Life Without Karma (Or Why the Notion of Karma Is Pure BS)

What do Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and Karma all have in common?  (No, this is not a riddle.  Just shout it out when you know the answer.) That’s right, folks.  They don’t exist. 

However, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny have pleasant physical forms that usually bring smiles to the faces of children who believe. On the other hand, the personification of Karma, well…that’s a mystery to me. But I’ve heard she’s a bitch.

Thanks to The Karate Kid, I totally understand the idea behind the “what-goes-around-comes-around” mentality.  I mean, Johnny totally deserved the hose in the bathroom treatment from Daniel, right? Of course, The Karate Kid got his ass kicked, but that’s not the point. The point is that he didn’t wait for Karma to show up at some undetermined time in the future to do his dirty work for him. He took matters into his own hands, and for that, Daniel has my respect.

In my opinion, Karma is nothing more than a scapegoat for unresolved issues. And that is why I can’t really relate to people who believe in Karma. They crave revenge, sometimes for years, but are waiting on a mystical being to perform the task for them?  I don’t get it.

Here’s something to ponder.  What if Karma never shows up?  What if she’s got her period or has a headache?  What if she quits because she’s tired of fighting your fights? If you truly cannot get over whatever situation caused a wrong in your life, do you really think waiting around for something bad to happen to whoever it is you’re pissed at is the way to go?  Will hearing a tragic story about someone who wronged you five years ago make you feel better?  And if the answer to that question is yes, what kind of person does that make you?

And what about poor Karma?  I’m pretty sure if I were her, I’d tell everyone to stop whining and get on with their lives.  Not to mention that if Karma really did exist, wouldn’t she be focusing on bigger problems like murder, espionage or cleaning up the environment?   And if she really had any time left over to start a personal war on assholes, wouldn’t she most likely skip your mundane requests and start with…oh, I don’t know…Kanye West?

Due to mutual dislike, there are people who are no longer a part of my life. And regardless of what kind of assholes we were to each other in the past, I hold no ill will towards them now. I don’t secretly wish that Karma attacks them with Alfred Hitchcock’s birds.  

You see, I don’t believe in Karma.  I just believe in life’s ups and downs. 

And no one lives a perfect life.

I’ve made mistakes.  I’ve fucked people over.  I’ve been an asshole when I could’ve chosen to be nice.  And yes, shitty things have happened to me that will make anyone who doesn’t like me very happy. But I’m certain that when crap lands in my lap, it’s not because Karma is doing my haters a favor. It’s simply because shit happens…to everyone…all of the time.  The difference between Karma believers and me is that I am not waiting for the storm to strike my opponents. 

Instead, I am living.

And I urge the Karma believers to join me. Not in two months, or five years after Karma has avenged the wrongs in your life, but now. The only way to truly live life is to stop hoping that this Karma bitch has your back.  Because she doesn’t. 

Karma doesn’t happen.  Life does. 

*This piece was published on Sammiches and Psych Meds on May 20, 2016.

Five Things I Wish People Wouldn't Do While I'm Running

As a runner, I am a sucker for articles on anything running related.  From marathon advice to shoe advice to injury advice, I never tire of the endless top 5 lists that appear in my newsfeed.  So if you are a runner, I’m sure the annoyances in my Top 5 “things-I-wish-people-wouldn’t-do-while-I’m running” list are recognizable to you. Enjoy!

• Don’t ignore stop signs. If you are driving and notice a stop sign accompanied by a pretty painted white line, my tip is to stop your car.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost been hit because drivers seem to have forgotten that rolling past the stop sign into the crosswalk can actually kill someone.  I get it.  We’re all getting old and may have overlooked this part of the driver’s education manual.  But seriously people, a stop sign is not a suggestion, so…STOP.
• Don’t stop a runner mid-run unless you are dying.  I once had a dude stop me to tell me about all of the medical ailments that his friend had due to running.  Recently, another guy stopped me to make a joke about running.  This doesn’t annoy me as much if my run is leisurely, but when a runner is in training mode and trying to maintain a certain pace, don’t be surprised if you get a punch in the nuts for making us stop and listen to your ridiculous banter.
• Don’t hog the sidewalk.  Whether you are taking your dog for a walk or simply out for a morning stroll, be mindful that there just might be other people like yourself who wouldn’t mind a sliver of the sidewalk.  Also keep in mind that some of these people might even be coming up behind you. So, when in doubt, move to your right side and share the pavement.
• Don’t honk your horn at me.  Look, I’m almost forty, so I’m not going to lie-I love when people think I’m hot.  I’m not usually one to complain about compliments, even in the form of a beeping car horn.  But for goodness sake, when I’m running, I’m usually in a zone, and honking your horn can quite literally scare the crap out of me or give me a heart attack.  So, while I appreciate the sentiment, a quiet wave or smile will do just fine, thanks.
•  Don’t run in the bike lanes.  Just to show that I’m not biased, this one goes out to the runners.  Having dabbled in cycling, the speed that I traveled while trying to “hold my line” scared me to death and eventually drew me back to running.  However, I can now empathize with cyclists, and realize that competing with a runner for twelve inches of space is not ideal.  Not to mention, if you are a runner in a bike lane, the only options cyclists have are to either swerve out into traffic while going upwards of 25 mph to avoid you, or to stay the course and pray that you move first.  Both scenarios suck, so please remember that bike lanes are for bicycles.

To be honest, until I became a runner, I was not considerate enough to make myself aware of my surroundings. But I’ve spent over ten years on my running journey, and I have no plans of stopping…unless, of course, I see a stop sign.

*This piece was published on Lose the Cape on May 20, 2016.

Lessons From a Protest

A few weeks ago, our family attended our first animal rights protest. While nothing beats standing outside for hours in the scorching Florida sun, attending a protest usually isn’t my first choice of things to do with my children on a Saturday afternoon. However, my older daughter has had a passion for animals since she could pronounce the word “dog”, so supporting a cause that was important to her felt like the right thing to do.

As we marched up to the park gates with our signs, the protesters immediately fell in love with my daughters, greeting them warmly and telling them how important it was to have support from the next generation. As the minutes ticked by, I was expecting a shouting, angry mob to lay down in front of the park, denying access to the entrance. But this didn’t happen. It was surprisingly peaceful, friendly and educational. The real shock came about twenty minutes later, when the drivers of the cars entering the park began demonstrations of their own, mostly incorporating their middle fingers, yelling obscenities out of their windows, and, in one case, spitting at a protester. Luckily, none of it was directed at my girls, but everyone else was fair game.

And this is where my confusion lies. 

I found some irony in the fact that while my daughters were able to protest without any vulgar interruptions, I was the target of some pretty interesting hand gestures, despite my lack of a “PETA” t-shirt. And I guess my question is – why are the hostile people of the world more offended by adults than they are of children, even if the message we are trying to convey is the same?

Not that I want my eleven and eight year old daughters to be attacked, but as a mom, I want to know when I should expect people to stop looking at my children as cute, good natured and passionate, and start looking at them as losers or scumbag activists with too much time on their hands. At what age willthey be the ones getting spit on? I mean, if I knew the answer to this question, I could at least try to be a good parent and provide them with a raincoat and goggles to save them from an asshole’s saliva, right?

My reality is that until they are old enough to drive, chauffeuring my girls to protests may be the norm. And despite the judgmental stares, and the loogies in my eye courtesy of the angry bird flippers, I will proudly stand next to them. I will ignore the ideas that my girls aren’t old enough or smart enough to form their own opinions, and I will silently hope that there is a mishap in the park that involves these idiots falling into a tank with the captive animals.

But the mom in me knows that my girls will eventually fall victim to these people, and I would love to be able to decipher the jerkoff code so that I can protect my girls from their impending invasion. But at the same time, I don’t want to be the one to stick a pin in their balloons. Because even though the protest reminded me that intolerance exists in our world, my daughters walked away with a completely different perspective. 

Despite the amount of spitting and cursing coming from the park goers, my girls were successful in getting a total of five cars to turn away from the park that day. The naysayers may have tried to silence them, but ultimately, the experience provided my daughters with the knowledge that the power of their voices mattered. And because my girls simply ignored the negativity, the mama bear in me is confident that, as adults, they will be able to identify and dismiss the assholes that they are certain to encounter while on their journeys. But before they leave me, I may sneak raincoats and goggles into their bags…just in case.

*This piece was published on BLUNTmoms on May 13, 2016.

My Invisible Crutch

As an only child, I always had a flair for independence.  Even so, accepting help as a kid seemed natural and uncomplicated. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, my comfort level in allowing others to lighten my load has drastically changed. As an adult, accomplishment and the joy that follows is important to me.  So when it comes to asking someone for help, I always think to myself, “If I have a problem that I am capable of fixing, then why would I involve anyone else?”

This question is my downfall, and the reason why I rarely take advantage of the support that surrounds me. 

If there were a Best Family in the World award, my family would win, hands down.  And I am not the only one who notices my tribe’s loveliness. At my wedding, one of my guests said, “When I get married, can I rent your family?”  After celebrating Christmas Eve with my family, a friend commented, “You guys are like the Puerto Rican Brady Bunch.”  

Although I formed a close bond with my cousins, aunts and uncles as a child, I didn’t truly value them until I was old enough to experience the families of friends, boyfriends and husbands.  I can now appreciate the friendship, loyalty and support that we have always selflessly offered to each other.  My family is like an internal whisper pulsating through my mind, confirming that our blood is our bond, and regardless of the circumstances in any given situation, we will be there for each other. 

I now live thousands of miles away from the bulk of my family.  The modernized support we offer has taken form via social media.  If I need advice, they are all a Facebook message away.  Being that writing is my preferred method of communication, this works out well for me…most of the time.

But when life gets harder than what the contents of a Facebook message could possibly provide, this is where I struggle.  Being a contemplative introvert, thinking and overthinking can feel like a full-time job sometimes.  I usually take to my laptop, write a blog, or I go “old-school” and write my thoughts down on paper.  If this method of internalization doesn’t settle me, that is usually when the uncomfortable, “oh-no-I’m-going-to-have-to-ask-someone-for-help” doom sets in.

Although I have a strong support system in my husband and my parents, I still find it hard to use what is available to me.  While expressing my opinion has never been difficult, vocalizing the need for anything that, in my mind, should only belong to me, has always been a challenge, regardless of the amount of support waiting in the wings.  My husband gets upset sometimes because I don’t allow him to do simple tasks like taking my girls to school if I don’t feel well or changing a light bulb.  So, you can probably guess that when there is something more serious sprinting through my mind, asking for any kind of assistance from him is a rarity.

Some people have used the word “strong” to describe me.  I’m not sure this is accurate, as there are times when I need more than what I can offer myself, yet I fear asking for it.  In times like these, I do not seek refuge in the amazing family structure I just described.  I, instead, choose to find support in a place where it is not readily offered, but there nonetheless. 

I find support in the gifts that are my daughters. Because they are eight and eleven, I don’t approach them and lay out my problems, hoping they will dissect them with me or give me their shoulders to cry on.  I don’t expect answers.

I find encouragement when my girls let me hug them a little longer, when they help me without my having to ask, when they randomly tell me they love me without me saying it first, when they sense something is off and include me in a game or a story or whatever it is they are doing, when they look at me and offer a simple, yet beautiful smile.  Although it may not fix everything that needs fixing, this is the type of support that I can readily accept.  Their unconditional love for me lets me focus on what is important, leaving whatever is left over easier to tackle. Whether they know it or not, they are the support system I treasure most.

Through my girls, I’ve learned that support doesn’t just come in the form of actions like helping with a task or lending someone money or giving a friend advice.  It doesn’t only come from people who are willing to give it.  For me, the support I’ve found most useful has come from the invisible crutch that my daughters unknowingly, yet lovingly provide.

Spring Cleaning and Streak Free Windows

It’s that time of year when hordes of women charge their way up the grocery store cleaning aisles with purpose and determination, in an attempt to create a seasonally sparkling home.  I’m not sure who came up with the idea that spring cleaning should be a thing, but here we are, buying into the hype.

Now, I’m no cleaning expert, but over the years, I have had some unfortunate reactions to products that just weren’t up to snuff, one of which included me screaming at a broken spray handle.   For whatever reason, most of my springtime frustrations come from window or mirror cleaning. 

Have you ever walked away from your clean bathroom mirror, only to come back and notice an enormous smudge?  Or after cleaning, have you ever looked at your glass from a different angle, only to find that there are streaks in the shape of the motion you used to clean the glass in the first place?  

Yeah…this is my life story.

Being that I’m almost forty, you would think I would have found a tried and true window product before now.  But up until about a month ago, this was not the case.  I tried everything from Windex to Method to Invisible Glass and just about everything in between, and was disappointed when none of the “streak free” products seemed to work on the glass in my home.  I started to think it had something to do with the way I was cleaning.  Have I been doing it wrong all of these years?

The answer is no, and I know this because I finally found Pella Glass and Window Cleaner.  After years of searching, discovering a glass cleaner that doesn’t allow me to waste four paper towels on one small mirror makes me want to burst out into song.  

In addition, I don’t have to scrub my glass so hard that the veins in my muscles start exploding.  I simply spray, swipe and move onto my next cleaning adventure without the fear of seeing a random smudge out of the corner of my eye.

Cleaning with the Pella product has made spring cleaning more tolerable and less time-consuming.  And I am proud to say that since the Pella Glass and Window cleaner has been a part of my cleaning routine, I have transferred my shouting matches with bottles to my aging steam mop.  

And so the quest begins…

Love is Art

After last week’s Naughty Mommy blog, it seems as though my readers are more intrigued by the topic of sex than I gave you all credit for.  So in keeping with that theme, I thought I’d share something my husband and I tried a few years ago. 

As you probably guessed, I am always on the lookout for unique experiences to bring into our bedroom.  For me, buying another “been there, done that” outfit from Fredericks of Hollywood is a bit boring. So, when I came across the Love is Art kit from Uncommon Goods, I excitedly placed my order.

When the kit arrived, it came neatly packaged in a tube, which contained a 54” x 41” canvas, plastic drop cloth, non-toxic paint, body scrubbers and disposable slippers.  (As silly as the slippers sound, they were much appreciated when our paint covered bodies had to slink from the canvas to the shower.)

For roughly the same price as a dinner for two, you can instead buy this kit and spend time with your partner romping around on a canvas, making love and art at the same time.  All you need is paint and passion.  

From our experience, I would recommend pouring some paint both on the canvas and on your bodies, as this covers more area.  But once the canvas is out and the paint is on, your only job is to simply go at it.

Just some quick notes:

• The paint is a bit cold, but it’s nothing the heat between you and your partner can’t fix.  
• The paint dries quickly, so I would say that a drawn out seduction scene is probably not meant for this product.
• The paint easily washes off with soap and water.
• This is a FUN experience.  If you are one of those people who, in the back of your mind, is going to worry about paint getting on your furniture, you are NOT going to appreciate this.  So, just let go and enjoy!

As for the cost, there is a choice between the regular kit ($60), which comes with either red or black paint, or the custom kit ($70), which gives you four paint colors of your choice.  There is also a canvas stretcher kit available for an extra $36, but my husband and I were able to suffice without it.

The finished product is now hanging in our bedroom.  It is fun to look at our canvas with the secret (or not so secret anymore) knowledge of how it was created.  So, if you are looking for a unique way to spice up your life in the bedroom, I strongly recommend giving this fun activity kit a try. 

The Love is Art kit can be found at uncommongoods.com

Naughty Mommy

What do you think of when you hear the word “naughty”? If you are like most moms, I would bet your interpretation ranges somewhere between a raunchy French Maid-esque lingerie ensemble to a surprise birthday blow job for your husband. 

But if you are a mom like me, your definition of naughty may take on a unique life of its own. Now, I’m not knocking lingerie and blow jobs.  Any attempt at straying from your norm is always a fun surprise.  It’s just that my norm is probably not the same as that of any of my friends. Despite working a full time job, having a family, a blog to maintain, an affinity for running, and many other commonalities that come along with the daily life of a woman, my sexual swagger has actually gotten more intense over the years. And I am basking in the glow of it.

One year, after securing a sitter for an entire night, I planned a surprise for my husband’s birthday. If extreme sex were a sport, this surprise would have fit right into that category. The day began with a sweet drive to a remote town extremely far from where we live. We enjoyed a nice dinner, romped around in a posh hotel overlooking the ocean, and then attended a party at the hottest sex club in the area. No, that is not a misprint-it is a confession. I, Michele Fallon, mother of two beautiful little girls, ages ten and eight, took my husband to a club where people walk around naked all night long and have every type of sex you can possibly imagine. And I loved it.

Being that my husband had no idea what the evening plans were, we of course had sex in the hotel prior to our arrival at what I’ll call “Club Sex”. This didn’t present any problems once we got situated in the club later on, but if I had to do it again, I would have avoided the hotel sex. Parties usually begin around 8pm and last anywhere from 3am-7am the next morning, so saving the hard-to-come-by mom energy for the club just makes more sense.

Here’s some more info-the dress code at the club gave us two options: A) Fancy clothes (dresses for women and dress pants and shoes for men) or B) attire that goes along with the night’s theme, which in our case, just so happened to be “french maid”. Looking back on it, I wonder what the men were supposed to wear if they opted for themed attire.  I don’t remember seeing any men in french maid outfits or holding feather dusters, but I’ll have to keep a closer watch on that next time.

Prior to arriving, there were very specific rules that needed to be learned, respected and followed.  There were a lot of them to remember. Despite what you might be thinking, this place was extremely classy and very protective of its guests. The goal of the club seemed to be focused on ensuring that everyone’s experience was comfortable, and here’s a spoiler-Club Sex succeeded in that regard. After freaking out about being too old to remember the overabundance of club rules, I was able to relax when I realized that most of them were common sense.

Upon entering, there was a small room where we paid the membership fee, got our bracelets and registered for the night. The fact that I now had a membership card in my wallet that did not belong to a local grocery store was thrilling.  I could have called it a night right there. But we pressed on.

There was no indication that this was a sex club as we entered through the main door. Drawing back the curtain only revealed a typical dancefloor, DJ, bar, food buffet, tables and couches. Because there was nothing out of the ordinary, a slight panic set in as I wondered if we were going to be stuck in a club environment listening to throbbing house music all night long without engaging in any sexual activity whatsoever. I looked around for a souvenir shop that might have sold “My lover went to Club Sex and all I got was a headache and this lousy t-shirt” paraphernalia. And if I was questioning this entire idea, you can probably imagine what my poor husband was thinking.

After getting our drinks at the bar, he was the first one to speak asking, “So what happens now?” My memory is naturally always a little fuzzy, but it was at that very moment that I wished I would have retained more details about the club rules. Without the rule book to throw out the proverbial window, and being completely unaware of the approved logistics of sexual activity in this particular part of the club, I livened up the party by dropping to my knees, unzipping his pants, and getting to work. It was a short lived minute. My fear of getting kicked out took precedence over my bold blow job move. But as I stood up, there were no bouncers waiting to escort me out. There were just people talking, laughing, drinking and dancing…with clothes on. But no one paid any attention to us at all.  No judgement, no disgust, not even a stare. 

This gave me confidence, but not enough to try it again. At this point, we were both confused and wondering where the sex was. Where were the dirty mattresses and the crazy orgies? Where were the women dressed like hookers? Where were the French maids…or butlers…or whatever it was that the men were supposed to come dressed as? Other than my quickie blow job test, no one else was conducting anything other than dancing. So, I finally swallowed my embarrassment with a big gulp of wine and asked one of the employees if we were in the right place. He said that I absolutely was, but that it was very early and most of the action I was looking for occurred in the back rooms later on.  Breathing a sigh of relief, I went back to my husband’s table and told him the good news. With that, we were able to have a drink, relax, and watch the party unfold before our eyes.

As the hour ended and the next began, the dance floor became much more crowded. At 9pm, there were couples modestly grinding to the beat.  By 10pm, women were half naked dancing with their partners or other partners, getting groped or kissed and enjoying every minute. My husband and I joined the party-goers on the dance floor and had our share of heavy petting and making out. But that got old pretty quickly, as the true reason we were there was to see what was behind door number two, so off we went. 

After stripping down and stashing all of our belongings into lockers, we entered our first play room. We were mesmerized by all of the beautiful people in the same room just loving on each other. It didn’t take long to drop our towels and get in on the action. I know this sounds very strange to most moms reading this right now, but I have to say that the environment was warm, loving and respectful. Every choice made in that room belonged to each couple. There were no expectations and no disappointments. It was surprisingly refreshing, and honestly, the only time in my entire life where I felt confident that I wasn’t being judged at all. And the kicker-I WAS 100% NAKED!

The night ended in the morning on a couch, with us eating breakfast still naked, still enjoying the insane amount of sex we had and witnessed all night long. For those of you wondering whether or not this occurs on a regular basis, the answer is no. However, after that night, lingerie and blow jobs will never fall into the “naughty” category in our house. We are still sexually adventurous, and we still make sex a priority in our marriage-not because we are obligated, but because it is something we both truly enjoy.

Just because I am a mom doesn’t mean I have to give up on something that is pretty damn great. I’m not just talking about sex, but of the spontaneity of sex and the surprises that it can still hold when other possibilities present themselves.

The excuses that come with motherhood shouldn’t stop you from experimenting and finding something, no matter how risqué, that can make you feel great. To all of the moms out there who think I’m nuts or gross or inappropriate, I dare you all to tap into your sexual freakdom and not have it change you for the better. I dare you to offer yourself the permission to give new meaning to your perception of the word “naughty.”

*This piece was published on BLUNTmoms on April 5, 2016.

Keep and Share Calendar

I’m a mom…who works...who writes…who cooks…who cleans…who sings in an acoustic duo…who reads about thirty-five books per year…who has to make time for everything in between.

You get the picture.  I’m busy.  And I will bet that your plate is just as full (so thank you for taking a few minutes out of your day to read this).

For busy bees like us, it is essential to keep our days somewhat structured, right? But what is the best way to do that?  For me, it’s using an efficient online calendar. I know, I know. This is not earth-shattering news, nor am I reinventing the wheel.  But when I find something that works for me, I like to share it.  Enter KeepandShare.com.

With a multitude of online calendars to choose from, it took me quite a bit of time to find the one that best tames the circus that is my life.  The feature that sealed the deal for me is the free-form writing that is available for every calendar date.

Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I’m not a fan of calendars that make you choose a time to set up a meeting/appointment (but Keep and Share also offers this type of set up if needed).  Outside of my full-time job, my life doesn’t run that way. I don’t hold meetings with my kids.  I don’t make appointments to visit the grocery store.  Keep and Share has enabled me to sort out my day at my own pace. As a mom, having a calendar that simply allows me to write my to-do list without those annoying meeting reminders is valuable for both my organizational management and my sanity.

 Another great feature is that Keep and Share makes it simple to share your calendar with others who have Keep and Share accounts.  Need your husband to get some milk after work?  Add it to your family calendar where you both have access to the tasks that need to be completed for the day!  Need a document ready for work?  Add it to your work calendar so your colleagues can see it!  You can even share the document with your team in the "Files" section!

In addition to my favorite features, Keep and Share calendars can be imported or exported, and are also available on your smartphones with the Keep and Share app.  And as far as costs go, there are several paid calendar options to choose from, but I opted for the Keep and Share free package, which allows up to 5 separate calendars and 500 calendar entries. This is more than enough, even for this busy mom!

Keepandshare.com is the secret weapon I use to make juggling life look easy.  So, go ahead and give it a try!  

Should We Carve Out Some Time For Debbie Downer, Gloomy Gus and Negative Nancy?

With New Year’s goals finding their way into our already full agendas, time is more critical than ever. We have our game faces on-feeling positive, confident, and indestructible. That is, until we run into our friends Debbie Downer, Gloomy Gus and Negative Nancy.

For those who don’t know who they are, Debbie, Gus and Nancy are the fictitious pseudonyms for those people in your life who thrive on negativity, play the victim in every possible situation, and tell their sad stories over and over again to whomever is willing to listen. Sometimes, they even thwart your plans by telling you about a guy who knew a guy who had a disastrous outcome in a situation similar to the one you are about to embark on.

Are you starting to recognize these people now? If not, a good way to spot them is to ask the mundane yet polite question, “How are you?”

Let’s be honest. When people ask this question, they are expecting a quick, “Everything’s great” so that they can go about their day. But a Debbie, Gus or Nancy will never let this opportunity pass. They will instead stop you in your tracks and make you listen to a ten-minute saga about why their morning/ex-husband from five years ago/dead goldfish from 1978 was plaguing them. When dealing with these people, I learned the hard way that giving them too much attention will validate the way they are feeling and ultimately suck you into their toxic bubble. Instead of becoming an ally who will support their pessimism, I learned that a simple wave hello is more sensible.

In addition, because social media has shown no signs of slowing down, thousands of people like Debbie, Gus and Nancy have been unveiled. Scrolling down a Facebook timeline can reveal quite a bit about someone’s personality. You can tell who is upbeat, fun, adventurous, crafty, narcissistic, angry, bitter, or just sad.

I understand that we all go through an array of emotions throughout our lives, and having a few bad days that we take out on our personal Facebook community can be somewhat cathartic. However, Debbie, Gus and Nancy have patterns that never stray too far away from the negative. Even though some of my former Facebook friends were nice and didn’t wrong me in any way, seeing how dreary their days were going on a daily basis started to affect my day. So, when it comes time to evaluate who I want to see in my newsfeed, those who can’t find a small ray of sunshine, even once in a while, are the ones who generally get the axe.

So, am I right in throwing a joyous mental goodbye party for these people after dismissing them from my life? Although it always feels right to me, maybe I’m too quick to unfriend. Like watching a soap opera, maybe hearing someone else’s drama can make me feel better about my own. Or maybe their rain will give me a better idea of how to plan my parade. Maybe we all need a force that keeps us grounded when we are trying to fly.\

OR…maybe we don’t.

When the majority of the minutes in my day are set aside for tasks like working, cooking or cleaning, the time that is left over becomes considerably important. Sharing even one of those minutes with Debbie, Gus or Nancy seems…well…depressing. Though I don’t live a shiny, happy life every moment of the day, I am pleased with where I am and who is here with me. Therefore, Debbie, Gus and Nancy will have to understand that my time is too valuable to be stuck in the past or to pine over the negative results of situations that have not yet occurred. Rather, I choose to reserve my minutes for those who make my life lighter and for those who simply hand me an umbrella when the forecast calls for rain.

*This piece was published on Sammiches and Psych Meds on March 17, 2016.

When Your Signature Scent Dies

I remember the first time I read about Stella McCartney Body Milk. While leisurely browsing through my favorite Lucky magazine, I came across a “blink-and-you’ll-miss-it” article directed towards people like me, who prefer body lotion to perfume. Apparently, we are a small tribe, as suggested by the multitude of perfume ads in the magazine.

Because I am a lotion gal, always favoring a light breeze of a scent rather than a thick perfume cloud, my choices have been limited. So, when the article touted that Stella’s Body Milk was light, yet lasted throughout the entire day, I couldn’t wait to try it. Having faith in my trusted Lucky beauty editor, I determinedly headed off to Sephora and made my purchase. Once home, I felt like a child on Christmas morning as I opened the pristine white box. Within a few seconds of applying the creamy body milk, I was in love.

I decided to give Stella her test run at a family function, because I can always count on my family to tell me if I reek. Surprisingly, Stella passed the family test and I was ready to try her out in the real world. Depending on my mood, where I was going or who I was seeing, I would experiment with different lotions, but every time I chose Stella, I received numerous compliments. After a few weeks, it was a done deal. Stella was my signature scent.

I’m not sure if any of you are like me, but once I found my signature scent, I tried my hardest to keep it a secret. Consistently evading the, “You smell so good.  What perfume is that?” question became somewhat of a sport. Knowing what I know now, I doubt that I would have been so clandestine, as I’ve learning that popularity is what keeps a scent on the shelves. And my friends, Stella has left the building.

Though I doubt I was her only buyer, Stella McCartney Body Milk didn’t pick up as much steam as her Stella perfume counterpart did, so now it sleeps with the fishes. While she sells a body lotion with some of the same notes as her old body milk, something is amiss in the scent department. As a result, I am stuck with two options, both of which I have attempted, somewhat successfully.

Option A-Buy it on Ebay.

Ebay still sells my Stella body milk, but it’s extremely rare and triple the price I used to pay. Sometimes, I can’t help but to splurge. But most of the time, I look at the old white bottle on my laptop’s screen and daydream about the days of wandering into Sephora to get my fix. 

Option B-Set sail on a new scent adventure.

I am loyal to my scent, and after years of trying to find it, the idea of gathering the energy to unearth a new one is daunting. Perfumed lotions are just not as popular as perfume, so I will always run the risk of lotion extinction. 

In addition, I’ve found that when shopping for a new fragrance, I can only handle so much before my nose tricks my brain into thinking that everything smells exactly the same. Sephora simply can’t offer enough coffee beans to alleviate the “I’ve-smelled-too-many-perfumes-within-the-last-ten-minutes” dilemma. Not to mention, when picking a scent, I like to let some time pass before making the purchase.  What if it smells great initially, but then a few hours later, I find that it doesn’t mix well with my body chemistry?

Despite the obstacles, I am happy to say that I have found a replacement that competes bravely with my beloved Stella. And this time, I am going to shout it from the rooftops to avoid an untimely lotion death.

So, to my tribe of lotion gals, you might want to stock up on my new “secret” scent - Elie Saab Le Parfum Scented Body Lotion. I promise you, it was worth the hunt.