My Life in Mayonnaise

Mayonnaise is my favorite term for describing stuff that is just blah. Not much zing. Not bad, but not good. You put it on your sandwich so it's not dry, but there's really no taste. I've used the term to describe men, sex, jobs...and today.

At the risk of turning off my two followers who actually read this thing--I will try not to make this all about the hernia. Again. But I had to go to another --yes-- another doctor in the ongoing saga of "name the alien in Lynn's stomach". Today's wheel of fortune doc actually provided some pretty good blog fodder, which always excites me. Not unlike the Gynecologist I went to a couple weeks ago who stood in the corner of the room after examining me. He actually talked to me about my uterus from 4 feet across the room. (Was it my vagina that scared him or the fact that I ripped him a new one for making me sit in a paper dress alone in an exam room for 40 minutes?) Regardless--today takes the cake. Literally. Lots of cake, and cookies,
Ho-Ho's, you name it.

So it seems like the time has come to cut open my gut and see what it is. But I'm not sure this dude I saw today will be the one to do it. I was referred to a surgeon by my primary care dufus of a doctor who reminds me every time "We're the same age!" (Why this is important to my overall health, I'm not sure.) When I walked into the surgeon's office, I saw several large people--okay--obese people-- sitting in large double-seater chairs. I thought, well he's gonna look at my tummy, maybe they all have tummy issues? They do. Or they will. Seems this surgeon's claim to fame is surgically placing rubber bands around people's stomach in an effort to slim down fast ala Carnie Wilson. As I sat there and read People Magazine's "Beautiful Body" issue (Huh? Here?) I felt strangely good about myself. And my thighs.

They called me in to the room where I sat and waited for "rubberband man" to examine me--and lo and behold--I quickly realized, you can hear every single word coming out of the patient in the next room!  I nearly fell off the table. "Well I love mayonnaise. I just can't give up mayonnaise. And Peanut butter." Doc: "try Greek yogurt instead." Hopeful woman "What's that? Does it smell like Mayonnaise? I'm trying. I just have certain vices--things I need to eat. What else is good?"

At this point--the room is getting warm--and I"m thinking maybe it's time to escape? "Nuts?" the doctor asked her? I almost answered "why yes, I think I am for sitting here." (just so they could hear me) Patient X whom I saw in the waiting room, clearly post-rubber band said in closing "Well just 90 more pounds and then I can get the plastic surgery right? Get all this skin off?!! Then I'll be a skinny 130!" They laugh together.

So by now--I'm thinking--wow. Really, really wrong doctor to touch me and my mystery alien. Some wanna-be Hollywood plastic fat doctor in Sacramento. I stood up and opened the door of the exam room to leave--only he was standing there reading my chart. "Uh, Hi. Uh, it's really hot in here, I needed some air." (lie) I sat back on the table. Thankfully the fat-sucker was followed by a cute young intern who also got to see my bare tummy as I got two, count-em, two shots of Novocaine, so the not-cute doc could poke and prod without me screaming. At that moment--I wish I only had to have a rubber band put around something. At least you know what fat is and how to fix it. And I wish the cute intern could do it.

So I left the strange office with a nummby--I mean a numb tummy-- thinking I should either go home and do 5,600 crunches because nothing would hurt--OR go to a bar, get liquored up and insult someone's girlfriend. A punch in the stomach probably would have felt good. Something to wake me up from the mayonnaise day I was having. It's finally time to move on from this town and the life I thought I was making here with the guy and the job. And now that I realize this--I'm slave to a health plan.

Later that evening, I was chatting with a TV pal---telling him how I don't think I can get hired and I'm not connected anymore...when he  interrupted me and said "You need to get out of there Lynn--you're turning into a head case. And of all the women I know, YOU have never been a head case." MUSTARD! That's what I needed. Some spicy mustard. More like wasabi actually. In fact--his words hit me so hard not even the Novocaine would have protected me from that kick in the gut. And it's exactly what I needed. Trust the surgeon--find out what it is--quit your safe job and move on outta here. Before Mayonnaise starts to taste really, really good. Or I start washing my hair in it.

Bristol's a lucky girl

I guess. I mean, she got a second chance with her guy right? Seems that whole "how to trap a man" thing really worked out well for her. I apparently hung out with the wrong crowd in high school. Getting pregnant to get a diamond ring wasn't part of our future plans. But If I had known then, what I know now? Maybe it would have been better time spent --chatting about that--instead of what to wear to grad night.

I tend to pick men that don't want second chances. Ever. And booty calls don't count as second chances, BTW. So what does this mean? Was the first time with me just soooo bad, that nothing's gonna bring that sucka back? Or am I picking closed-minded poopy-heads who aren't open enough to look at things from a different perspective? Learn how to do and think differently. And most importantly--Forgive?

Maybe we've just become a society of "get it right the first time or you're out" types? We're too afraid to

try, re-try and try again? In this case, maybe all that christian crap Mama Sarah dumped on her pregger teen paid off to some degree? After going on national television and basically bashing her new son-in-law to be, Levi returning the favor and Bristol on the "don't do as I did" high school virginity tour-- they've all said "I forgive you and want you back!" Now that's American. Just didn't work for me. (although I didn't bash him on national TV...yet.)

Now I know I'm making light of an insanely silly half-baked Alaskans' familial mess...but I actually said it this morning as I heard it on the news. "Wow even Bristol gets a second chance." So apparently--I'm still waiting for mine. But why? The dude has made it perfectly clear--aside from the beer *booty calls--that this is NOT going to happen. Which is why I've decided to quit my McDonald's job and pull up stakes. I realized today after a recent disasterous late night call from P (phone call not the * call) that I need to remove myself from the "land of my dreams" (yes Sacramento) so I can fully move on and heal. I've been doing a silly job I hate, to pay the bills sure, but mostly to hang on to any shred of hope that a second chance would come my way. Sad, isn't it?

And so with that--it's time to talk about the Box. Not because I told you I would, but because I feel it's time to finally get rid of it too. The Box--with a capital B--holds all the mementos from my Sacramemento relationship with Mr. PP. (In case you haven't gone back to the blogginning--"Mr. PP" is what my little niece called my ex when he dumped me. It sorta fits. She also said my new boyfriend will be called "Mr. X"--so stay tuned for when I meet my top-secret lover!)

About a year after we broke up--I decided it was time to stop finding things that reminded me of him shoved in drawers and closets around my house. So I boxed them up. I bought one of those Tupperware type boxes--and tossed in everything. It's basically a relationship in a box. A boy in a plastic bubble. Cards, letters, pictures, frames he made me, an Xmas light bulb from the time we put up lights, my Charlie Brown books and the cell phone box he wrapped my emeralds in. I was so excited to get a "cell phone"--I kept the box. For a while--the emeralds also lived in The Box--but we got back together. They are, after all, my birthstone. (Justification)

I filled it and shoved the entire thing under my bed--and really haven't looked at it much. Not too much anyway. I occasionally pull it out on holidays or as you may have recently read-- my birthday. But now, it's reached critical mass. I don't quite know what to do with it. It's contents are too precious to throw out. Everyone says "burn the letters you'll feel better." I can't. I don't want to. But I don't want to look at that stuff anymore either. And as hard as I try to ignore it--my heart knows its there, under the bed. It's gotta be bringing bad mojo to that area don't you think? Some kind of plastic voodoo that won't allow the bed to reach it's full potential until his remains have left the building? (okay that's a tad dramatic, but sure fun to write.)

I've thought about sending him the Box. Let him dispose of it all. That way I don't have to. But then he'll think it's some form of retaliation. And I"m not about punishment or retaliation. Even though I guess that's what I'm experiencing now--punishment for hanging on and trying to be friends, waiting for a second chance.

If I'm facing a move soon--I refuse to let that box come with me. I need a clean start, with only the memories in my mind. Besides, Why keep that crap? It's not like I'm going to have a daughter someday to tell stories about "the letters from the man who dumped me just in time for me to meet your father!" But maybe for my niece. She loved the guy too--but she's smart enough to crown him Mr. PP when he dumped me. In fact, even though her birthday's not in May--I'm thinking the emeralds would look really nice on  her. Lord knows I won't wear them. I'm gonna have to buy my own sparkles. You hear that Bristol? There are other ways to get a big diamond ring. And a magazine spread for that matter.

*they were always beer booty calls, b/c he could never just come out and ask for it. Instead, he'd call to see if he could stop and have a beer after band practice. Maybe Levi and Bristol have matured? I on the other hand, have regressed.

I Un-Friended My 80 Year Old Aunt

I know. You're thinking I"m a cruel Facebook bitch with no heart. How could anyone "un-friend" an 80 year old who figures out how to use social media? Let alone an 80 year old you're related to? Me. I could. I did. And I think I've caused a major family rift that could rival the reading of Grandpa's will forcing four brothers to never speak again--over bricks.

Cement aside, my dear Aunt C isn't the only relative I'm "friends" with on FB. But the only one who sits in wait for me or any of her nieces to post something on the proverbial wall. Seriously, she pounces. People think she's my mother, always on the watch of her darling daughters. Social media really becomes something more than a place to post stupid shit about your breakfast--when you're 80. It's your window on the world. I didn't know this until my real mom told me my Aunt cried about it.

Have you run into an uncomfortable Facebook friending? Maybe weirdness b/w generations? Mother watching son? Sister ratting on brother's drunk photos? Your ex friend "liking" everything your ex boyfriend posts. (oh wait, that's me) Aunt C wasn't doing any of that--she just e-drooled over her lovely nieces waaaay too much. "Oh my nieces are so beautiful and talented!" To my peers. It made me feel twelve. It should have made me feel good. But it didn't. She responded to a shout out I posted to my local friends--and that was all it took. The post that broke the camel's book-er-back.

So you're probably asking, why should I let her buttings-in bug me? Why not just ignore them? Delete them? Did I have to destroy her digital senior world? I don't really have a reason except for this: the little things bug the crap out of me lately. The teeny, tiny things are keeping me up at night. I get worked up when people park in front of my house and run through the neat pile of leaves the gardeners made. Shouldn't I shrug it off and be happy I'll get some exercise raking? I get pissy in the garage at work if someone parks too close to my car--fearful of a ding in my ten year old vehicle. Can't I trust that they won't open their door into mine and not care because--it's old? Basically my fuse is short. Or non-existent. Like when a candle wick gets coated over with wax and you can't light it? That's how short.

Every morning I try to do some meditative breathing and tell myself, this too shall pass. I have a post-it note on my computer I read every day "Let nothing perturb you, nothing frighten you. All things Pass. Patience achieves everything." That's from Mother Theresa. She had to know what she was talking about. Seriously. But I doubt she'd be very happy with me de-friending Aunt C. Patience with an 80 year old is important. But not at the top of my list right now.

So okay, it probably was a knee-jerk reaction. It wasn't about Aunt C. But I also thought I can do whatever I want with my social media persona? And she probably wouldn't notice if I dropped her? She did. And when she emailed me to see if it was a "mistake," I told her I was separating my personal life, from my professional life. Well kinda. More like separating my family life, from my personal life. And then only my dad's side. But not my cousins. And my sisters are cool. And my aunt in St. Louis who says nothing but Happy Birthday on FB. So maybe just my 80 year old aunt. I didn't want to hurt her feelings and say I hate your "I love my talented nieces!" postings because my bosses, colleagues, friends, exs and yoga teachers can read them and they embarrass me. For schwa I have confidence issues if I'm afraid of an 80 year old expressing harmless love on the Internet. Or....

I"m just tired of her.

Regardless. I'm now the bad niece. So see how that works? From good niece the world reads about, to nasty niece in the amount of time it takes to "thumbs up" someone. I've read recent postings by other family members "alluding" to the "childishness" of Facebook. Are they directed at me? Not sure.  Even so, I sort of agree. FB is turning into a large, global, digital yearbook where the world is running for homecoming queen. Been there, lost that. Family rift aside. I feel horrible. But not bad enough to make up and be "friends" again. I told her to email me. Whenever she wants. She never knew what I was doing on a daily basis before? Why can't we still be okay with Merry Xmas and Easter cannoli again? I hope I haven't done irreparable damage to my relationship with her. I just want separation between church and state and family. Is that too much to ask? (thumbs up if you agree)

Joking and hurt feelings aside, if anyone uses social media as their only way to communicate, now hear this: No matter what your age, the phone, a card, even an email is always a better bet. More personal. Private. FB is a silly place to post silly stuff you don't know what to do with during your day. The crap your husband won't listen to, the stuff your mom doesn't care about-- anything that makes you feel better about yourself--b/c you're sharing it with the anonymous friend/fan/face crowd. So Aunt C...and any other 80 year old using social media...keep writing those Xmas cards and going to church. Those are the connections that matter. Not the ones that come in 141 characters or less.

Say Yes to the Dress

It's Friday night and I'm down two episodes of "Say Yes to the Dress." You know that show? Where you watch young brides, old brides, ugly brides, fat brides try on wedding dresses? Nothing makes a non-bride feel better about being alone on a Friday night than this program. Why I'm watching episode number 2 is another topic of discussion for a later blog.

"Yes" is a hard word for me. Which is maybe why I haven't had the chance to say it to that white dress and anything else lately. I've been stuck in NO mode for a while now. It's soooooo easy to say NO to everything. And I'm not sure why? No to invitations to parties. No to men who want to date me. No to help with my groceries. When I was young, I'd say yes to anything and everything. But somewhere between frat parties and forty--I lost that yes-girl. Funny thing is, while it's so easy for me to SAY no, "no thanks. No, that's okay. No I'm fine," I apparently have trouble TAKING no for an answer. (are you following me? Yes or No?) I'll tell you why. Soon.

Some would call me stubborn. I"m a Taurus, right on the cusp of Gemini--so basically I"m stubborn and crazy. But thankfully I'm only stubborn for a short period of time. I call myself the human Chinese food. I get mad, but then it's gone in an hour. (Chinese food = hungry in an hour?) Okay maybe not the best analogy, but I enjoy saying it. I fight, then I'm over it. I'm mad, then I'm over it. It passes. (like bad Chinese food--is that a better analogy?) This is sort of the way I was raised--Italian. Fight, yell, throw, cry, hug, laugh, drink, done. I never hang on to anger. It's wasted energy.

But my last boyfriend did. Does. Why is it that men hang on to that "right fight" so tight? In my mind--conflict isn't a bad thing if you acknowledge it, resolve it, learn from it, and move on. Do you fight with your significant other? Kinda hard not to. No one can see eye-to-eye on everything. Anyway that's not the example I had--the "no conflict, happy all the time" couple. My folks argued. A lot. But this week they celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. So not seeing eye-to-eye kinda worked out for them. But did it work out for me?

Are we better off now, in relationships--because if it's uncomfortable and you have moments of conflict--you can bolt? No strings attached. Just keep starting over again because that "honeymoon" phase is fight-free and safe? I'm not positive, but after reading what amounts to a land-fill full of self-help books, I think Mr. PP and I broke up when the honeymoon glow started to fade. We entered into that third year push-pull power-struggle where you really test each other. Gloves are off. So are the pretty-relationship glasses. You see everything. And you're not afraid to say "no" to this not-so-new love.

I think that's why his announcement of "O-V-E-R" shocked me so much. Sure we were arguing--but I figured that was normal--the part where we really commit, where you really show unconditional love? Drama, tears and slammed doors aside--I honestly didn't think there was anything wrong? I'd seen this before--and no one ever left!? For 50 years! Clearly there was something wrong--as I've written. I guess that's when he said "No." No more. Not again.  Seems conflict wasn't something he wanted to sign up for again--post divorce. Not right then anyway. And that's fine--but I'm betting he'll hit that same stage in his next relationship when the shiny penny starts to tarnish a bit. Just hope he figures it out by then because those self-help books are expensive. And just collect dust when you're done. I'm too afraid to throw mine out--in case it happens to me again. See--I went out on a limb and said YES to him, this new city, new jobs, new experiences. It's no wonder I'm  having trouble with the word right now.

But that was YESterday...meanwhile back on the couch...a plump New Jersey bride said "yes" to a lovely strapless number!  I've never been one of those girly girls, dreaming about the gown and veil--but I certainly never ever thought I didn't deserve one? So why haven't I said yes to a dress? Or to a man who would lead me to one? I pick men who aren't emotionally available. Available to see that conflict can be an opportunity to understand. Available to accept we're all different. I'm learning these things too.  I need to find my way back to saying yes to everything. No matter how scared I am of hurting again. Remain open. Say yes even when you don't want to. That's what the books say. You don't know where the universe will lead you if you do. If I keep saying NO--I'll never KNOW.

For now, If you allow me, I'm going to say no just one more time--to watching a third episode of this lame show. And to writing more of this entry because clearly I'm rambling...

Is there a lesson in loneliness?

I haven't been with many men. There. I said it. Think what you want. I dated a lot in high school. Goes with the "head cheerleader" territory I suppose. Not that I was one of those slut cheerleaders--even though my sweater had the word "head" stitched on it. But since then? Not so much. Perhaps I peaked too soon? Captain of the rival basketball team, Mr. Moreau and Mr. Mission is hard to top. (Again, think what you want.) I can count on one hand the number of times I've been in love. Although, I guess if you can count on more than one hand the number of times you've been in love, it probably wasn't really love now was it?

I don't think the low sperm count is due to the fact that I don't relate to men well. At least I hope not. I have had so many good male friends--still do. I'd like to think it's just logistics. I don't meet many datable men--or put myself in places to meet potential mates. I was a contract TV producer for a number of years so no break room flirting. And I kinda made it a rule not to date the audio guy. So maybe it's a numbers game? The more you meet, the more you marry? I've never been married. Got asked once in the backseat of a taxi cab (not by the driver) but I think he was joking. Or gay, because it came with conditions--separate bedrooms.

Remember when your Mom used to say, don't worry "There's someone for everyone!"??? It may have been that way when she was raised--but that just isn't true anymore. I have a scientific explanation for this shift in balance. There's not someone for everyone--because when "they" used to say that--you'd mate for life. Find a guy and get married. Once. Someone (guy) for everyone (girl). Now, with divorce being about as easy as changing your hair style, that's not the case. Everyone's on their 2nd and 3rd marriage--so--someone HAS my someone! It's all outta whack. Just not enough 1st time magic to go around if we're all gonna get 2-3 husbands or wives? Hence the large amount of baggage--or what I call leftovers. Make sense? (It does to me)

And that is absolutely why my interaction with men has pretty much slowed down, just not enough to go around. (insert laugh track)  At least that's what I tell myself when I'm sitting at home alone on a Friday night. Like last night. Whoever said "It's better to have loved and lost" isn't eating entire bags of popcorn by themselves. Don't get me wrong--I'm thankful for the lovely men I have had in my life the past X years. (sorry, some things are just too embarrassing even for a blog.) I just wish one of them woulda stuck.

Reader's Digest Version: Number one we'll just call "A Tall Drink of Water"...not because he looked like George Clooney but because he was tall. And I am not. I think this was the first man I really fell in love with. Only--because of that fact--I figured eating Chinese food together, going to the movies and having sex--meant he loved me too. I mean, there was a lot of it. (You think I'm gonna tell you which?) That involvement--I hesitate to call it a relationship--went on and off for a long time. I hate to think I wasted my child bearing years on bad chow mein waiting for a ring in a fortune cookie, but when you're in love...sadly the friendship didn't last either. Something to do with me accosting him at a fundraiser at the local convent. I'm pretty sure Sister John Marie was on my side that day, as Tall Drink came walking by hand in hand with another woman--just days after we played egg roll on his couch.

The next significant dude, wasn't really significant relationship-wise, but he was significant in my ability to move forward. A random email led to a fun frolic with an old high school football stud. We didn't see each other much because he lived out of town, but when we did, it was amazing. I don't know if it was because he knew me before all the self doubt and heartbreak that comes with being a grown-up--but he made me feel so good about myself--no, he made me feel like I could be that girl who used to cheer for him on the sidelines again--fearless, in charge and completely worthy of a football stud. (And yes, the sweater with the word "Head" stitched on it, made a middle-age appearance. In this case, how could it not?)

I think that little affair put me in the right place to fall in love again. And by place, I mean confident place. This time with Mr. PP--aka: the Wilco Boy. And that turned out to be a blessed event--for 2.5 years. Double that and we're home again. Wondering why I spend so much time alone. I've learned so many valuable lessons from all the relationships I've had--still learning them from my last. But the one I can't seem to digest is--what's the lesson in being alone? Is it to teach you how to be comfortable with yourself? To like yourself? To be more independent? I kinda thought I was. I know countless women and men who say they envy me. That they never get time to themselves. "You're lucky you don't have to answer to anybody." And some of that--I agree with. But I am getting tired of it.

So what's the answer? Why do I have such trouble meeting men? Or keeping the ones I pick? Someone told me once--"Your picker is just off."  Maybe. And that's what we'll talk about next. Father's Day is once again upon us. And I'd like to know if you ended up with a guy just like dear old dad? For now--I gotta go through my closet. I'm thinking of having the word "Head" stitched on a few things...my sweaters, coats, yoga pants...

What Are Your Summer Plans?

Ugh. I actually had to edit a newsletter piece titled that today. I feel like I'm suddenly the editor of the Smoke Signal. That was our high school newspaper. Remember those little polls? "What Are Your Summer Plans?" Some picture of a dude and his quote "Rad! I'm gonna work at B & R and like grow my hair out!" I was told these types of articles are an important part of internal communications at my "McDonald's" job. Really? We still need that? Compare your plans to my non-plans?

That's how I felt as I read about some guy's plans to camp, hike, kayak etc. -- I got nothin'. Nothin' Planned. For my Summer. I've never had one of those jobs that you just take two weeks off in the summer and go on vacation. I've never had one of those families forcing me to do that either. I guess, if you don't have kids--you don't feel that pressure to "do something" during their off time? You probably feel that pressure, huh?

In my last relationship, I got a whiff of that summer vay-cay world. He had two kids. So one summer we all went to their mountain cabin. I was pretty darn proud of myself on that one. Not for playing mommy dearest, but because there's no flushing toilet. Yep. It's an out house. In the middle of nowhere. Not the sexiest of vacations having to hear your boyfriend tell you "don't use too much paper!" Every time you go. Besides why did it matter? It doesn't flush?!! He was a gentleman of mountain-men though. Offered to take me to pee in the middle of the night. (Is that love?) But go-it-alone Lynnie grabbed a stick outside and ran for it. I refused to let him stand outside the OH and listen--I'd rather risk a bladder infection.

I'm not sure his kids thought I was how they wanted to spend their summer vacation, however. I needed to sit down on a long hike--and they complained about my "old ladyness." But then I think I won them over when I made baked apples in a tiny propane stove. Teenage boys only forgive if food is involved. I'll always have fond memories of that trip--Lynn's first official "summer vacation" trip...fond memories except for the last day there. A Sunday. He woke up early and said he was going to go to church. A church two hours away. What? I remember saying "Really? This is God's country--isn't this church enough?" I mean really. Would you rip your kids away from fishing and hiking--to go to church?

Once again, Go-it-alone Lynnie decided to do just that. Go it alone. I told them to go--"I'll pray on a kayak." They went and four hours later returned with coffee for me. I didn't care once it passed, but I think that event changed our relationship forever. For the worse. He felt I wasn't respectful of his religion, because I didn't go. (We were the same religion) I felt he wasn't open enough to change. In hindsight, I wish we had used that as an opportunity to discuss and learn from it--instead of blogging about it alone three years later. In the moment--thanks to the coffee and my ego, I guess, thought it was just a spat. Not a life-turner. If I knew then...I probably would have just shut my mouth and gone to church. If he knew then...maybe he wouldn't have judged me for not wanting to go.

That was the last real Summer vacation I took. I don't count hurling my body down level 5 white water rapids the following summer--a vacation. That was an effort to expunge the memories of the aforementioned REAL summer vacation playing "mom" to his "dad."

So maybe it's time to make some summer plans. I don't have a lot of extra McDonald's cash--so it'll have to be a cheap one. My sister moved to Vancouver this year--I could go see her? I had a blast the last time I did. When she moved there it was the Winter Olympics--so I went. I joked on Facebook and to people I knew--that "I was going to meet the Italian ski team." Our last night there, my sister and I were having a hot toddy in a bar in Whistler, when I struck up a conversation with a good looking man sitting behind me. He said he was from Italy. I had to ask, just joking: "You don't happen to be on the Italian ski team do you?"  Patrick replied "why else would I'd wear this crazy blue satin ski jacket?" He held up the one like the jacket we just saw on a gold medalist--it said "Italia." I met the Italian ski team. Now THAT'S how you end a vacation. I'm betting this guy would have skipped out on church--maybe even Jesus himself, to kayak with me.

Vacations are important breathers from life--where you explore, learn valuable lessons, learn about yourself, and learn to let go and pee in the woods. Take them. So... What Are Your Summer Plans?

Five rolls of Paper Towels

Grocery shopping is the bane of my existence. Really. I'd rather go to the dentist. I don't like it unless the firemen are shopping. And lately, to add to my hatred of the weekly event--I've been over-buying. Do you do that? You "think" you need something--only you don't? And when you get home you're faced with a cabinet full? And the item you overbuy changes. Like right now-- It's rolls of paper towels. I now have five rolls in my closet. Five. No un-BP spill could possibly require five rolls. Last time, it was tofu. I had 4 containers of tofu in my fridge. For a while, it was way too many cans of stewed tomatoes. Why is it you don't overbuy the stuff you really run out of--like tampons? Never seem to be buying those over and over?

Maybe if I was a mom--I'd enjoy the act of grocery shopping more. Knowing I'm providing food for my loved ones. It must be a wonderful thing to have a purpose like that. Giving your life for someone everyday, in everything you do, a reason to go grocery shopping. What's your purpose in life? Are you a mother? A father? I've been thinking about this a lot lately. What is my purpose? Why was I put on this planet? I struggle with it a little--because I'm not married and I don't have kids. My purpose can NOT be to be a TV producer. Especially during the talk show days. Kinda hard to find a purpose for producing such wonderful, inspiring content as "Dump that Prison Lover" and "I Gave My Sister a Black Eye". (although hopefully somewhere it was helping someone.)

I'm a daughter. But that happened by default. Don't get me wrong--I make it my purpose to try and make my mom happy. But lately--it just feels like I bring them grief with my frustration over my life. (and I suppose, lack of purpose.) Doctors have a reason for being--to help save lives. I think that's why I felt a little more driven when I was volunteering for Heart to Heart--a non-profit that sends medical teams to Russia to save dying children. I didn't do much for them--not like those surgeons--but it felt a little like I was helping.

I'm a good friend? Does that count? Yes, it counts. But it's not something to write on my tombstone. Here lies Lynn--she was a good friend. That's just something I want you all to know, when you're gathered around the casket--I don't want to have to remind you literally from the grave. We all want a reason to be. Right? A reason to be counted. More than a job title. At 48--I'm sad to say, I haven't felt like I've had one. I thought maybe, when I met Mr.PP--my purpose was to make him happy--mend the ickyness he and his kids had to suffer following a painful divorce. But turns out--as you've read--even new stainless steel appliances doesn't add up to a purpose. (Just a reason to clean.)

But something kinda clicked this week. Something that may be showing itself as my purpose in life. And it's nothing new. I just didn't realize how powerful it is. Last week--my young student assistant asked if I'd give her a job recommendation. I was happy to. I spoke honestly to her potential new boss and rattled off her talents over the phone. While I didn't want to lose her--I did want her to move on and find her purpose. She got offered the job the very next day. "I don't know what you said to him" she wrote me. It felt good. Even though she's the one that got the job.

Earlier this week a former co-worker who just started a big new job--called in a panic needing a little reassurance. Her boss wasn't available--so she called me. She knew the answer to her question--she just needed to hear someone--like her old boss (me) tell her. She yelled "That's what I needed to hear!" I smiled. I was so happy to help her. And so glad she called.

And finally, this week, a friend called with some exciting news--she was being considered for a big internship with a major hospital. She asked if she could use my name as a reference. Of course I told her yes! She wouldn't risk this huge opportunity with just anyone, would she? I thought about all these people. Friends. Co-workers. I've helped them or taught them in some way, shape or form. Nothing major--but small, significant contributions. And I began to noodle on it more. Maybe my purpose in life--is to be a mentor? To be a teacher? To be a cheerleader! (there's a reason I kept my uniforms!) I love to help people find jobs. I like to help them succeed at work. I never do it for any reason, really. Just because I like to.

My yoga teacher this weekend talked about how the "world is your teacher. Your life is your teacher. Learn from it." God knows I've been a diligent student the past couple years. Trying to take the hard knocks--and learn from them. Teachers and mentors are everywhere. You don't have to have a degree or be a parent to own that as your purpose. I think I just naturally love to guide people. So why is it so darn hard to guide myself? One of those aforementioned co-workers recently told me something along the lines of "you need to take your own advice." And she's right. But I've always known I'm a better cheerleader for everyone else--just not myself. So who is my cheerleader? And do I need one?

Years ago, I was producing a show for MSNBC. I remember the day our new production assistant Anita started. She got assigned the desk by mine. She was just out of college and REALLY excited to be working in television. I thought--maybe a little TOO excited. I told other co-workers..."if she doesn't stop talking about Melrose Place, I'm going to kill myself." She stopped. And proved herself to be one talented young person. When the time came for her to move on--she asked for some guidance pursuing jobs in L.A. I may have put the key in the hole--but she opened the door and walked through it. Now Anita is in a place where she can hire me. And she has. But she always reminds me how "you are my mentor Lynn." So I guess I've had a purpose-- without really knowing it.

My purpose may not be to resolve world hunger, or even be a wife or a mom--(not yet anyway!)--but I think I can say my purpose 3/4 of the way through--is to help you to S-U-C-C-E-S-S! (you have to stomp your feet and clap in between for maximum cheer effect). I like helping. Now I just gotta put the pleated skirt on and help myself a little bit more.

We'll start by taking stock and making a grocery list next Sunday. So I don't end up with six rolls of Bounty.