A Star Is Reborn
Here’s hoping you COLLAPSE and CRUMBLE. In a good way, of course!
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Chasing Perfection
Achieving perfection is nearly impossible.
The other day I got a hair-brain idea from Pinterest to make scented candles poured in reclaimed mason jars, embellished with rustic details. All the comments made the process seem monkey easy.
Let’s just say I’m satisfied when the day ends and I haven’t totally burned the house down. Note to friends on my holiday candle list: Expect a nice box of packaged chocolates. Perfect!
Being called a perfectionist (which I am kind of when it comes to bathroom cleaning, not candle making) isn’t about things being perfect in your life. It’s the perception that you’ve got it all together and therefore everything in your life must be perfect, which is rarely true.
A social perfectionist yields to external pressure to get everything just right. We can thank Martha Stewart, Pinterest, and every HGTV and Food Channel show host for making us believe a kitchen renovation or the perfect meal can be completed in thirty minutes, with commercial breaks.
Perfectionists cite past mistakes, criticism and expectations from parents, teachers and supervisors for driving their need to perform better than the next guy or gal. In reality nobody’s perfect.
Self perfection is the breed of perfectionists who set their own bar high. They’re motivated to get it right and not make mistakes. They avoid failure by claiming to give 110% and if that doesn’t get the job done they’ll work until the skin on their fingers chafes and bleeds. It’s a never ending treadmill which if unchecked, leads to burnout, or worse. For a perfectionist, at stake is the dissolution of self-esteem.
Supporters of perfectionists see you as someone to emulate which further keeps you motivated to fulfill their perceptions of you. To a perfectionist “average” is a failure.
This perpetuates a cycle of doing for self satisfaction. Nothing is ever good enough, no matter what physical evidence, achievements and accolades a perfectionist earns, they can always do more, be more. Just ask them.
For the rest of us mere mortals, we are unfairly judged by perfectionists. We can’t (please tell them we don’t want to) compete in their arena. For that we are judged as less than.
If perfectionism is unobtainable, is chasing it a bad thing? Absolutely not. I hope my doctors and tax accountants are perfectionists!
But perfectionism is not a badge of honor if it drives you to the point your physical and mental health suffers. That goes double for the non-perfectionists on your candle list.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Image: Tony Wallstrom
Lyrics: Leonard Cohen
Thank You, Good Morning
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Image: Unsplash
Be The Best Thing To Someone Today
Without you being aware of it, you could become the person who changes someone’s life today for the better. In fact you most certainly may be the best thing that happens to someone today. That’s how powerful you are as a human being.
It might go undetected by you, but the person you grace with your presence (intentionally or not) will be forever changed. And grateful that you showed up in their life today.
***
I sat in a tiny waiting area. Tense. Afraid. Sick to my stomach. Again.
In this one there were six chairs, two side tables topped with a variety of magazines all battered and torn. A coffee table centered between the chairs held a gratuitous plastic flower arrangement. Why bother? Someone had tried to cheery up the room with honey-colored walls and unremarkable framed prints of forests and wheat fields. I hated this place just like I hated the place before it.
Across from me sat a little old man, maybe in his 80s, the only other person in the room. Where I hadn’t acknowledged him at all, he offered a kind and friendly smile.
I dug out my nearly-filled notebook and scribbled in today’s entry: date, location, doctor, procedure. Keeping notes was my sanity, a way to control the uncontrollable. It gave me a sense of purpose; that I was doing something to help, to be productive, to keep a handle on the only thing I could manage. Notes. Names. Medications. Lab reports. Specialists. Surgeries. Chemo schedule.
I wrote with desperate intensity; fast, in a panic, worried I’d forget something, one tiny detail that once having escaped my brain could never be retrieved. And that detail would end up being the important clue and I’d beat myself up again for not having recorded it.
This was my purpose as a caregiver. A meticulous keeper of notes.
What started as a “just the facts m’am” reference grew into a filled journal of raw emotion. Writing became the only trusted reliable friend on the dark days.
Feeling angry and pissed, I had no trouble telling off everyone and anyone on paper, including God Almighty. Sometimes I punched people in the face. On paper.
Writing kept my sanity especially on days when I felt the entire world around me had gone insane.
This was one of those days.
I pressed the pen so hard my fingers trembled until the point tore through the page. That’s when the old man laid his hand on my knee making me flinch.
He smiled without showing any teeth and, with a surprisingly firm grip, took both of my hands in his. “How long have you had cancer?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “It’s my husband.” He nodded as if he only saw my lips move but didn’t hear my words. “My husband.”
“Yes,” he said. “How long have you had cancer?”
I repeated “my husband” again but louder, in slow motion, so he could read my lips.
He massaged my hands a moment.
“My wife,” he said, his eyes looking to the door, “she’s in there too.” He turned back to me and smiled. A full set of rather nice old man teeth. “We’ve been married sixty-two years. This is the second time we have had cancer.” Emphasis on the word “we”.
His eyes, mocha colored like my Dad’s, softened. He went on to tell me that he is present for every appointment, blood draw, chemo and radiation treatment. Holds her hair back when she throws up then wipes her face. Spoon feeds her when she can’t do it herself. Wraps his arms around her when she is too tired to cry or weak to walk. “We” meant they are so close and bonded, what happens to one is felt by the other.
He palmed my cheek, still smiling. “How long have you had cancer?”
“Two years.”
We talked a short while before he retreated back to his chair and worn out Yachting magazine to wait for his wife.
I thanked him when he and his equally sweet wife left, then returned to write in “our” notebook with a more peaceful stroke.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Image credit: Unsplash
Original graphic and quote: Stephanie DelTorchio
Dare To Be Different
We label people as “different” or “weird” or “strange” or “an odd duck” when we describe an individual who is far away from our belief of “normal”.
What is normal?
A conformist?
A rule player?
Someone who looks and behaves exactly like us?
Can’t we be good citizens, productive workers and still be different?
I’ve always liked the term “free spirit” (in the positive context) to define individuals who dance to their own drum. This person lives in harmony with themselves, Mother Nature and without treading on other people’s weirdness. Sign me up.
As a teenager I went braless because I was a teenager, and honestly there wasn’t much that needed support. A pink t-shirt I wore printed in gold lettering was a public testament to my personal freedom. (I’ll never forget) it said: The Itty Bitty Titty Committy. Funny then. Cringe-worthy today.
The 70s hippie crowd, my generation, plastered the country with demonstrations of free love, drugs, and to this day, the best rock music ever made by a slew of musicians and artists who dared to be different.
We were anti-this and pro-that in the face of “the man”. 
We thought we were cool.
Hairstyles were long and stringy. Fashion styles ranged from jazzy prints, denim, go-go boots to the beginnings of preppy, non-hippie (men wearing matching pastel sweaters and socks) and the two didn’t meet in the middle. I chose the former; bell-bottoms with thick embroidered bands sewn on the bottom, peasant shirts and halter tops that drove my parents’ generation crazy. We were different. And I didn’t care.
Truthfully I was a fringe partner of my generation. More a middle of the road, closet non-conformist who loved the style than a true card carrying hippie. I did well in school, played by the rules and despite the veil of hippie, honored my parents’ values. I did my own thing for sure, but once the 70s moved into the 80s my perspective on being different shifted. The 80s matured me.
I wore a bra every day. My judgment of others became a live and let live attitude of peace and love. As a homeowner and parent, I had mediocre tolerance and success with heavy metal and big hair, but also silently cheered those who lived by their light. Different is still different and that’s okay with me.
Imaginative and creative people are different than logic driven types. Perceived as aloof or introspective, detached or (yikes) insane, those are the very people “normal” society looks to for innovative advances and artistic expression.
Putting aside the true psychotic personalities out there, the certifiably different, the free spirit types spread their vibe just by being present. The hip and trendy cycle repeats itself with each generation. New styles, music, opinions, fights to fight, causes to defend. Most people evolve and change, perhaps substituting one oddness for another quirk, while others get stuck. There’s plenty of leftover hippies tripping in the 70s man.
Before we label each other, we need to understand it’s our differences that make us unique. I’m cool with that.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Images: Bird in flight/Breano Machado/Unsplash; Hippy Town/Pixaby
You might also like: 7 Struggles of Being a Free-Spirited Woman
A New Day
By it’s very definition, Zen is a total state of focus
Zen incorporates the togetherness of body and mind. Maybe a little “out there” for some people, but I challenge you to look at a beautiful sunrise or sunset and not feel your body and mind come together.
The moment this photo was snapped I felt that whatever (bad stuff) had happened the day or week or month or year(s) before wash away.
With the new tide, the beach is reborn and gets another chance to be a beach.
A new possibility.
New feet will sink in it’s sand, new birds will scurry at the shoreline, new children will collect the shells that gather. Can you tell the beach is my happy place?
“It’s a new dawn. It’s a new day. It’s a new life, for me…and I’m feeling good.”
This is my anthem for today.
Anthony Newley and Leslie Briscusse wrote the song lyrics to the song It’s A New Dawn for the musical The Roar of the Greasepaint – The Smell of the Crowd.
Nina Simone recorded the song for her 1965 album I Put a Spell on You and it became a standard. It’s been recorded by many artists. Listen to her version. My apologies to Michael Bublé @MichaelBublé, my favorite contemporary version.
Please forward this graphic to your friends who need a prayer, a note of encouragement, a nudge or a KICK IN THE PANTS today.
It’s a new dawn, my friends. And I’m feeling good.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Photo and Original Graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Self Judgment Day
So you’re waiting in line at the Pearly Ones trying to get your story straight.
Maybe you’ve kept a running list and brought it with you– the general accounting of your life, written in your best penmanship. Years of good deeds, annual generous donations, personal sacrifices, and a few token sins tacked on the end (c’mon now people). You figure a comprehensive list along with a humble dose of humility and apostolic reverence just might be enough to squeak by. Good for you.
I don’t have a list.
Not sure it would do much good.
There isn’t a person alive (or an angel-winged Bouncer at a Gate) that will ever judge me harder than I judge myself. Where I excuse others and give them a pass, this gal spent years wrapping her own knuckles with criticism, judgment, condemnation, and unforgiveness. Years I can’t get back or do-over.
See, I think about this life a lot. Every day. All day. At night, as lay me down to sleep, I take an accounting of the day. Did I waste it? Did I spend it with people I love, eating delicious food, laughing, helping? Was there wine? Lots of wine? Did I contribute rather than burden? Was I available? Aware? Involved? Kind? Thankful? Did I learn something? Did I grow?
I can’t fall asleep until I give thanks and forgive myself with the promise that, if given the chance, I’ll try better tomorrow.
With aging comes the awareness of the finite time on this planet and the realization that I need to stop screwing up and fly straight. I don’t want to end up a bitchy old lady still wondering when my happy days plan to show up.
It is my responsibility to own this life and enjoy it. And because I now know this, damn it, I need to live this way until the very end.
I truly believe the only accounting necessary on my last breath is an answer to a simple question: Did you enjoy your life, Steph?
The rest of my time here is dedicated to making sure my answer is: “You’re damn right I did!”
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Original quote and graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Quote from A Few Good Men: “You’re damn right I did!”
Thank Full
On this day I am thankful for…you fill in the rest.
If you are living and breathing, (Hallelujah!) I know you are thankful for Today. Beyond that it’s up to you to give thanks for each day. Count your blessings — just like Grandma preached before she cleaned the potatoes from your ears and told you to be thankful you had two ears to hear!
Be Nice. Be Kind. Be Gracious. Be Safe.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
The Five Minute Rule of Civility
It takes balls to stand in the same air space as a person you’d rather squeeze the life out of. Still, my mother, a woman with great big balls believed anyone can survive a civil conversation for five minutes.
We’re grown-up big people. We know civility aligns with the rules of law and the Almighty. This is how mature adults (should) behave. Five minutes will ease you through a dreaded receiving line or a chance meeting at the deli. Five minutes is the average time it takes to floss your teeth, take out the trash and phone in a pizza order.
As an alternative to total avoidance, she suggested another, albeit radical approach. Go at it head-on. Be the friendly aggressor. Stick out your sweaty, shaking hand first. Say hello.
This is one of those situations where it sounds better on paper. Retreat in the opposite direction is more my style.
I have a certificate from the Absence/Avoidance Institute.
Despite a near panic attack, I sucked it up at a funeral service when it would have been very easy to give my condolences to the family and slip out the side door.
An older woman, the source of many nightmares, sat a few rows away glaring in my direction, buzzing to the people around her. In my mind they were talking about me. Because ego always shows up first. In the past she’d meddled in my business where her only stake in the outcome, to make waves. Her disloyalty ended a lovely friendship, although honestly, I couldn’t remember the exact details that caused us to not speak for years.
Occasionally our paths crossed. We avoided each other in opposite rope lines at the bank or the same grocery register. Easier to look the other way or recheck the list than attempt civility.
I paid my respects and approached the woman, interrupting her mid-sentence. She looked up and examined my face for a moment, trying to place me, then returned to her conversation — parking suggestions for the next day’s church service. My ego got booted out the door on its ass, where it belonged.
I stood in her air space and held out my sweaty hand. To my surprise she stood up and took it. Her frail, boney handshake drew me into a sweet hug. She still favored Jean Naté. Twenty years had rendered its penance. Her slight frame thinner than I’d remembered, now as fragile as a China doll. I thought a good sneeze might shatter her into a million bits.
She softened even more when I mentioned just having made her One-Bowl-Banana-Bread recipe. That the well-worn, stained card she’d written when I was a new bride is still a family favorite. “I don’t bake anymore, ” she said.
And just like that it was over.
We parted, in less than five minutes, with no daggers or bloodshed or promises to see each other anytime in the future. It was a civil conversation, that’s all. I’d like to think we were both better for it.
My mother’s contention:
They’re going to talk about you whether you speak up or walk away. Leave them with a good story to tell.
In fact behind my back one of her elderly friends said, “Can you believe she had the nerve to smile at you and shake your hand?”
I checked my watch. Under five minutes.
And my pizza was ready for pick-up.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Awesome LESSON
Original graphic and Photo image: Stephanie DelTorchio (the recipe)
Be Naïve
Several years ago I had an epiphany to publish a bi-weekly community news tabloid. The idea arrived complete with shooting stars and blaring trumpets. In the background, Woodward and Bernstein, legitimate journalists, wept over their Pulitzers.
Enter Little Susie News Girl with no experience whatsoever. No knowledge of printing press applications. Or the boiler room politics behind the publishing and distribution industry.
Creatively, “The Evolution of Sex Education in America” received high praise from my professor for its exceptionally neat penmanship.
My art portfolio sat in a cardboard box in my parent’s basement labeled “Stephanie’s middle school crap”.
Not to mention I’d never sold anything to anyone. Ever. Unless you count the piss warm lemonade charitable neighbors gagged down. Coincidentally on the same really hot day Neil Armstrong walked on the Moon. One giant leap…
My lack of credentials held no restraint against my passion and purpose.
Our town published a daily broadsheet, but I fell in love with the smaller shopper-type free papers I’d seen at rest stops and quickie marts. Without a formal business plan or a bankroll, I forged ahead to become the next Lois Lane of yard sale and fundraiser announcements.
I romanticized the feel-good position of being editor-in-chief. I’d wave the power of the press in favor of the little guy. The underserved. Small business owners and all the non-profit organizations with wrapping paper and candy bars to sell.
Parents and little old ladies arrived in droves like starry-eyed pilgrims, with notices scribbled on a napkin in one hand and no money in the other. Steady and loyal customers booked two-by-two inch paid ads to support the tabloid. Relationships were key. Something I might have learned had I gone to business school.
There were months and months of mule work to learn the production process, layout and design, salesmanship, accounting — I loved it all.
I mostly enjoyed the people I got to meet. Pat, my printing contractor, was the quintessential newspaper man; tweed blazer with suede elbow pads, the scent of printer’s ink and pipe smoke swirling about his office.
Interestingly, he attributed my success as a legitimate resource in a small community to my lack of resume.
“Your naivete is your greatest asset,” he smiled.
True.
I did not know what I did not know which propelled my curiosity. At the start, my fears of failure were non-existent. Had I understood the dynamics of the business, the costs and the sheer time commitment involved, I would have most certainly taken another crack at a lemonade stand.
That little newspaper had a good run for a few years before I moved on to other writing platforms which I also knew nothing about!
Naivete is still my greatness asset. What’s yours?
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Awesome CHOICE
Credits: iClipArt
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