The Real Price of Self-Indulgence

Even with current economic conditions, there are plenty of opportunities for self-indulgence. And, it sometimes seems the art of sacrifice has been lost.

But life is short. Why pass up something we can have and enjoy? Here’s what I’m discovering way too late in life - despite countless Real Simple articles and Oprah episodes. Austerity and sacrifice clear mental (and closet) space for us to see what we really deeply need. More is more in the minute, but it leaves us confused and empty over a lifetime.

Saying yes to the third (or fourth) cocktail, a half gallon of ice cream in one sitting, the 5oth fabulous lip gloss (I’m so guilty) or any selfish behavior may seem harmless enough. But it can become a habit instead of one-time deal. Over a lifetime, it adds up to illness, debt and unhealthy relationships.

Why do we sabotage ourselves? I think it has a lot to do with ego (our evil ids) and procrastination. It's a lot easier to deal with an immediate want than a long-term goal.

I know I need to pursue my dreams. Yet, I find myself spending inordinate amounts of time pursuing fleeting wants (the curse of online shopping) instead of writing. I have to change my ways.

By saying no, we begin to say yes – to ourselves.

(Important note: Daydreaming, bubble baths and reading are not self-indulgent – they are self-preservation.)

Numbing Conference

I attended a dental conference with my husband over Thanksgiving weekend. Boy, did it make me thankful to be a writer. I didn't expect it to be a laugh riot, but it wasn't even a little fun. It was like having teeth pulled. (Sorry - I couldn't resist).

I've been to many writer's conferences and I've enjoyed them all. You might suggest that's because I'm a writer and that dental conventions are interesting for dentists. Not so much. It might be a change of pace from being stuck in some one's mouth, but they all looked pretty numb.

I met some really nice folks and I'm not criticizing their profession. God knows a finely crafted pun won't ease the pain of an abscess. We need dentists. It's just that their high suicide rate makes complete sense to me now. They perform miracles in a tiny space on people who would rather be anywhere else for increasingly less pay (thanks to greedy insurance companies). To add insult to injury, their conferences are boring. Hug your dentist today!

Turkey Day

My son was so excited to march with the Boy Scouts in the Ikea Thanksgiving Day parade in Philadelphia. My husband didn't share in that excitement when he woke up at the crack of dawn to get him down there. But things started to look up for Daddy when he stumbled upon the Eagles Cheerleaders in a Dunkin Donuts. The girls were also going to the parade and wanted to pose with my son for a photo. My husband was more than happy to comply but my son passed on the offer. His camera shyness evaporated when he saw Ernie and the Count from Sesame Street. One day he may regret that choice, but for now he's still my little boy.

Writing Soundtracks

I create itune play list soundtracks for all of my creative writing projects. In my critique groups, I’ve found that other writers do the very same thing. I guess it gets us in the mood – for writing, that is. Every fall, without fail, I return to classical music. This year I segued into my mellow mode with jazz and John Legend. But by November, I always end up back with my familiar Baroque favorites.

It started innocently enough with a little Bach in college. Then, Victoria’s Secret came out with a classy cassette (yes, I'm ancient) in the early 90s and I was addicted to the sexiness of the sound - lingerie for the ears. It took an honored spot on my rotation, which at the time also included Guns–n-Roses. Ever since, classical music has had a play list in my heart.

Maybe I enjoy classical music in the fall because it’s time-honored and traditional like the coming holidays. Who knows? Soon enough, though, I’ll be back to bellowing “No Sleep Till Brooklyn.” (Badly, I might add.)

Bullseye

A deer crashed through a window at QVC and made it all the way down a long corridor to the studio entrance. They're looking for me. I’m a marked woman. Thank God I was off that day.

Curse of the Dead Deer

Ever since the accident, I've been under the curse of the dead deer. It's some seriously bad mojo. First, I find out someone used my identity to open a cell phone account. It showed up on my credit report as a big negative. (Note to readers: check your credit often.) I filed a police report and have completed a small forest of paperwork.

Next, my hard drive dies. No worries, though. I back up twice a day, everyday. I check it and all my folders are there. There’s just one problem. My backup utility was corrupted from the get go and all those folders are empty. Everyday for years, I backed up a whole lot of nothing. It was then I realized I have no hard copies of my novel, scripts and all my other writing. I had just purged all the paper and intended on printing out copies of the latest versions. All the digital photos and music I’d never taken the time to copy to disc were lost.

I stood in the service area of Mac Outfitters three days in a row begging for heroic measures. My computer flat lined and they said there were no signs of life. After “there’s one last thing we can try,” Saint Andrew of Apple managed to salvage the bulk of my data. God bless him. I would have given him a kidney or my firstborn, but he settled for tears of gratitude and a small fee. (Note to self and readers: Back up seven ways to Sunday NOW. This blog will be here when you get back.) BTW, If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I lost your contact information. Please email!

So, it should be over, right? No, it’s a terrible trifecta! I wake up in the middle of the night to find that every stress-related illness I’ve ever endured has overtaken me. I’ll spare you the gory details, but the Hunchback of Notre Dame wouldn’t be seen with me right now.

According to the psychic, I should surround my car with white light to undo the bad "car"ma. How does one do that? Do I go to the Mall at night and park between two lampposts? Hmm.

Do I Offend?

I’m not into bumper stickers and other forms of vehicular conversation. I prefer to blog. Be that as it may, I was shocked at what my friend encountered when she tried to obtain a vanity plate. All she wanted was “S.V.G.” on her plate. The state of PA couldn't approve it on the grounds it might be offensive. Isn't that a violation of her right to free speech? She explained that it stood for “Secret Vette Girl.” Well, that sensitive matter has to go to a supervisor. There’s our taxpayer dollars at work.

SVG. Hmm. Come on everyone. Join in. Come up with offensive matter that fits the acronym. It’s not that easy. I came up with one. Share amongst yourselves. This is fun.

Anyway, how about those flapping balls (testicles) that truck drivers hang off the back of their rigs? That’s what I call offensive. "Mommy, why does that truck have boy parts?" Maybe my friend should add big rubber boobies to her grill or a vagina muffler? Let’s have motorists remove sex parts before we start worrying about the now maligned letters S, V and G. Somebody quick alert Sesame Street. The alphabet better start flying under the radar.