Growing New Skin

I woke up one morning earlier this week, to Spazzie shouting “WE’RE GROWING NEW SKIN!”

Me: “Well, what the fuck does it mean, we’re growing new skin?”
Spazzie: “Our full-thickness burns finally are healing.” Disclaimer: Spazzie is not Dr. Spazzie; this is not an entirely fitting analogy. However, it does accurately illustrate how excruciating it is to overcome one’s psychic bug-a-boos.

I suspect she started cooking up this metaphor after I audaciously proclaimed to Bubba, while climbing into bed Wednesday night, “I think I may have burned off most of my anger.”  Bubba, thrilled by this news, expressed his enthusiasm for a less angry Spazzie in his typical understated way, “Less anger is good.” 

Yes, Bubba. Less anger is most good. But you know I'm all about supporting data these days! Although anecdotal evidence strongly suggests “anger resolved,” I wanted proof. Well, yesterday confirmed it. After years of dealing with the fall out resulting from patterns of multi-generational abuse and dysfunction, Spazzie said “Enough! I’ve no more to give. Go live your life and leave me to live mine. We are done.” I was super cool. I exactly said what I needed to say, without apology or guilt, and the remaining anger just sloughed off, like dead skin.

Fuck me, people, Spazzie has crossed the Rubicon! I certainly feel as though I’ve committed an act of insurrection. Also, brilliantly liberated!” Indeed, it is time to “Cortez That Bitch.”

I was an anxious child, who grew into a very confused, angry teenager, who grew into an extraordinarily angry, fearful grown-ass woman with serious health issues.  Anger and fear this old and this deeply rooted poisons every aspect of your being, whether you acknowledge its existence or not. It is highly toxic and potentially lethal.

I don’t recall the first time I heard the term Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs), but there is a substantial (and growing) body of research showing that children who live in chronic (long-term) toxically stressful conditions are inalterable changed. The data show that these children suffer far into adulthood because childhood trauma has far-reaching, often permeant and frequently deadly, physical, and psychological consequences.  And of course, there’s a survey! The Adverse Childhood Experiences Survey. Ten questions, each relating to a different “Adverse Condition.”

Side note: here’s a clue as to the degree of adversity the ACEs address. The U.S. Military refers to war deployments, like Afghanistan and Iraq, as deployments to “Adverse Condition Zones.”

These ten questions unquestionably describe the psychological war zone in which so many children grow up. The higher your ACE score, the more traumatic your childhood. Spazzie’s ACE score? SEVEN! When I saw this, I laughed and thought “damn, I AM a fucking Rockstar! Look how fucked up my childhood was and I’m STILL kicking life’s ass.” And then Spazzie asked, what I always ask when I obsess on all the shit I’ve managed to live through.

“But what could I have been, if I came from a healthy family?” And there is it, the “What if.” I’ve spent years punishing myself, and Bubba, because I wasn’t the person I wanted to be. Spazzie was host to some seriously nasty monsters. Every single action of which I am ashamed, every sin of commission and omission, I perpetrated because I had yet to kick these gnarly motherfuckers to the curb.

I used my fucked up childhood as an excuse to surrender; as a justification to stay broken. According to this measure, I was a winner! It was reassuring, telling myself “well, look how great I’m doing DESPITE my childhood; IN SPITE of profound family dysfunction.” But I was lying to myself; the monsters were winning the war. I had to make a choice: fight or die. I chose to fight.

I started at the top level of this Hell and worked my way down; each subsequent level more horrid than its predecessor, just like Dante promised. After almost four years of sobriety, Spazzie finally made her way down to Malebolge (such a gorgeous word to describe ditches in Hell). I confronted Malacoda, and I kicked his ASS! Spazzie has crossed from Hell and Death into the Light.

It’s taken almost four years of sobriety, and working with a seriously amazing therapist, to answer that fucking “What if…” question! The answer? I didn’t, so it’s fucking pointless to imagine otherwise. And Spazzie is done obsessing on how wrong everything was for her back then. I’m learning, with practice and professional guidance, to obsess on how fucking AMAZING everything is for me at this moment!

I lost a dear friend recently. She would have been 47 on March 7, and like Spazzie, she had a seriously high ACE score. She drank herself to death because she could not overcome her trauma. It breaks my heart that I could not save her, but I can damn-well save myself. And yes, for Spazzie, saving myself means certain family members need to go “bye-bye” because these family members need me to stay broken. This is too high a fucking price.

I will spend every remaining moment we have together, loving the fuck out of my husband, and being his best god-damned partner. Because if you need a sign that the universe conspires to help us (PronoiaNow!), it is that I am married to Bubba.

I will inhabit every moment of my life, and rejoice in it because it is wholly mine and beautiful. I will be grateful.

Never again will I allow the monsters of my childhood to imprison me. I will claim, and zelously protect, my right to remain unchained!

Author Donna Jackson Nakazawa has written a wonderful book on ACEs and inflammatory stress-related physical illnesses that result from this inflammation called Childhood Disrupted: How Your Biography Becomes Your Biology and How You Can Heal.

"Freedom" is one of my original pieces. Notice how it looks like a palm tree, and the beachie color theme? One month to Hilton Head and counting!!! 

Wild Turkeys Circling a Dead Cat

So far, this has been a week of strange.

• Presenters announced the wrong winner for ‘Best Picture’ Oscar.
   
• A Wikipedia editing war outed Garfield (yes, THAT Garfield) as genderqueer. When Spazzie read the Garfield article, I thought “Who the hell, other than Jim Davis cares enough about Garfield to gen up outrage over the cat’s fucking gender? A whole fuck-ton of people, apparently, considering Jim Davis’ 2016 $800 million (reported) net worth!
   
• The CW announces they’re rebooting the 80s series Dynasty (**Spoilers** 2017’s version features Blake Carrington as President).
   
• Further evidence emerged of several high-ranking U.S. government officials’ troubling relationships with Russian officials. Even stranger, Republicans say jackshit about their boys holding secret meetings with these Russian officials during A FUCKING U.S. PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION!

And then there’s this: a video of wild turkeys circling a dead cat (poor kitty, ALL CAT’S SHOULD BE INDOOR CATS, PEOPLE!) Bubba, when telling me about the video,

"If that’s not the strangest thing you see all week…”

Strangest? Most certainly. But something about this superlatively strange moment resonated with Spazzie on a deeper level, which is why I woke up at 3:30 AM, compelled to write, with Spazzie screaming “THE TURKEYS AND THE CAT ARE A METAPHOR!”

Thank you, Spazzie, I get it. But a metaphor for what, exactly? I needed to let this question simmer a bit longer, so I popped out to check my Facebook feed. That’s when I saw Bubba’s comment from his FB post sharing the turkeys video:

“And this is why we use try/catch blocks; handle those exceptions!”

In programming, an infinite or endless loop is a block of code that loops through some function, repeating indefinitely, because the programmer failed to correctly program an exit condition, or (as Bubba pointed out on FB) failed to use a “try/catch block.”  

Meaning revealed! The turkeys and the cat are a metaphor for the damaging cycles in which we (adult humans) inevitably trap ourselves. Yes, that’s right, people. When it comes to programming our lives, we’re all half-assed coders.  In life, our try/catch is us handling our shit.

Handling our shit doesn't mean avoiding failure, or that failures never occur! It means that WHEN we fail, we rise up, exiting from the failure condition gracefully, with resilience. We cannot reach this point of grace and resiliency, if we're not handling our shit.  Stuck in an endless loop of misery and misfortune? Yup, that's us circling the ‘dead cat.'

“But Adulting is fucking hard, Spazzie; my life is awful!”

I hear you, Adulting is fucking ridiculously hard! But adulting doesn’t have to suck, and being stuck sucks. If we're already miserable, what the fuck do we have to lose? We do have the power to affect change in our lives. We can choose to turn left or go straight. It's life, people. No failure; no success.

That’s all for now because I must get ready for work. Yes, Adulting IS hard!

P.S. per usual, Bubba read this post.  "Something bothers me about the 'In programming' paragraph, but I'm not sure what." 

"No worries", I said, "think on it a bit, I'll come to you. Then let me know what bothers you about this paragraph. " Later, on Facebook...

"the loop missing an exit condition was not the problem, the loop itself was the problem."

When I saw this response, I laughed and thought "He's right, of course," because Bubba is a crazy good programmer. After 23 years as a developer, I've never read anyone's code that is as cleanly structured and efficient (i.e. does not include one single damn line of code that isn't absolutely necessary).

Bubba knows loops are expensive --especially when you have large datasets--so finding a more efficient way to identify and retrieve data is good. And then I thought, "Motherfucker! He did it again! 

Here's the thing: unnecessary cycles ARE expensive. They burn through our well-being, peace of mind, happiness, joy, mental and physical health (i.e. our system resources). Handling our shit means taking responsibility for making our life decisions from a place of mindfulness. We must not allow our compulsions, addictions, insecurities and fears to drive our choices. And we must not expect anyone else to save or fix us. We must avoid unnecessary loops.

I'll just leave this here...

Sinister Moment Turkeys Perform 'Death Dance' Around A Dead Cat Sinister Moment Turkeys Perform 'Death Dance' Around A Dead Cat Sinister Moment Turkeys Perform 'Death Dance' Around A Dead Cat Sinister moment turkeys perform 'death dance' around a dead cat that was run over by a car Gobble gobble, toil and trouble!

When Did Spazzie Decide to Become So Fucking Friendly?

Spazzie loves audio books. Currently, I have two self-help books in my listening library, Mark Manson’s, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck and Dr. Jack Schafer’s The Like Switch. Both are interesting and compelling, and they are NOT your traditional self-help books!

I just finished The Subtle Art and from the title, you would think the book is all about, well, learning not to give a fuck. In fact, the book’s core message is the exact opposite: trouble comes when we do not exercise our capacity to discern between those things about which we do (or should) and do not (or should not) give a fuck.

Mindfully giving a fuck engenders happiness; unhappiness comes from giving a fuck about the wrong things. So, if we’re unhappy, we should check our values and reassess. Spazzie’s new mantra is “Check your values.”

No, god dammit, I’m not planning to say to others “check your values” (though I can understand why you might think this)! I plan to repeat this whenever Spazzie gets all fired up, usually over something that is incredibly insignificant in the scope of her daily life. Because “Handling my shit” means accepting ownership of, and responsibility for, my negative emotions. It means acknowledging that no one (not even Bubba) is obligated to make Spazzie feel better about Spazzie but Spazzie.

But fuck me, this ‘mastering one’s negative emotions’ thing is hard! Changing learned behavior—i.e. dumping my negative feelings on others, whenever I feel them, regardless of the impact this dumping has on others—is a total bitch! Especially when that learned behavior is deeply rooted in familial dysfunction (shocker, Spazzie comes from a family of negative dumpers). It takes practice, and I fail way more than I succeed.

Side Note: to everyone who has listened to Spazzie bitch and moan about her shit, and her powerlessness to do anything about her shit, Spazzie is so fucking sorry!  Jesus, I cringe thinking about it now.

But wait, there’s more! Spazzie does not casually connect with people;  she is not naturally breezy or sunny. Spazzie’s either in full on, freak-girl mode (FOFGM) or she’s hiding out behind her resting bitch face (RBF).  Spazzie has no filter and no talent for making polite chit chat (what other humans call ‘being friendly’).  

Bubba just chimed in “…other humans, including Bubba.” Right, because unlike Spazzie, Bubba excels at being both charming and friendly. Of course, he should be better at “friendly”; he’s had so much more practice than Spazzie at acting human since he landed on our planet and all.

Pre-Enlightenment Spazzie drank to ease her social anxiety (didn’t help). And, my oh my, Spazzie carries around a fabulous fuck-ton of social anxiety! I joke about being “spikey,” but the truth is people freak me the fuck out.  And since I must inhabit the world with, you know, other people, Spazzie thought it might be a good idea to gain some insight into how to act like a person. Here’s where the second book, The Like Switch enters this story.

The author, Dr. Jack Schafer, is a retired FBI profiler and Psychologist who built a successful career as an FBI Spy Master. Here are a few descriptive tidbits from Good Read’s synopsis:

"As a Special Agent for the FBI’s National Security Division’s Behavioral Analysis Program, Dr. Jack Schafer developed dynamic and breakthrough strategies for profiling terrorists and detecting deception. Now, Dr. Schafer has evolved his proven-on-the-battlefield tactics for the day-to-day, but no less critical battle of getting people to like you."

Well, fuck me! No wonder interacting with people is so scary, Dr. Jack, BATTLE is traumatizing for fuck’s sake!

"Learn how to think and react like your favorite TV investigators from Criminal Minds or CSI as Dr. Schafer shows you how to improve your LQ (Likeability Quotient), “spot the lie” both in person and online."

Roger that, Dr. Jack, people are criminals and liars, so I’m justified in being hyper-sensitive, hyper-vigilant AND heavily emotionally-armored around them.

"With tips and techniques that hold the key to taking control of your communications, interactions, and relationships, The Like Switch shows you how to read others and get people to like you for a moment or a lifetime."

Seriously? WTF, Dr. Jack? Your strategies for improving one’s “Likeability Quotient” sound way more like a ‘Beginners Guide to Luring Your Human Prey.'

I’ve just started listening to Dr. Jack’s book; Dr. Jack hasn’t convinced me that the solution to Spazzie’s social anxiety is training herself to act like a sociopath.  But what the fuck do I know? Certainly, not how to casually interact with people. I do love gritty police procedurals, though, so I will keep listening. Without a doubt, the content is compelling.

It is also down right fucking disconcerting!  Is Dr. Jack, right? Is the key to being likable just about surface characteristics? If so, I’m screwed (see above reference to full on, freak-girl mode/resting bitch face). Clearly, I need more practice.

Bubba just added, “...practice with other people, besides Bubba.”

You’d think he’d be satisfied that I like and practice with HIM everyday!  Convincing Spazzie to show her true self to strangers, on a regular basis, might just be that bridge too far.

Bubba would like to point out that, in fact, the Panzers are on fire, in the above screen shot from the movie "A Bridge Too Far", and not the bridge itself.

48 is the new 28?

So Spazzie was scanning MSN, getting caught up on today’s crazy, and she spotted this tasty bit o' clickbait:

“What Jennifer Aniston Does To Make 48 Look 28”

And I thought, with a whole boat-load of snark, “this should be revelatory,” and bit the hook.

Apparently, Jennifer celebrated her 48th birthday last week in Mexico and the paparazzi were all agog over her amazing “beach body.”  In fact, Jen’s staggering beauty (i.e. the sight of Jen in her little blue bikini) was so moving (especially considering her advanced age and all), the invasive fucks couldn’t help but take loads of pictures! They captured Jen and her hubby JT from every possible angle, using (I’m sure) a very, very long camera lens. 

No doubt, celebrity is a total bitch. Just ask any celebrity (Brad or Angelina, perhaps?) how much it sucks to have douchebags with cameras following you everywhere you go. I read the *cough* article, just to confirm the information was as enlightening (not) as I anticipated.

Here they are folks, Jen’s tricks to being 'Fabulous at 48.'

Trick No 1: Jen’s got some seriously, damn fine DNA.  How you age is hard-coded. Sure, there are lifestyle influences, but if your mom (ladies) or dad (men) looked “pretty good” —all other things equal—at 48? Your chances of looking “pretty good” at 48 increase significantly. Don’t smoke; don’t drink excessively, and either stay the fuck out of the sun or invest in very good sunscreen.  

Trick No. 2: Jen’s never been fat. It’s a fuck-ton easier to maintain a healthy weight if you’ve always been at (or within 5% of) a healthy weight. And that’s not to say maintaining a healthy weight is easy. Regular people must find time to plan healthy meals, shop, and cook, on top of their 10-plus hour work day and their 2-plus hour daily commute. Also, whole foods are expensive—essential, but expensive— especially compared to the food-like stuff sold in our grocer's interior isles. Or the fast-food drive thru. 

Gratuitous Product Placement: RxBar whole food bars and Pressed by Kind bars are Spazzie and Bubba’s ‘go to' these days. With no added crap, they’re tasty nutrition on the go!

And, we must find time to exercise, for long enough and hard enough, just to counter-act all that time we spend sitting (10 hours work, plus 2 hours commute p/day) on our asses Monday through Friday. So we've managed to fit in both eating right and exercising, but we're sleep deprived as fuck, which leads to depression, anxiety and—holy shit, seriously?—weight gain! Fuck me.

Trick No. 3: Jen makes a fuck-ton of money; she can afford to hire help. Jen’s mindful about what she eats, and she exercises. Clearly! But don’t you think it’s also likely, given that one of her job responsibilities is “looking damn good,” Jen has a staff of private nutritionists, chefs and personal trainers who are working hard, behind the scenes, enabling Jen to look her best?  I would hope so because who WOULDN’T hire the motherfuckers who make Jennifer Aniston look this good, if they could afford to do so?  Making celebrities look amazing is their job, people, and if they suck at it, they get fired.

Trick No. 4: Jen’s has never given birth. I don’t know this from personal experience, but I have several dear friends who, though they all look amazing, swear that their pre-child birth bodies were VERY different from their post-child birth bodies. A woman’s body changes in many (sometimes dramatic) ways, as a result of growing a whole new person. Helen Mirren is renowned for responding to reporters who ask (inevitably), how her body still looks so damn amazing at 71, “I never had children.” ‘Nuff said.

Trick No. 5: The Legion of aestheticians and dermatologists Jen has on speed dial, aka Jen’s “prep team,”  turn her from plain old “Jen” to actress and “Friends Alum” JENNIFER ANNISTON. Seriously, these people pop, pluck, and peel away the years from Jen’s face and body. Frankly, the human body does some funky shit as it ages, and unless you have the financial resources to pay someone to reverse all this ‘funky shit,' do your best, accept the results and go about your day.

So, I just read the first part of this post to Bubba, and he responded:

“Asking how Jennifer Anniston still looks amazing at 48, is like asking how Ruth Bader Ginsburg is still an amazing lawyer at 83.”

I looked at him for a moment and said, “that’s brilliant, I'll include that.” Bubba is wise in the ways of smart, aging women!

Bubba’s comment perfectly highlights this point: it is Jennifer Anniston’s job to look amazing, and she works hard to be good at this job because she must. People who aren’t good at their jobs get fired.

“And for fuck sake, she’s not a professional MMA fighter,” added Bubba.

Meaning that Jen’s not just an actor, she’s also a model. Of course, she looks amazing, just like most everyone else who’s job is in front of the camera. “Looking amazing” is the baseline job requirement.

For me, a regular person, who looks (and frequently feels) her age? 

I will endeavor to remain grateful that Bubba has a deep appreciation for abundantly curvy, middle-aged red-heads who write ranty blogs.

Bubba just chimed in "ya planning on introducing me to any?" He's a funny motherfucker, that Bubba.

• I will be kind to myself, try not to freak out about the new lines on my face, or the new grey hairs on my head (yeah, fuck that last part—I have an amazing colorist)!

• And I will laugh because there ain't a damn thing I can do about getting older, except die, and I'm not ready to check out just yet!

I’d also like to point out I haven’t seen headlines exclaming how "amazing"...

• Hugh Jackman (48);
• Daniel Craig (48);
• Jon Hamm (45);
• Robert Downey Jr.(51);
• Mark Ruffolo (49); and
• Richard Armitage (45)

...“look,” despite their advanced age. Fucking Hollywood!

Valentine's Day

So, not only does Spazzie trend to ‘controlling as fuck’”, Spazzie also spends a fuck ton of time ruminating; obsessing about the million ways we, and the wider world, just don’t measure up. Such are the joys of the combination of perfectionism and GAD.

Side Bar: if there is one positive thing about President Clownshoes Asshat? It’s that I now have many, many seriously disastrous things to obsess over and about which to be pissed. But fuck me! Is he seriously considering siging another executive order travel ban, rather than waiting for the courts to rule on the unconstitutional as fuck one he’s already signed?  Well of course he is! This president is so rich; he gets to wipe his ass with the U.S. Constitution. Moving on.

With Valentine’s Day approaching, Spazzie’s mind turned to “what to get Bubba for Valentine’s Day.” He is NOT into stuff! In fact, one of the best presents I can give him is NOT to buy him something he doesn’t need, which then he must find a place for, which takes up more space, which makes the house more cluttered…get where I’m going with this? 

Bubba abhors (no, not too strong) clutter. Both of his parents ‘collect’ things—lots and lots of things--he grew up surrounded by clutter. I also have a slight tendency to over-populate our shelves, our walls and our tabletops with plants, paintings, and various tchotchkes.

So, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Bubba. I got you...fuck all!”  

I don’t feel good about it, but it’s what he prefers, so I suck it up and reassure Spazzie that she ISN’T a miserable failure of a wife, and that “nothing” is the perfect gift for the ‘Bubba who has everything.' Then I remembered something I wrote, way back in 2011, and thought "I know, I'll post that for him". Here it is, folks, with a few 2017 updates.

Disclaimer: When writing about Bubba, I use the term “motherfucker” as a show admiration. For example, “he rocked it like a motherfucker.”

I remember the incident very clearly. I was 28; Bubba and I had been married for eight years, and we were discussing a coworker who was, twelve years’ post-divorce, still was struggling to overcome his grief and anger. I casually suggested it might be time for John to move on.

2017 Spazzie: replace “casually” with “callously”

“Damn, he needs to get over it already.” Bubba looked at me, neutrally.

2017 Spazzie: it was shock and hurt, ya’ll, but no fucking way, after only eight years living side-by-side, was Spazzie able to distinguish Bubba’s ‘shocked-hurt’ expression from his ‘no, I’m fine, why the query?’ expression. Bletchley Park had an easier time breaking Enigma—and I’m damn sure not Alan Turing when it comes to puzzling out the sphinx-like motherfucker I married.

Bubba looked at me, neutrally, and said: “I would never get over your leaving me.” “Uh-oh,” I thought, “He’s in this thing for keeps.”  And I completely freaked.

My childhood has taught me that love was painful, hateful and nasty. That when people “loved” you, they could say or do whatever to you, regardless of the impact those words and actions had on you. You had to forgive them, and never ask them to stop hurting you, because loving them meant accepting them no matter how awful they were. And you were never, ever allowed to suggest that their actions were wrong. Satisfying their needs was more important than anything, than anyone, else.

‘Loving’ someone meant accepting that person’s abuse and neglect; that person’s selfish disregard for your feelings and well-being. I couldn’t accept that what I had experienced might not be love, and refused to open up. Even after eight years of marriage, and the wonderful life we were building together, I was emotionally hardened; I wouldn’t be devastated when it all went wrong. I didn’t ‘love’ him.

2017 Spazzie: ok, that part is honest and authentic, but the rest of what I wrote back in 2011? Utter Shit! It’s complete crap that sounds so false, Spazzie’s screaming “you are killing me here".  I ramble on for five paragraphs [sweet Jesus if I get nothing from this Econ degree but having learned how to write clearly and concisely? WORTH IT] about 'opening up, lowering my defenses, and stepping up,' but I hadn’t. So,

DELETE!!!

The truth: I was still drinking, and still denying that my drinking was a real problem. Three years ago, when I got sober? THAT’S when I got serious about my life, and my commitment to Bubba.  Because it meant dealing with all that nasty, gnarly anger, guilt and fear I’d been hiding from, and getting serious about healing.

So, with an honest, authentic and (very sober) heart, I promise to be fully present in our life. Happy Valentine’s Day, Bubba, you motherfucker. 

We Hold These Truths to be Self-Evident? The Twin Pillars Political Gaslighting and Kleptocracy

Spazzie knows a rant requires slow, low heat. A good rant is like a good stew, start with good ingredients, don’t rush the roux and, by all that is holy, let the stew simmer!  So, when Spazzie woke me up at 3:30 am this morning shouting “THEY’RE GASLIGHTING US,” I knew this ‘stew’ was ready and it was time for me to write.

Wikipedia defines gas-lighting as “A form of mental abuse in which information is twisted, spun, or selectively omitted to favor the abuser; false information presented with the intent of making victims doubt their memory, perception, and sanity.”

• It’s Sean Spicer saying, from behind the White House Press Secretary’s podium, “this was the largest audience to witness the inauguration ever, period. Both in person and around the globe.”
• It’s President Clownshoes Asshat robustly defending his admiration for Vladimir Putin to Bill O’Reilly “There are a lot of killers, we’ve got a lot of killers. What do you think? Our country’s so innocent?”  
• It’s Fox News tweeting, after Lada Gaga’s Super Bowl Half-time performance, “Lady Gaga sings a medley of hit songs at Super Bowl LI, steers clear of politics.” The “hits” being “Born This Way” (LGBT empowerment anthem) and “This Land is Your Land” —Woody Guthrie’s song that no one, anywhere, has EVER sung out as a form of political protest.
• It’s “Alternative Facts.”

Are you feeling it yet? That twitchy, unsettled feeling in the very back of your lizard brain that something in our country is very, very wrong? Sure, you do. And here’s where our American story shifts from “WTF? Is he completely insane?” to “Holy fuck, they’re going to steal from us what little we have left.” Allow me to introduce you, Dear Readers, to the new American Kleptocracy.

A Kleptocracy is a government with corrupt rulers (kleptocrats) that use their power to exploit the people and natural resources of their country, to extend their personal wealth and political power. Typically, this system involves the embezzlement of state funds at the expense of the wider population, sometimes without even the pretense of honest service. The last bit there is especially important. It’s the bit that distinguishes this administration from every previous administration in our country’s history (Democrat or Republican).

There are processes within our government that are meant to discourage politicians, and their political appointees, from leveraging public office for personal, financial benefit. We (the people) grant our public officials extraordinary decision-making power, on our behalf, and we do so with the expectation that these officials will, in good faith, make decisions that benefit us.

This agreement is the “social contract” we enter into with our representatives. We elect you to do the people’s work; we expect you to work for the people. Seems plain and straight forward, yeah? If only! 

Many of the mechanisms that we (again, I’m talking about ‘the people’ here) rely on to ensure that our political officials are working in our interest— not in their self-interest—aren’t codified as law; they’re just common practice. Meaning that our public officials can elect NOT to practice, what is common practice. The current administration’s soon-to-be-confirmed political appointees have ‘respectfully declined’ to participate in thorough ethics reviews. They filled out the ethics disclaimer form that is legally mandated, and that is all. So how are we, the people, supposed to be confident that our public officials aren’t robbing us blind?

We’re not!  But we’re not idiots; we clearly can see there’s something seriously rotten at the top! What’s a corrupt public official to do?

“Ya gaslight ‘em,” sings the K-Street Chorus!

This administration is so confident that it can get away with stealing from the American people what little we have left because they're already doing it (seriously, Steve Mnuchin as Treasury Secretary?) . They’re distracting us, denying facts, crying “fake news” in response to stories that highlight how their policies erode our civil rights, and imprisoning those who dare to protest (not hyperbole, people, check out the NPR article, see if it doesn’t make you afraid)!

They are stealing our public legacy; they’re working to convince us that the problem is us, not them. The current administration doesn’t even give a fuck about hiding it; why bother? Oh, hell yeah, folks, we’re being gaslighted. Bend over; the worst is yet to come.

Toxic Mothers

So Bubba and I spent yesterday with his mother: a woman who has spent the last 56 years making her family fucking miserable. Her misery is poisonous, like long-term exposure to arsenic. She must project her suffering onto her sons, her daughters-in-law, and her granddaughters. Her life is 24/7 pain and suffering. Happiness is for the stupid, the lazy or the mediocre. She most certainly DOES NOT recognize that she is responsible for her life and that her actions — regardless of her ‘best intentions’ — are the source of her pain and suffering, and also the pain of her grown children. Interestingly, the description also perfectly describes my primary maternal figure (a term from one of Spazzie’s current obsessions — attachment theory), my maternal grandmother.

These intensely damaged women aren’t especially unusual. Their generational peer group named the “Silent Generation” (ironically named, apparently because, Dear Jesus, if only they suffered in silence, sometimes). These women had very few life choices. Regardless of their hopes, dreams, talents, or desires, women were expected to marry, become mothers, and stay home. End of their dreams; end of their independence; end of their story.

My grandmother asked me once “So, you’re not going to have children?” I was pushing 40 and had been married for many years; naturally, she asked the ‘kid question’! I responded “Nope,” and Bianca looked me straight in the face and responded —in her Italian-accented English — “you’re smart. If I could do it over, I wouldn’t have had kids either.” I wasn’t shocked; I laughed. I knew Bianca didn’t enjoy being a mother. She always told me what a fabulous life she would have had, if only it had been, in absolutely every possible detail, a completely different life.

My mother – after years of totally traumatic mind-fucking by my grandmother —  repeated the same pattern with me. She would have had an amazing life, except my father ‘got her pregnant.' With me. Yes, yes, that’s correct. I am the ‘fucking’ reason (heh, get it?) my mother wasn’t living her dream life. Every time I think about it, I want to scream, very loudly “I HAD NO INPUT IN YOUR CHOICE TO FUCK MY FATHER”!

[Political Commentary: Can’t wait for President Clownshoes Asshat to bring the ‘good ol’ days’ back again! The days when women had no control over OUR reproductive systems. Clearly, being forced to have a child you don’t want ALWAYS works out terrifically great for that unwanted kid and the kid’s mom].

Bubba heard a slightly different, but equally damaging, story from his mother. “You were supposed to be a girl; you were supposed to make up for all the suffering your father causes me. I only stay with your father because of you.” HOLY FUCK! Who are these women, that they must feed on the souls of their young?! They are our mothers and my grandmother; these women repeatedly told us throughout our childhood that they didn’t want us, so we should be thankful for whatever we get and not make a fuss; as if either of us had a fucking choice!?

If Bubba and I were so motherfucking amazing that, before conception, we could have looked across space and time and picked our parents? We’d have made a very different choice. But we didn’t choose; and it’s completely whacked that our mothers are so toxic, they must blame us as though it WAS our choice. As Bubba says, “it’s a whole briar patch of crazy.” Isn’t that the absolute perfect metaphor for a toxic mother? Painfully enmeshed and entagled?

As the children of mothers who so clearly loathed raising children — mostly because of their refusal to take responsibility for their lives, and they're unwillingness to deal with their childhood issues — Bubba and I hold this truth to be absolute: having a child should be a choice and one that involves both parents. I’ve added-in this last bit because one of my mother-in-law’s more ‘helpful’ tips on marriage is “men never want children, so you have to trick them. Stop taking your birth control and then tell him it was an accident”. Nice, huh?

"Beauty". One of my original mandalas. Rest your eyes here, should you need a moment. Many people carry around childhood damage; the goal is to embrace your resiliency, and to stop allowing the damage to define and/or constrain you.

So You Think You Can President?

Over breakfast this morning, Bubba and Spazzie were discussing, what else? The White House’s latest policy proposal of imposing a 20 percent tax on Mexican Imports. I related how, when reporters asked Press Secretary, Sean Spicer how such a tax would affect U.S. consumers and companies, Spicer responded that the administration is “focused on Mexico right now.”

Sure, because it’s perfectly reasonable and rational for the administration to consider such a massive tax, in isolation of all other factors, because that’s EXACTLY how our fucking economy works!

Of course, I ranted about U.S. job losses, increasing inflation rates, and questioned — using very strong and colorful language — whether this President has ever heard of “GDP.” A GDP, by the way, that has been anemic, at best, thanks mostly to the near-bottomless pit into which the financial services industry dropped our economy (i.e. the 2007 Financial Crisis).

And Bubba responded “this week on “So You Think You Can President.”” Ah, that Bubba. Funny, razor-sharp, and absolutely, fucking, pointedly insightful.

Running a country of 325 Million people, with an economy of $17.95 trillion USD (2015) is a difficult, serious job. So far, the current administration seems to be taking this responsibility no more seriously than President’s Clownshoes Asshat’s hosting gig on realty TV. And although saying outrageous shit to up one’s ratings worked out for him during the election, it’s a dismal way to run a country. And it’s going to work out badly for us — the American people.

America most certainly has the expertise, intellect, creativity, and funding necessary to make our public policies work for most everyone — not only those with influence and wealth. American’s citizens have the audacity to believe still that our country’s public policies SHOULD benefit most everyone, rather than serving to concentrate the most benefit at the top. The problem is not with our tool set; it’s with our set of tools.

Is it just me, or do these two look like they're not quite focused on President’s Clownshoes Asshat’s Inaugural address?

What the Actual Fuck? A Glimpse into Bubba’s Life with Spazzie or “A Tale of Murder and Magic.”

The headspaces we inhabit differ slightly in tone and degree of sparkle, but our hearts are in complete alignment.

Allow me to set the stage: it’s dark, I’m sitting in our parked car. Bubba’s in our favorite kabob place (no lie, this place is for real), picking up our dinner. I’m unaware of anything around me, because I’m focused on my phone, checking my e-mail. And I hear a knock on the car window.

“Hello, ma'am, can I ask you a question?” It’s a young woman—somewhere between 20 and 30, depending on exactly how hard she’s living—bundled up in heavy layers, with her hoody pulled up over her head.

Now, you’d think given the extraordinary amounts of true crime content I consume—content in which unsuspecting women are significantly over-represented in the victim pool—I’d be a scooch more cautious about strangers approaching me in a dark parking lot.

NOPE! Apparently, Spazzie lives in a sparkly magical land where she could never, ever, possibly be the victim of a violent crime. I roll down the window.

“I’m a single mom, I have an 8-year-old boy, and I’m just trying to get a hotel for the night, can you please help?”
At this point, dear readers, you may be thinking “Fraud”; you may be thinking “Addict, ” and you’re justifiably skeptical. People in desperate situations — regardless of how they wound up in those situations — sometimes do desperate things. But all I'm thinking is “HELL YES I CAN HELP”! So, OF COURSE I roll down the window.

No, I didn’t check my surroundings, why would I do THAT? I live in a sparkly magical land where nothing bad EVER happens to perfectly unsuspecting, well-meaning people!

“I’m sorry, I don’t carry any cash. But my husband is in the restaurant; he carries cash.” And I open the door.

I open the door to our only car; our only car that has my keys (and Bubba’s), my wallet, my phone, AND both our work laptops in it. And it doesn’t occur to me — not for one bloody second — that this young woman might “aim to misbehave” (Thank you, Joss Whedon. We at SpazzieGirl.Com are big, big fans!!!).

So, I head into the restaurant, the young woman follows. In the bright restaurant light, I can see clearly she’s in bad shape. Bubba looks up, sees the young woman and me. All I say is “give me whatever cash you have in your wallet.” No explanation; no narration; no introduction; just “give me your money.”

Now Bubba’s a good person, and an amazing husband, so he gives me his cash, without comment, no additional explanation necessary. I promptly hand the cash to the young women, who hugs me and leaves. AS soon as she clears the restaurant door, I turn to launch into a massive rant about how President Clownshoes Asshat is going to make her life very, very much worse, then I notice the look on Bubba’s face. It’s the look of pure, absolute disbelief, astonishment, and (not a little) horror. His face says it all: What, the Actual, Fuck Woman???

Now, some of you know Bubba. He most definitely does NOT live in a sparkly magical land where men’s wives NEVER get murdered for opening doors before asking “Your man isn’t standing out of sight, holding a gun, just waiting for me to open this door so you can car jack me, right?” He lives in a world where that’s EXACTLY the sort of thing that happens — it’s called reality. Apparently, he pays MUCH closer attention to the true crime content I consume than I do. And he would appreciate it if Spazzie’s impulsivity were a bit more balanced by a greater sence of personal risk. All because he loves me.

More to follow. The next blog is going to be very, very ranty because I don’t give a fuck WHY or HOW my fellow human being finds herself in a Manassas shopping center parking lot at 6:00 pm, begging strangers for money. I only care that she IS in this situation! And don’t kid yourselves — no one begs strangers for money because it’s an easy way to make money. They do it because they have no other choice, or believe they have no other choice. And under President Clownshoes Asshat, this human’s life — and the lives of millions of other fellow humans — is going to get much, much worse.

Rich-ass White Men and the Racist Motherfuckers Who Love Them

Sunday, Jan 8, 2017. Washington Post Headline “Ethics official warns against confirmations before reviews are complete.” Well, fuck!  That’s right, dear readers, it’s time for this week’s Ranty Political Post!

DISCLAIMER: Because this is the real world and not an episode of "West Wing" or "Madam Secretary", I recognize that both Republicans and Democrats in Congress are bought and sold many, many time over by big-money special interests. Despite the river of money that flows along K Street, sourced from a reservoir of capital from the super-rich and corporations, I vote in EVERY FUCKING ELECTION! I am a registered Democrat. I support the Dems liberal party platform. I am NOT impartial, NOT non-partisan. I am unapologetically liberal, and that’s how I vote!

Moving on. Quite simply: 'our' elected officials in Washington do NOT work for us — they work for the 1% — who pay seriously big money to get them elected and pay more seriously big money to keep them in office. The Citizens United ruling codified that our democracy — and therefore the policies of our Federal Government – are for sale!

Public officials are supposed to serve the public good. However, the incoming administration’s egregious disregard for the procedures meant to ensure that public officials serve in good faith — i.e. aren’t leveraging their official positions exclusively for the personal enrichment of themselves and their cohorts — is a significantly disturbing development in American politics.

Why is this incoming administration different? Because this administration willfully and openly rejects accountability,  transparency and the existing procedural checks on executive power and privilege; it’s Richard Nixon saying “If the President does it, that means it’s not illegal” to the 10th power.

Let me be clear: these motherfuckers fully intend to wage financial and social war on every single person living in America who is NOT in the top 1 percent. That’s 3,253,526.62 of us. Every policy that doesn’t directly enrich them and theirs will be on the block. Every service we rely on; every program from which we benefit. And they’ll wage this war openly, with the approval of about 46 percent (per NYTimes.Com) of our fellow Americans.

These Americans — mostly white, per The Guardian — are totally fine with this ‘rape and pillage’ approach to public policy, as long as rich-ass white guys execute it (see related "privilege" rant). If that means they’ll be working until they're dead, so they can afford to eat tuna fish rather than cat food? They’re cool with that if the “other” is living in refrigerator boxes.

So if you’re offended because I lump you in with all the other “Racist Motherfuckers for Trump”? Too bad — maybe you shouldn’t have voted for the Antichrist, who will usher in Armageddon. Have you motherfuckers READ the Bible you love to quote?? Is it that you’re trying to hasten the Second Coming? That’s it, isn’t it? You think if you burn our country to the ground, Jesus won't have a choice BUT to rapture your ass.

Too Pretty? WTF!!!!! I Call 'Bullshit'!

So I’m back in school for Fall Quarter. I was reviewing the course guides, asking “what the hell was I thinking? Economics, for fuck’s sake, as if I didn’t have enough going on?! I couldn’t just stick with Computer Information Systems; I HAD to do something harder. WTF is wrong with me?!” And then I heard Spazzie say “Breath, Orlina. Just breath. You’ll make it through, take it one week at a time”.

I’ve always loved science — all kinds of science. As a little girl, I dreamt of being an astronaut, and I devoured every astronomy book I could find. I always did very well in my science classes in school — especially Biology — and as a teen-ager, I wanted to be a veterinarian or marine biologist. Certainly, I was smart enough, but when I expressed these desires aloud, I was told: “you’re too pretty.”

Too pretty to pursue a demanding career? Too pretty to be ambitious? Too pretty to be???

The “too pretty” bullshit completely fucked with me. My family PRIZED good looks over all else, and the messaging was explicit: I was pretty, I didn’t need to use my brain. I didn’t need to work hard. I didn’t need a career because I could marry well. I was very fortunate. Also,  I tend towards chuncky, so I really need to watch that. If I'm fat, no one will love me. Fat is worse than stupid. Fat is ugly. Fat is unworthy.   No wonder I was bulimic until I was 30!

These were the messages I heard throughout my life — especially as a teenaged girl. Fortunately, I had several strong, positive female role models that demonstrated independence, drive, and self-reliance. These women inspired me to be more; they helped me realize I was worth more than my face, tits, and ass. These women taught me to value myself for more than my physicality — and I’m eternally grateful to them. They are largely responsible for the life I’ve built, a life of which I’m very, very proud.

I’ve no fucking idea where people got the idea that women can be “too pretty,” but it’s neither new or especially unusual. Google “too pretty,” and Google returns a shit-ton of similar stories: women who are “too pretty” to pursue their dreams; too pretty to be themselves. It is completely insane. It’s taken me years to fully reject the incredibly fucked up messaging that my body defines me, and the only thing of value I have is my “looks.” Good thing too, because I’m enjoying getting older and somewhat wiser; if I was obsessed with my looks, aging would SSSSUUUUHHHHHCCCCCKKKKKK!!!

So when I realized I had a genuine interest in Economics — after three years of working for the Federal Reserve Board of Governors — I said “fuck it” and went back to school for Economics. Because no one, not even myself, will ever tell me I’m too pretty to be whoever, or whatever the fuck I want.

Thank You, Carrie Fisher

When I heard this morning that Debbie Reynold’s died, just one day after her beloved — and (self-described as) difficult — daughter, Carrie Fisher, I said to Bubba “Damn! I bet Carrie’s waiting to greet her mother, thinking “she couldn’t even let me have THIS moment??!!!” Bubba laughed and replied “no doubt. Debbie’s like ‘I know you just died yesterday and all, but this is how it’s all about me’”.

Carrie Fisher had a gloriously acerbic sense of humor and a highly-refined talent for finding humor in darkness. I, like millions of other adoring fans, appreciate her willingness to confront how beautifully messy life can be, with unflinching honesty and heart.

If you’ve read Carrie Fisher’s “Postcards from the Edge,” you know that Carrie found her mother challenging, competitive, frustrating, exhausting, emotionally needy, and completely self-absorbed. She also loved her very much. Carrie perfectly illustrated the complicated relationship women have with their mothers, especially when the mother in question is not exactly June Cleaver. And the daughter has more in common with Wednesday Addams than Gidget!

Carrie forged an authentic identity for herself, one NOT defined by her mother; she also understood (and eventually accepted) that Debbie Reynolds influenced her in many deeply intimate, and mostly positive, ways. Like many other strong, talented, and brilliantly funny women I admire, Carrie mined her personal experiences to fuel her creativity and her healing. Carrie Fisher was my first “self-rescuing princess”; Carrie Fisher showed me that healing through humor — and acceptance of one’s true self — was possible.

There are days — much fewer now that I’m 46, then when I was 26 — when my inner critic joyfully points out my every flaw and failure. My fear of the imperfect has limited me in the past, but not anymore. Carrie Fisher’s body of work — and her life — gives me hope. Hope that I will continue to grow beyond the confines of the persona my mother encouraged me to assume, and embrace my authentic, and thoroughly flawed, self!

This Spazzie Girl thanks you, Carrie.

Thoughts on Privilege. A Letter to White Folk, from a Fellow White Person

After listening to yet another affluent white man in the entertainment industry pontificate about how he’s “optimistic” about the incoming president because “love conquers hate” or “people are inherently good,” or “the system will work to check him.” I lost my shit and decided it was time for Spazzie Girl’s first socio-political-economic rant!

Post-2016 election night, I was discouraged. The fact that a man, who advocated for nothing except hate and fear, was not only a viable candidate but could win the presidency, depressed the fuck out of me. It made me afraid.

Privilege. Many people are tossing this word about right now, but few white folks are considering what having privilege means. At the most basic level, “having privilege” means we don’t have to care that much. It means we have the luxury of choice. We can CHOOSE to be optimistic/pessimistic/oblivious about the damage the incoming administration will wreak on our democracy, and the horrifying impact this damage will have on People of Color (PoC), the LGBTQ community, non-Christians, and the economically disadvantaged — especially single mothers — regardless of their race.

Our PoC, LGBTQ , non-Christian, and economically disadvantaged citizens do NOT have this same choice!

According to the New Republic, both college-educated white men and college educated white women voted for Trump by much higher than expected margins. WTF, people? I know, I know. I’ve heard your rationalizations! You’re not racists you just believe [insert ANY reason other than the Trump campaign’s manipulation convinced you that you are fine getting very little, as long as those less deserving than you get NOTHING].

I was not excited about Hillary Clinton running for president. It was too damn easy for you to vote against her, you believe she’s evil.  But in voting against the little evil (i.e. establishment Washington), you elected SATAN! I’m tired of your rationalizations, and it sickens me that so many of my fellow white Americans continue to vote against non-white Americans, because “reasons.” The real reason you voted for Trump is that you believe, maybe subconsciously, maybe not, that because you’re white, you deserve more.

Ponder this, will you? Why do you keep voting for these “pull you up by your bootstraps” politicians? Has your life gotten measurable better? No? Well, that’s on you. According to the guy you just elected president, it’s your fault your life is difficult. Maybe you’re just not pulling up on those bootstraps hard enough. Or maybe it’s time to check your privilege, stop being defensive, and seriously examine why the only people you seem comfortable following are people that look AND think exactly like you.

There is one truth about our political system: only wealth matters to those in power, and only those with wealth have power. So pull your head out of your racist asses and realize that those in the top 1 percent (Trump, is one example) only give a shit about those also in the top 1 percent. Not in the top 1 percent? You’re shit out of luck, just like all those “other” Americans against whom you voted.

For Fuck’s Sake, Your Dog Does NOT Need a Fitbit!

You know how experts say “need to de-stress? Take your dog for a walk. It [insert large and varied list of healthful benefits of dog walking here].” Well, kiss that joy goodbye, because our corporate overlords have manufactured this little device:

It's true! Now you can outfit your dog with doggie's very own Fitbit! Because of course, we need a device that monitors our dogs’ every bowel movement! I imagine the development session went something like this:

The FitBark Product Development Session: “Wait, what’s this?”, Decried our corporate overlords, “there are times when the serfs aren’t rapidly feeding their personal data into our vast machine? Unacceptable!”

And thus, the FitBark was birthed. I get it. I shared my life with three amazing dogs (all passed), and there wasn’t a single thing I wouldn’t have done to ensure their health and happiness. I still miss them a whole bunch. But a FitBark is a ‘bit’ too much, and it doesn’t tell us anything about dogs we don’t already know. Here are a few insights gained from the data collected via the FitBark (per FitBark’s website):

• “Puppies are nearly twice as active as adult dogs. Activity decreases dramatically from puppy to adult age”;

• “Puppies are the most active between age 3-6 months”; and

• “Puppies have the most trouble sleeping at night.”

Seriously? Have you ever had a dog or known anyone who's ever had a dog?? Yes? Then you know! Two of my dogs, Cagney and Bogart, destroyed a couch — yes, a COUCH — among many other things, when they were under a year old. As adults, they were low-key and well-behaved. They didn’t so much as a nibble on a shoe.

• “Vizslas, Spaniels and Terriers require lots of activity.”

So, FitBark, you’re telling me that dogs bred for highly-active tasks (such as hunting or herding) require a bit more activity than dogs typically bred to serve as docile companion animals?
Thanks for that insight. I guess that’s why we never see Pugs performing those high-flying Frisbee tricks on YouTube!

Be honest, don't the millions of pet pictures on the Internet already tell this story???

No doubt, my Border Collie/Australian Shepherd mix Katie needed a significant amount of time and attention. And not just when she was a puppy. Making sure she was mentally AND physically exercised was the only way I could keep her from stealing my phone, wallet and keys and making a break for Mexico. Everything people say about Border Collies is true, you don't want a bored one in your house!

My point is this: there are hundreds of ways to connect with your dog, that don’t require you shipping your data to a corporation. Roll on the floor with your dog; toss a ball around with your dog; rub your dog’s belly; take your dog on car rides (if your dog doesn’t get car sick). Trust your instincts, you’ll know when something is wrong with your dog. You don’t need a machine!

Katie on the Couch. Sure, she looks relaxed, but check out the ears and eyes...she was always ready to go! God, I miss the hell of her. She was my baby.

What the Hell Are You Trying to Say?

For Christmas 2017, I bought my husband, Bubba, a home Pilates reformer machine, and he bought me a block of virtual therapy sessions. Now, before you get all judgy about our 'questionable' gift selections:

Sure, buying his almost-50 year old, premenopausal wife ANY therapy not described using the words “spa” and “treatment” might be Bubba’s not-so-subtle way of saying, “You’re completely fucking crazy. Get help now!” But it isn't, and here's why: I expressly asked for them; I purchased the sessions myself, and —as Spazzie frequently points out— there are times I need a little help (ok, A LOT of excellent, professional-grade help) to work my shit out.

Yes, buying my almost-50 year old husband workout equipment could be me, loudly signaling “Time to get to work, motherfucker; you’re my next ‘home improvement’ project!” Except that a few months ago, Bubba said: “Hey, I want this Pilates machine for Christmas.”  Bubba knows exercise is important to health, vitality, and longevity.

He also appreciates that if he kicks it early — and by “early” I mean one fucking second before I do, this Spazzie Girl will follow him to wherever good, ethical atheists go when they die, and haul his peaceful spirit-ass RIGHT THE FUCK BACK!

So what’s the point of this post? To illustrate that sometimes, a gift is just a gift, and the giver isn't necessarily passively-aggressively saying "you suck"; he's whole-heartedly saying "I love you"! Wait, that sounded so much more impactful in my head. Ugh, now I’ve lost the thought. My short-term memory is for shit these days! Anyhow, Happy Christmas, Ya’ll!

There Are No Half Measures

Continuing the “dark place emotionally” conversation with husband, considering the changes necessary to continue on my path to peace and self-worth (wow, even to me that reads a little twatish. I find therapy-speak so damned irritating! Moving on). In context, my husband says “no fucking way; we’re going to Cortez that bitch!” I immediately cried out “now THAT is a motivational poster!” Once again, I employed my mediocre Photoshop skills to create a truly motivating poster.