see it but me and my boys. So I flipped off the Bear grabbed the Bounty and swaggered off. Little did I know the Charmin Bear was flipping me off and laughing as I walked away. For two weeks a bulk package of napkins sat next to the toilet. They wiped just great. One napkin a go. I was onto to something, this was a game changer.
It was the bi-annual, seasonal changing of the wardrobe’s day. It’s a brainless luxury chore. This requires laundry. I put an oversized load in the washing machine and went to work. When the cycle ended I descended my basement steps to find it flooded with blackish water. Oh Sxxx!
Being the hands on women that I’ve become, I tried to problem solve this myself. I walked out to my tiny manhole on the edge of my neighbors driveway and saw it was clogged with stones, sticks, and leaves. It’s also smashed in, must be the cars driving over it. I took my finger and tried to pull the debris out unsuccessfully, then I got a screw driver, not much better. The water started receding in the basement but I knew this was serious, I’ve been through this before. Hence my thinking thought of street plunging, yes you can do that people, I’ve done it, different house and it worked. What to do? It must be the leaves clogging the pipes right? So I called the Streets Department. Here’s what I was told: The Streets Department only comes if the manhole is in the street, it’s not their problem. What about the Water Department? The Water Department will come out to take a look at it for “inspection,” slap you with a fine and then you get your own plumber.
I started mopping, running up and down flights of steps, in and out of the house with “sludge” on me. This was too big for me. I had to throw down my plunger and call my plumber Matt Mazza.
Early the next morning which was a Saturday, the plumbers came. In my life Murphy’s law always occurs on Friday’s, so I had to get up. My neighbors were having a yard sale while two plumbers and myself proceeded to stand around the manhole deliberating if it was mine. The plumbers didn’t think it was, my female intuition knew it was but it was in a precarious place. Due to insurance they didn’t want to touch it. The neighbors were as perplexed as us, so a hunt began. After pacing back and forth on my sidewalk looking for “my” manhole they began excavating my lawn with a screw driver stabbing my grass trying to hit metal, which never happened, because my manhole is on the edge of my neighbors driveway! By this point I was exhausted from the day before, anxious to get this problem fixed and frustrated with little patience. The pro’s were ready to go but oh no, I wasn’t going to let these guys leave. At that point, I’d take my chances and have them snake the neighbors in hopes that it was mine. Many a flush later, watching the bubbling brew, a decision was made to snake it at the basement pipe.
I stood there and watched as the snaking began . Once cleared, extracting the snake, we found the problem. It was clogged with slimy, mucky, black wet paper napkins and one piece of dental floss. I was asked if I had been flushing anything down the toilet other than TP, I wanted to lie (embarrassing) but didn’t. After a brief seminar, apparently TP has special chemicals on it that breaks down the paper, thus making it flushable. Who knew? I didn’t but now I do and you do too. Be careful what you bargain for, you might end up paying more than you bargained for.
Let’s get real about our bodies ladies and how we try to hide them with “fashion”
I don’t have a career, I had one until I had kids. Now I gig, meaning I work jobs. A snooty way to put it would be I’m a contractor or consultant depending upon the industry. Last month’s gig was in fashion. September is the kickoff of the Spring fashion shows in New York. It is the month when fashion designer’s show their seasons newly inspired creations in Bryant Park. Tents, filled with editors, stylists, designers, celebrities and socialites watch striking androgynous models prance the catwalk displaying the next ridiculously expensive couture clothing that few can buy but many can rip off, think Target.
A few years back, while gigging at a wedding (floral), I met a woman in who lived in Manhattan and worked in fashion. How exciting, we hit it off immediately. My mind envisioned her in a glamorous position surrounded by creative people, in a glass office on the 67th floor of some brand empire overlooking the Hudson River. Wrong, there’s an ugly side to fashion and it’s called wholesale, hence trade shows.
My friend Andrea is the manager of a multi-label showroom which represents 12 designers. One day she called me and asked if I would work for her selling a line or two during market week (industry lingo meaning trade shows.) I didn’t sell, clothes I bought them and I didn’t have any experience which I told her. She said “Mary, you can sell anything come to New York for a quick training,” so I did. My love of fashion was killed that week. By the end of my first show, I wanted to vomit patterns. Now I Megabus, train, and taxi, suitcases and bags in hand and schlep to work about three or for shows a year. It is hard work, labour, and that’s just getting there. It’s not first class. Let the crazy begin!
Scenario: New York City, the Jacob Javits Convention Center, “The” Coterie show. The Coterie show is one of the largest trade shows on the circuit for both buyers and sellers. Designers’ wares are on displays in mini-booths trying to look like boutiques. Thousands of buyers come worldwide for three days to pursue the droves of aisles to see the next seasonal trend. It’s huge, loud, chaotic pandemonium. My face muscles get a great workout from all the smiling I do, check my crows feet. It’s long days of people rushing around interacting. Anyone in the industry longer that three years, I think it’s safe to say, doesn’t look forward to this event, buyer or seller.
Location is everything especially at the massive Javits center. I want to be near the bathroom or food line because they’re both long, really really long. It can get ugly. Welcome to the glamorous industry of fashion. Usually there are a few shows going on at the same time, Coterie, Moda, Stitch and Atelier. I never know which show I’m working until I get there. Now “Coterie” has been Queen for many years. Everyone wants to work it, but me. It’s all about ego.
This year I lucked out. I worked the Atelier Show which is held at the Doubletree Hotel (YES! Not the drafty Javits) in Times Square! You show your line/s in a hotel room with a bathroom, refrigerator and a couch! Oh the luxury! Some noses turn up at The Atelier show because it is smaller, usually with brands unknown to Americans… you know, like top-notch European labels (duh). I let them have their opinions because I’d like to keep Atelier just the way it is – egoless, intimate, sane with enjoyably long days.
Usually there are skinny girls in cat suits dressing and undressing the lines so the buyers can see how it looks on a person. The sample lines are always XS or small. This year, I was the skinny girl and I’m not skinny. I’m not fat, I’m medium or large depending on the designer. FYI, Europeans cut small. I thought OH NO, there is no way I’m going to fit into the samples. I was relieved even jovial when I was assigned to work with Matti Mamone, a contemporary/lifestyle Israeli company. Yea! I might fit into some of the pieces, which I did! It’s showtime Mary. On and off, on and off, “can I see that again?” all day long, in platform shoes.
Putting on sample size clothing in front of buyers sitting on couches when you’re not a sample size is… comical in my head. Like a smiling robot I found myself repeatedly saying, “This is a sample size, I’m not,” then with lightening speed I’d hand them a look book (more lingo for catalogue) with a model in the same garment, while I continually walk and pose keeping the motion going. You can’t hit a moving target!
The God’s honest truth is the buyers response was supreme. Why? Because I am your client. As much as fashion magazines and other media tells women they should be a size four, we’re not! Matti Mamone sizes from small S to XXL, smart. I wrote a lot orders for M-L-XL. Smalls too but the point is clients were buying the larger sizes. My sales were fantastic. The success of the line is because it is designed for real sized women, flaws and all! I don’t have many, JK- just kidding.
What I thought would be a mortifying few days work was the opposite. I will go as far as to say I felt pretty, even in the sample sizes. Ugly was in my head, reality was in the bank, not mine, but I got paid. Until the next show, your life is a catwalk, walk it.
Published on Sep 25, 2014
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TODAY’s Hoda Kotb teamed up with Sara Bareilles and Cyndi Lauper, who mashed up two of their hits to create a song to raise money for the fight against pediatric cancer. The music video for “Truly Brave” features young cancer patients from The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.
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Your destiny lies in the wind oh Bluest Bird you must begin…
This journey of new life begins
A clean slate bares unknown
Out of the nest to fly or crash
To find and make a home
In darkness there is sin choose light
Begin to test your strength and might
Flap your wings yes flap your wings
Enduring tests in course it brings
The wind yes it does come along
Chaos, power, scary
Sweet Blue Bird your are not alone
Ride out the storm don’t worry
Branches snapping breaking near
Oh who can hear your song?
Frightened heart and soul knows fear
Again you’re not alone
Whipped around upside down
You can’t see through the trees
Look to the light yes there you see
A nest to rests your wary pleas
It’s in this nest safe warm and known
The storm is rolling on
You tweet tweet tweet your song your own
The Bluest Bird that’s ever flown
The sky is gray you venture out
What was that scary storm about?
A lesson testing your resolve
Your gifts don’t doubt oh Bluest Bird
The gray turns bright you flap your wings
Your course Blue Bird you sing, sing, sing
The sweetest tune sounding so true
You are the Bluest of the Blue
Come out to help another bird
You hear a panicked song
A different sound yet understood
It cries it’s all alone
You’re flying through the sky to help
The other birdie by
Flap, flap, flap wings worn and weary
The wind raptures the sky
Time is different you know what’s known
Survive the wind sing while you’re blown
And as you sing you rise in power
Your strength grows strong this is the hour
The greatest lesson you have known
Is Blue Bird your are not alone
Yet greater still a Whisper’s heard
Relax and trust your inner Bird
Stretch out your wings and flap no more
Now’s the time that you shall soar
Soaring to the highest heights
The song you sing is in the flight
You’re destiny lies in the wind Bluest Bird you did begin…
The Bluest Bird.
I Strategically picked a kid free zone for a quiet day at the beach. If only these three women would shut up. Where’s the kids?!
I know I’m in Jersey. How, this woman’s accent is… How would I describe it? New Jersey. I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt that she doesn’t realize the wind is carrying her boring banter.
I don’t care that so and so’s dress looked like it was strangling her at parent – teacher back to school night.
I’m still in summer mode thank you very much! I’m here to prepare mentally, physically and emotionally for my own back to school parent- teacher night which is three weeks away.
I’ve come to the realization that these women are completely unaware of their surroundings. I could have an epileptic seizure and they’d sit there eating their chips and blabbing… Loudly. I would give them a pass if they were actively getting day drunk, but they are not. It’s their natural state.
Yes I could move but anyone that has been to the beach with me knows I completely landscape my territory. I’m not packing it all up to move to a spot that could be equally or worse more annoying than my real estate now.
What to do? I think for my own sanity and their safety I need to go jump into the ocean. It is there that I know I won’t here the threesome talking about “what grade is he going into”. I have my own kids. And I left them at home.
I am a dancer. I have a BFA in Dance. Ok, I graduated in 1991 but still, I have one. I had a successful career for 25 years. I don’t dance anymore. I don’t exercise. I’m 30 lbs. heavier than I was when I was working. It’s all good, I’m ok. I have body dis-morphia. I look in the mirror and I see the woman I was at 28 years old. No Problem!
My dog Henri and I like to watch yoga, cardio dance and exercise programs on TV. We actually feel like we did the class afterward. We’re sweaty and thirsty? Can anyone relate to that… I think I’d call it exercise osmosis. I eat junk food, a lot of it. I don’t sleep much. My Spiritual life has become watching “OPRAH’S MASTER’S” show once in a blue moon while lying on the couch. Once in a while I do my own thing on the beach, a mix between dance stretches and yoga. I JUST TURNED 48.
We stumbled upon these two beauties, Betty’s, on YouTube. They have a video called “Sweaty Betty’s Boot Camp” for dancers. We watched a few minutes of their video and decided, we can do that. Now, could I keep up? No. Three minutes into the video, during the warm up, when they got to the four jumps in first position section, Henri quit and I was dragging. I do have excuses and I will use them.
I have arthritis in my metatarsal joint in my left foot. You don’t know what that means? I have arthritis in my big toe. All those years of releve… standing on tippy toe, caught up to me. I can’t wear high heals anymore, the irony. Jumping is something I don’t do but I tried. My twelve-year-old bounced down the steps and started jumping next to me for inspiration, thanks James!
These Betty’s do multiple series of arm positions and swings. TRUTH: I have a right shoulder injury that I will have for life. It “flares” up when I try to exercise, as in doing this video. I’m sitting here now with a bag of frozen peas on it as I write.
There was a time when I would have pushed through these exercises full-out in pain, ego saying go, go, go, which is why I’m all busted up now. Today I’m older, I’m wiser, and I admit defeat easily. Did I quit? No way (I have dancer ego PTSD) I modified the exercises to suit my body. One of my favorite words… Modify. Say it, it feels good.
So I can’t jump with my feet in first position like a penguin anymore, I jumped with my feet parallel. I couldn’t stay, body hoisted up on one elbow allowing my shoulder to take my hefty weight while I did leg raises, I laid that arm out, head resting right on it guilt free. I did them, modified.
I’m stiff right now, 20 minutes later and my butt hurts, that is a very good sign. In two days I’ll be a cripple, even better! In this moment, I plan to do it again, exercise. When, soon. The point is I did it. Will I ever be the athletic lean woman of my past? Of course not. Do I wish I was? Of course yes but it won’t happen. Martha Graham said “Great dancers are not great because of their technique, they are great because of their passion.” I don’t need to be great. I do have passion. I am who I am and my name is Mary, not Betty.
I just read a Master Class on Stella Adler! The book “STELLA! Mother of Modern Acting” took me on a journey into the history, life, art, and ideology of an icon of the theater world, Stella Adler. The history of the Yiddish theater on the lower East Side of Manhattan was written so clearly that I could feel the energy of the people, the community, the struggle and the importance of the contribution of theater that unified these immigrant people. I could, hear, smell and feel the lower East Side. The importance of what the Adler family achieved is historically monumental to an otherwise dreary, depressed neighborhood and time in American history which I was unaware of. That’s just the beginning!
Getting to know Ms. Adler through this extraordinary read was educational not only in how she taught but also in her belief that it is the responsibility of the actor through craft to make an impact on society. To use theater as a tool for activism. I found this to be an exciting, easy yet intellectual read. It is obvious that the author did her homework! The incredible amount of research that had to have taken place to write this important book translates to the reader. The author’s comprehensive expertise on her subject, as well as her commitment to writing, what I believe should be part of the all actor’s education whether it be part of an academic curriculum in Universities or in community theaters around the globe, is monumental and relevant to teaching the craft of acting. Bravo to Ms. Ochoa for not only recognizing the prominence of Stella Adler and her contribution to the history of theater but also for writing a book that should not be overlooked and live on as a teaching tool as Stella is for me now!
The first time I saw a spoken word poet was in New York City. I knew nothing of it and I don’t know why I went. The Beacon Theater on the Upper West Side. The 1st EVER Def Poetry Jam, Russell Simmons and me. It was a sign. That day I went alone and sat in the balcony. I was hijacked, attacked, whacked by words, rhyme and meter. I didn’t know what spoken word was but knowing rap I was a leader, I related. I couldn’t predict the future of my history. My past was no mystery. My culture was “SUBURBAN teenage white girl listening and dancing to the underground am radio station W-HAT Saturday morning rap program with host Lady D.” Before rap was mainstream. That’s right, white girl me.
Fast forward 25 years later. Writing rapping poetry was to be my therapy. After he left me with two boys, toys, and noise, theirs… and mine in my head. Spitting violent, angry, broken, rhymes, confusion, disillusion was raping my mind. It had to flee me… getting it out with pen and paper. It was there I could shout rant, scream, cry, release… I purged my demons out.
Intimidated by Def Poetry Jam, how do you get to poetry land? I feel inadequate no Master’s Degree, I’m a high school drop out with a college degree, in dance. I home school me with verse imagery, read the best Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, 18th century?… Study Youtube artists Mayda del Valle, Big Poppa E, Taylor Mali, Gemineye, and of course it always comes back to rap music moving me.
Who am I? Do I have a say? Do I have a voice? Is it a requirement to teach English to claim the label poet? Emotional intellectuals do I need a MFA? I think not that’s what I say, criteria is in Liberia. Anyone here have a degree from Liberia?
I looked up spoken word poet… on Wiki because I’m a scholar poet…without a dollar, Holla. By the way, did you know the Poet Laureate earns $35,000 dollars a year? No Holla. The dynamics of tone, gestures, facial expressions, performance, I got that down. To MEMORIZE, I want to hide, I told you I was a dancer. The fear of that skill alone will paralyze me into a zone of failure, not willing to try. Fuck that, keep falling forward. Set an example for other wanna be’s, because we are.
I’m a poet, I know it. I just say what I say about today, tomorrow or yesterday. It comes from my soul and moves through my heart out my mouth expressing itself in words information, communication, investigations of thought, emotion, observations. How do I get to The New Yorker, Tin House, Ploughshares and The American Poetry Review? I trust the Maker of my destiny, it’s already mapped out what is meant to be will be.
To answer my questions, I do have a say, I do have a voice, I claim the label POET. Who defines Mary G? Me, I validate me. I have stuff to say. I’m a spoken word poet, practicing, just for today.
Spoken Word Poet… Very Cool!: The very talented poet Sarah Kay gives tribute to her bad ass brother who marches to his own drum and is a stick of dynamite!
OBSERVATIONS OF MY THIRTEEN YEAR OLD SON
Where did the time go you were just a little boy
I’ve turned around and you’re not little anymore.
You are tall, dark and handsome, funny and kind
Your mind is developing, getting smarter with time
I pull myself back to take a good look at you,
To witness you today and accept you for you.
This is not an easy task, it’s hard to let go
I want to live in the past, keep you little but no
That’s not how life works, you continue to change
In spite of myself I must not complain
You have always been my teacher, even when you were a child
Now you are so smart, an intellect, my shinning star
This time in your life is not easy for you
I don’t know how to help you so what do I do
I will step back and listen, pay attention to your thoughts
Respect your opinions and honor your heart
I pray you are grounded, not caught in the game,
Of who is better, has more money, no two people are the same
Unique heart body soul, Spirit dances and runs
It’s my honor, my privilege to call you my son
Are you a believer in manifestation or prophecy? I am, I manifested a prophecy and I have proof. A speeding ticket. The definition of manifest is: of or pertaining to conscience feelings, ideas and impulses that contain repressed psychic material. A foretelling or prediction of what’s to come is prophecy. Yes, I have both psychic and fortune-telling abilities!
I love to drive fast, really fast. I believe I missed my calling as a race car driver competing on the redneck car racing circuit. Perhaps in another lifetime. I haven’t decided if I believe in Karma as in I will be returning in another lifetime hopefully more enlightened, like a tree. Trees are more enlightened than people. Has a tree ever gotten a speeding ticket? Point made. Considering all the “coincidences” that happen to me I’m about 98.3% convinced Karma is a go.
Two weeks ago while speeding down the Atlantic City Expressway to the beach, I noticed my friend kept grabbing for the handle every time I switched lanes and passed a car. I said “Don’t worry I like to drive fast. I know what I’m doing.” My friend said “but you don’t know what the other car will do.” I then smiled and barreled on. I proceeded to tell my friend that there are two tickets I don’t mind paying, my annual beach tag and speeding tickets, because I don’t get them. All of a sudden a feeling came upon me, call it intuition, call it the hebeegeebees but my road radar went up. It didn’t slow me down mind you, it nudged me and said, you better watch it. Hmmm??
I often teeter on the edge of road rage, I said teeter. When I, in my Honda CRV, powerful as it’s not, gets stuck behind a powerful, fast, forceful, mighty, sports car like a Porsche 911 Turbo S or BMW M6 convertible that is going 25 mph on a slow 55 mph highway because a snail is undeservingly at the wheel driving, I hear the car screaming “put your foot to the petal man, I was built to fly!”
These drivers they are lane blockers. They are unconscious of the lowly drivers on the road around them and refuse to pass the car next to them causing the vehicle, me, to tailgate and kindly flash my high beams which they are oblivious too. I am not a horn honker, very un-chic. Now I’m stuck looking at the tailgate of two cars for however long it takes one of them to make a move. Usually this happens when I’m running late to get to work or pick up a child. My assumption is that the luxury driver is retired and doesn’t rush anywhere because he or she is living a life of leisure. Only a person of a certain age can afford those cars right? Unless you work on wall street or are a politician, have a trust fund or are a criminal, usually white-collar, who buys these machines?
Every year I go on my annual pilgrimage to a yoga institute called Kripalu up in Lennox, MA. I am part of a team that facilitates juice cleanses. It’s a working vacation. It’s about a six-hour drive from Philly to Lennox. Once you get through the outskirts of NYC you’re driving through the scenic Catskill Region and into the Berkshire mountains. I think the scenery is beautiful. I am usually looking at someones tailgate but, I glanced at a cloud, pretty. I’ve been doing this for years so I am on auto pilot.
At a certain point there is 100 miles of wide open highway. The cars on the road drive slow however, they must be aware of the frantic city folk white knuckling their steering wheel driving to a retreat center in a panic needing to DE-strees, because they kindly change lanes to let one pass. There is no hostility. Sometimes a good-natured farmer will nod. Great locals in those parts. You know… Woodstock? These people are usually driving beat up pickup trucks, motorcycles or the run of the mill cars we all drive except for the snails.
This trip I got through the cluster cluck and maneuvered my way through a few groupings of cars and there it was, an empty highway stretching for miles right in front of me calling “let it rip!” I answered the call “YES!” I hit the pedal to a sane speed of 80 mph and put on the cruise control. It was blue skies and sunshine, music pumping and no kids… Who’s living in luxury now? I was zen, for about 30 miles and then, it all changed.
I crossed over a small hill, a fellow driver on my right slightly driving behind me and there it sat, a predator known as the state police, trolling underneath a bridge, just sitting there waiting for its next victim. I hit my breaks and had a psychic experience, I’m busted.
I pass the joy kill praying “please no, just let me go” but no, he pulls out, terrorizes me for a mile then puts on his flashing lights. The bliss was sucked right out of me in that moment. I reached over to my glove box and surrendered myself, “Hello Officer.” Him: “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Yes you idiot. Me: “Your’e probably going to say I was driving to fast?” Him: “How fast do you think,” Me: “68mph?” Him: “That’s the speed I clocked you at when you hit the brakes, my radar has you at 78 mph. (no) License and registration please.” “Really? This car didn’t feel that fast?” You know the rest. I sit there and watch the slow snails pass me by.
I couldn’t be mad. It was an honest bust. I am a speeder but for one split moment, I thought he might let me go with a warning when he asked where I was headed and I replied “I’m going to a Spiritual Center, I took a week off from my kids”… wah wah wah.
Now I’m faced with a dilemma, I have to mail the ticket in and plead guilty or not. If I plead guilty they will mail me a bill, not guilty, I have to travel up there for court. I asked how much if I plead guilty, the copper didn’t know, perhaps up to $150. I’m going to check both boxes and send a note to the judge. The car on my right was bullying me.
Skeptics might argue it was just a matter of time, I’m not a prophet and didn’t manifest this ticket. Well I say “really, well the timing convinces me, as well as my supernatural abilities to transcend… forget it, you either believe or you don’t. I know I’m touched.
I’ve decided to channel my supernatural psychic skills towards manifesting a Porsche 911 Turbo S. They only cost $182,095.00 If I can afford that I can afford speeding tickets or at least out chase the police. If you are reading this and own one of the two aforementioned cars, or a kick ass Mercedes, I’d really appreciate it if you would send me a check for all the tickets you should be getting but don’t because you drive your sports car like a horse and buggy. The injustice!
Help! I’m lost in a labyrinth. I’ve lapped it eleven times and keep coming back to BUDDHA!
Mary’s Modern day monk cave. Om shanti shizzle…#Kripalu #yogini #juice
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