Toilet Paper Overwhelms Me

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 19, 2013

I’m beginning to think that I should buy toilet paper in extreme bulk, someplace like Sam’s Club, where they only have five or six varieties. Anytime I have to pick up toilet paper, and have the bad luck to find myself in a grocery store, I immediately begin to lose all decision making skills. I become frantic trying to decide which criteria to use to make a wise choice.

Single roll? Double roll? Two-ply is not up for discussion. That one-ply fooled me once, but never again! Jumbo roll? Tyrannosaurus Rex roll? With aloe? Without? What is this, sushi? Brand name with cute bears, or generic store brand, that looks suspiciously identical? On sale? Buy three, get a free roll of paper towels? I just stand there, shifting my weight from foot to foot, like a kid trying to pick a cookie in a bakery.

And don’t even get me started on paper towels! I have a favorite.They’re nearly indestructible, and you could probably make clothes out of them. But they’re pricey, and the rolls are noticeably smaller than their miserly competition. I nearly always put them back and go cheap, only to regret it when my wimpy paper towels just smear stuff around the countertops.

When I do buy a roll of those 1000 thread count paper towels, I’m like a miser. I set them towards the back of the cabinet under the kitchen sink, hoping nobody but me can find them. Using them is almost a holy experience, they’re so absorbant, it’s like watching water turn into wine. A person really could spend a small fortune at the grocery store shopping just for paper and plastic products. Let’s see, I have trash bags, ziplocks, foil, and plastic wrap, and twenty-seven dollars later, I still don’t have eggs or coffee. What the hell?

John despises plastic wrap, regardless of the brand. He does not speak it’s language at all. Anytime he makes an attempt to use it, there will me the muttering of four letter words, guaranteed. I’ve tried, and failed, to demonstrate my fool-proof method for dispensing it. He’s not having any of it. When plastic wrap requires dispensing in our home, it will fall squarely on my shoulders. Since spider executions are his sworn duty, I will carry on with a smile, wrapping sandwiches and leftovers with a good attitude.

I read somewhere that one thing we can all be thankful for is that spiders can’t fly. If you have a hard time thinking of things to be thankful for, you could just start there! I’m sure there is a bug expert out there somewhere who can find us a flying spider, but I personally intend to remain ignorant of any facts proving it.

Ignorance of certain subjects is very important to my sanity and happiness, and one of my most valuable tips for staying positive! I also keep myself deliberately in the dark about dust mites, bedbugs, and the quickie-cleaning methods of hotel maids. Some things you are just better off not knowing. Anytime these subjects come up, some helpful soul usually tries to enlighten me. That’s when I stop them mid-sentence and say, “Oh, I don’t want to know,” which they usually interpret as, “Please, tell me more!” This is when I am forced to poke my fingers in my ears and begin humming God Bless America.

What do you enjoy knowing nothing about?

Play Ball!

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 18, 2013

The ability to tap into happiness and experience joy are not always whimsical accidents. It’s a practice we can all cultivate. The more people I talk to, the more I realize how misunderstood the concept of being happy is. Many people think it’s an inherent trait that a few lucky people are born with, like straight teeth or great hair.

But people are not born happy! They either receive the tools to be happy or they don’t. Some are born to parents who model happiness, but many are not. Some people find teachers later in life, or books, movies or through music, and learn to copy their behavior.

You may have been born into an extremely unhappy environment, but here is some good news. You can learn a happier way to live! I read a great article by Terri Cole on How Not To Be Your Own Buzzkill, that you may pick up some pointers from.

Imagine a little boy whose dad played baseball in college, who almost went to the big leagues. His mom and dad bring him home from the hospital, and what theme do we see in the nursery? Baseballs! Dad ends up modeling lots of baseball-y stuff for Junior from the get go. Maybe Junior is born with the physical traits that will make him a great athlete, and maybe he isn’t. But one thing we know, Junior is going to learn lots of cool baseball tricks from his Dad, which the little boys across the street likely won’t get from their stockbroker dad.

On the first day of T-ball, Junior may appear to be much more of a “natural” ball player than the stockbroker’s kids for one reason. He had a better teacher at an earlier age.

But guess what? This is T-Ball! This is where beginners begin! We don’t expect the midgets in jerseys to be ready to pitch for the Giants yet! It’s time to learn.

Some of you grew up without a soul to show you how to practice being happy. Some of you were shamed and criticized, or taught to feel superstitious about having good things happen. Hell-bent On Happy is here to be T-Ball for you!

I don’t care if you get distracted in the outfield and pick dandelions, or run the bases backwards, or sit down in the dirt and cry every once in a while, because it’s too hard. It’s T-Ball. We’re here to learn and have fun, to work together towards a common goal, being happy! (If we are really lucky we will get good snacks this week, like Rice-Krispie Treats, instead of those lame celery sticks!)

Don’t be discouraged if it’s harder for you than it seems for other people. Some of us grew up with really great, functional, supportive, healthy examples. Not everyone is that blessed. But here’s a little insight. Even with great examples, mentors and teachers, those “lucky ones” still have to practice the fundamentals, still strike out, still have no-hit streaks, and sore muscles, and occasionally get tossed out of the game for getting pissy with the umpire.

Relax. It’s a game.

We’re all here to help each other to make the game worthwhile. Keep showing up, invite your friends to the ball field, and let’s have some fun.

Play ball!

Know someone who needs to get out on the field? Click “Share,” below and invite them to the game!

My Sunday Five (things I’m thankful for)

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 17, 2013

1. The opportunity to see incredible artists display their work

2. Whimsy, to make me laugh, go check out www.sparkplugguy.com

3. A job that is satisfying

4. Amazing weather

5. A day of rest and relaxation, code for NO PANTS!

What are you thankful for today?

The Magic of Soup

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 16, 2013

Soup is magical. It conjures up all that is good in the Universe. Love, hope, nourishment, comfort and sustenance. It tells us we will be okay and it’s fine to feel five years old once in a while.

Right after Christmas I had a cold. I went to work sick. I sneezed, and my nose ran through my cold meds. I had a very long day, especially since it was December 26^th, I was sick, we had a skeleton crew, the phones rang off the hook, and I was there till 7:30 pm. Did I mention I was also having some lovely cramps? It was a shitty day, not to put too fine a point on it.

When I got home, looking much like I felt, which was not good, all I could think was, “I hab a code.” But wonder of wonders, my Momma had made a pot of tomato-butternut squash soup. It was thick and savory and waiting to be eaten! This is a definite perk of having my Momma living here. She’s an awesome cook. She’d also cleaned up all the debris of Christmas and that too was a mood enhancer after the day I’d had.

I’d hoped to sleep it off and awaken the next day fresh as a daisy, but I was stuffy and puffy, leaking and hoarse and really not suitable for dealing with the public, let alone doing personal services like facials and leg waxes. I made the decision to keep myself home and attempt to be some help to my team via text, but I knew they were neck deep in the trenches and I felt bad for not being there on a very busy day. If I wasn’t worried that I might take them all down with Cholera, I’d have been there.

While I was frantically texting my Front Desk Coordinator, trying to help her with a software meltdown, my Mom asked me if I wanted her to make me some Turkey Vegetable Soup from our leftover Christmas turkey. Answer? “Yes. Yes I do.” Because I may not be able to fix lots of things, but I could accept this bit of solace and allow it to heal me and restore a modicum of peace in the chaos.

Soup makes life better, especially when your mom makes it for you while you’re sick and look like warmed over hell.

Soup is magical because it takes simple, humble ingredients and converts them into comfort and sustaining nourishment. Soup doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. It doesn’t puff itself up and try to compete with Chateau Briand or Crème Brule. It’s just soup, and that’s enough. Soup has healthy self esteem. It doesn’t try to impress you with a lot of fancy dance moves. You toss a few veggies and some liquid in a pot….add whatever you have on hand, and viola! Soup. And whatever was bugging you before bugs you just a tiny bit less. If you still need a little boost, toss in one grilled cheese sandwich, and call me in the morning.

I Married a Man

By Vicki Hughes March 15, 2013

I married a man. It’s true. When John and I married, twenty-seven years ago today, He was twenty-five, I was eighteen. To our families, I am sure we were still kids, (Momma still calls us The Kids,) but we were ready. We had a small wedding in Las Vegas, with immediate family, and my friend from first grade, Cheryl. We said our vows at The Little Chappell of the West, and spent our honeymoon in Carmel, CA. At the risk of sounding sappy and old, it seems like yesterday. It also seems like 100 years.

John had big shoes to fill, to step up to the example my Dad had set. I’m a Daddy’s girl, who spent her childhood chowing down on filets and crab legs, discussing the finer points of gorgonzola and a good smoked Swiss. I grasped the rhythm and the value of a seven course meal from a very young age. I was raised in the golden-age of dark-paneled steak houses, with flaming Cherries Jubilee for dessert. Can I get an Amen?

Daddy taught me countless ways to be cool, so I could just melt into adult settings, without making a fuss. My Dad’s general philosophy in life is, Roll With The Punches. It has served me well. It turns out to be one of the key lessons I was meant to share with John. He’s the intense one, I am the ice in his tea. (Except he’s really more of a wine guy.)

John was the oldest of four, in a house where his dad bought coffee-flavored ice cream to keep the “house apes,” as he referred to the kids, out of it. Gourmet meals were few and far between for him before he met me. I felt it was my duty and responsibility to convert him into a complete foodie, and I am happy to report, mission accomplished!

He turned out to be a fantastic father, the best handler I could have hoped for, for a very strong willed, red-headed baby, we call, The Girl. The Girl turns twenty-four on Monday. Were it not for his intervention on several occasions, I might have fed her to the alligators. I’m glad he stopped me. It turns out, sixteen was not permanent.

We have spent these twenty-seven years working it out, grinning and bearing it, overcoming misunderstandings and hurt feelings. We’ve persevered through over-extended schedules, budgets and patience. We have chosen to huddle together, and take turns telling each other, today is not the day to throw in the towel. Maybe tomorrow, but we can get through today, especially considering what we have on the grill for dinner. If we are going to chuck it all, it won’t be on a night when we are having a great steak, spinach salad and oven roasted veggies with a decent bottle of wine. Hamburger Helper might have been our undoing, but we just never went there. As John says, “We always eat good.”

He has put up with my 1001 projects, and countless new ideas. He took the lead on all bug squashing, and took the reins a few times while I had a meltdown. He took his turn doing the dishes, makes the most awesome BBQ chicken and potato salad you ever wrapped your lips around, and he has provided a great lifestyle for us, even when it meant sweating his ass off, covered in sawdust to do it.

So, I raise a toast to the man in my life, who is certainly not perfect, but is perfect for me. I love you, Babe. Here’s to the next twenty-seven.

The Artist Police

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 14, 2013

Part of being creative is doing something often enough to discover your own voice. Each of us has a voice so distinct, that they’ve invented very expensive equipment to discern it, much as they can read a fingerprint. Just as our vocal chords create a distinctive sound as we speak, our creative efforts also speak in their own voice. We need make no apology for that tone. It is what it is. Some have BIG BOLD voices, and others express themselves in the miniscule. Primary colors, or muted earth tones, everyone has their way.

It never surprises me to see how many painters there are in the world, or clothing designers, or movie directors. I know there’s such a wide variety of personal tastes out there to create a market or audience for nearly every style of those art-forms.

But until a short while ago, it hadn’t occurred to me how that is also true of writing, and books. I was at a local coffee shop, enjoying a latte, and my eyes ran over all the books on those shelves. Each of those books has it’s own particular readership. It dawned on me that I don’t have to write things that appeal to everyone! Lightbulb!

I have a particular style of writing that is a perfect fit for a certain style of reader, but it’s not for everyone. Even Harry Potter isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Painters like Picasso, Erik Wahl and Grandma Moses all appeal to a different group of art lovers. We should create what we like, what we want to share, and let the audience develop naturally.

There is a tribe for each of us, and our art-form (from painting, cooking, writing, gardening, needlepoint, building rat-rods or raising great kids.) Our creative efforts send out a vibration that resonates with the people who “get it.” We know because they nod their heads in agreement, saying, “Yes! Yes! That’s how I feel too!” That in turn, gives us greater confidence to continue, to try again, to face another blank canvas or a blank page, to risk it all again.

In my mind, people who put their own personal stamp on anything, can elevate it to an art-form. To be artistic is to go ahead and risk the exposure, to sign your name to your efforts, and own them. Artists constantly face their fear of doing it wrong, or imperfectly, or that they’ll be exposed as a total fraud. To some of us it is the greatest audacity to say, “I am a painter,” or “I am a writer,” or heaven forbid, “I am a fun, creative, loving mother.” We cringe back as if the Artist Police might pop out of the bushes, demanding, “Prove it!” Here’s a little secret. There are no Artist Police. That’s not to say there are no critics, because they exist everywhere, in every realm. But nobody is authorized to say who is an artist and who is not. You can’t afford to ignore your gifts for fear of a few critics. If some people can’t criticize your art, they will criticize your teeth or your car or your taste in Mexican restaurants. Trying to please those people will leave you curled up in the fetal position talking to the cat.

Move on, and do your thing, regardless. Let the critics criticize, because that’s what they do. We can’t change that. If you waste a bunch of time worrying about who is going to dislike your efforts, you’ll never get anything done. Speak in your own voice, whatever you do, and let your people show up, smiling and thrilled that you are their people too.

I remember being so inspired when I first discovered that Susan Branch didn’t even know she could draw until she was in her thirties! Here I was, looking at her books, in awe of her talent, as if she’d come out of the womb with those skills. But that’s not her story. She went through a sad divorce, and one day in the gloom of that reality, she picked up a pencil and drew something, and changed her life.

Sometimes we are very good at things we’ve never done before. That’s a great reason to try things as soon as possible, when the idea strikes. There’s really no way to know what we might excel at until we do a few things. This doesn’t apply to solely to crafty, traditionally artistic endeavors. Professional and personal efforts can reveal talents that we had no idea we possessed!

Sometimes we need to get unstuck by changing venues. Volunteer a half a day to work with a group of people you’d love to work with. Be teachable and helpful. You may have always worked in an office, but you’d love to work in a bakery, or you may have gotten bogged down in retail, but have a talent for working in the medical field. Sometimes it’s hard to picture ourselves in a completely different realm. The familiar can create it’s own orbit that seems to keep us circling the same old, same old.

Try something new, and branch out a little. Dip your toe into the water and see what you think. You don’t have to risk it all or go for broke. You are allowed to walk away if it’s not your bag. Maybe you will get so excited and inspired that you’ll completely change paths, or maybe you will discover something else you’re good at, which will give you some much needed momentum.

What would you like to try?

Salsa dancing
Snorkeling
Painting
Paper making
Graphic design
Pet grooming
Hair cutting
Stand-up comedy
DJ-ing
Gardening
Calligraphy
Poetry
Quilting
Book selling
Animal rescue
Weaving
Genealogy

Some fabulous full-time careers have been born out of a person discovering a talent they had previously left untapped. You’ll never know how good you might be at something until you try. You probably won’t be great when you first start, but if it’s something you truly enjoy, find a way to start a tiny habit so you can do it again, and again, and again. Repetition will help you gain new ideas and skills. Leo Babauta of www.zenhabits.net suggests starting the habit of flossing your teeth (which many people never seem to get around to) by just deciding to commit to flossing one tooth a day until the habit is established. It sounds like such a ridiculously small effort, it almost demands that we do it. Who can’t find time to floss one tooth?? How many habits do we fail to establish because we try to start too big, and bite off more than we can chew? You could draw one doodle a day, or sing one song, or be consistent with the kids on one thing, every day. Start small, and build from there, once you get the habit rolling.

When I bought some craft wire at Hobby Lobby and decided to try to make a pendant out of pieces of sea glass I’d collected at the bay, I wasn’t overly thrilled with my first attempts. I had no teacher, no books, just some raw materials and a couple YouTube videos, with the thought that it could be fun.

After several attempts, I discovered a few tricks, and then I accidentally made a couple pieces that I really liked. I couldn’t have duplicated them if you’d held me at knife-point. Slowly, I made a few more, and a few more, and the more I did, the more I learned, and the more I learned, the better my efforts got, and the better they got, the more I wanted to try. Now I have people who are special ordering jewelry from me!

Have you ever noticed how Mickey Mouse and Garfield today, look nothing like they did when they were first drawn? Why is that? The artist developed new skills, and developed new ideas about what they wanted to do with those skills. As we grow, so does our skill-set and the result we can achieve. As Anne Lamott says in Bird by Bird, it’s okay to have shitty first drafts. Everyone starts somewhere.

If you were going to give something a whirl, what would it be?

How I Get So Much Done: Six Tips You Can Use This Week!

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 13, 2013

People sometimes wonder how I get it all done. I work a full time job, I cook (mostly) healthy dinners, I make sea glass jewelry, I adjust my undies, I walk by the bay and snap pictures, I administer several Facebook pages, and as you may have noticed, I blog.

The key to getting it all done is ignoring things. Some people might call it lazy, I call it priorities! Here are a few of the most obvious things I must ignore in order to get some stuff done.

Baseboards: That’s right. I can’t get bogged down dusting them or wiping them with a fuzzy yellow cloth.They got nailed to the wall in order to create a framework for my collection of dust bunnies and floating islands of doghair.The baseboards are on their own.

Keeping My E-mail In-Box Clear: Seriously? I have no idea who has time like this to spare. I’ve apparently done entirely too much online shopping, because I get a bazillion e-mails from places I can’t even remember shopping with. I see them in my In-box so much, they feel like long term relationships. Please don’t suggest that I unsubscribe. I HAVE! They just keep ‘em coming. If you want me to actually read an important email, your subject line better have FREE MARTINIS in it.

Washing My Car: We don’t have a garage, but what we do have, is a very busy oak tree over the driveway. I also work about two minutes from the house, and there are no car-washes in between. I can go a week on twenty dollars in gas! To say I don’t give my car a lot of my attention would be a fair statement. I should get a golf cart.

Putting Things Away: Attending to this activity would deprive me of much needed time to do all the many things I am accomplishing. I let things form into little piles that become communities of crap and then, when I get caught up (generally once per fiscal quarter,) I spend an afternoon rummaging through them, feeling nostalgic, “There you are! I’ve missed you!”

Cleaning The Refrigerator: In my case, this is a huge time saver. This is not even an issue anymore because my Momma has it covered since she moved in. She keeps the fridge totally organized and finds a way to keep all the very important things close at hand so I don’t cry: martini olives, canned whipped cream, string cheese. Before she moved in, our fridge was a Twilight Zone episode.

When Chelsey was fifteen, I was cooking mac and cheese from scratch. As teenagers do, she went to the fridge to scope out a snack. I heard her suck in her breath through her teeth. She was hunched over, peering into the deepest recesses of the bottom shelf. “Is that the cookie dough from sixth grade?” she asked, nostrils flared. I wasn’t sure if she was deeply disturbed or about to get a spoon.

I glanced over my shoulder at her and said, “Maybe……”

Priorities, people! Do you want me to excavate the fridge or make you some Garlic Aioli bread?! I’m not a machine! I need to sleep sometime!

Getting all the laundry done: I know many of you dabble in this time saving practice. I am a complete seat-of-my-pants laundry person. I have no set day, and I can’t even fathom having underwear with the days of the week on them. If my underwear had captions stitched on them, they would say:

Too small
Elastic shot
Why did I buy these??
Oh, hell no!
Let’s hope I don’t have an accident
Scratchy
Sends the wrong message, I’m tired

Much like my earlier tip on ignoring fridge cleaning, the ignoring of laundry can yield some great historical artifacts.

When we moved to a new house in 1999, I found one of Chelsey’s baby socks at the bottom of my hamper. She was ten years old, and had size-eight Nike’s, crusted with mud, sitting on our front porch. Her baby sock days were behind us. I sat in my bedroom and got a little teary-eyed over that mildewed sock, a smelly little time capsule to remind me of her babyhood.

There! My secret is out. Now you have six, practical ways to carve out more time each week! If you really want to be productive…learn what to ignore. Who knows what you will get accomplished!

Undie Adjustment

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 12, 2013

To say that my husband has a thing for my butt would be like saying mice have a thing for cheese or moth’s for flames, or fat kids for cake. He simply cannot help himself. In nearly every photo or video he has produced in the twenty-eight years we’ve been together, you may rest assured my hind quarters will be included at some point.

Now that he has an iPhone I’ve grown increasingly paranoid. It’s just too easy to snap a candid photo. My only saving grace is that he is still very muddy about this fad they call the Internet and that wacky Facebook. If he ever gets a clue, I will need an app called “Remove My Ass” to put on his phone (he’d never know!)

I bring all this up to discuss one of my quirks, which is Undie Adjustment. When I get into bed at night, I like to sleep in either a light t-shirt or a nightie and my undies. He’s a commando guy. For the last twenty-eight years he has attempted to persuade me to do likewise, usually with a thinly veiled concern for my comfort, “You’d be so much cooler!” Uh huh.

I assure him, I am comfortable. The reason I’m comfortable is, I like my undies adjusted “just so,” where the elastic in the back is assigned a very particular spot in the hemisphere of my butt and I want them no higher and no lower. Like I said, it’s a quirk. So after I crawl in bed and wiggle around to appreciate the softness of the sheets and the fact that I have survived the day and been rewarded yet again with getting horizontal, I adjust my undies. I get them “just so” and for that moment in time, all is right with my world.

Which brings us back to mice and cheese and moths to flames. My husband and my ass. He is compelled to grope and examine it as soon as he gets in bed, and as you may have already guessed, this completely ruins my Undie Adjustment. The calibration becomes all caddy wompus and I lay there feeling like a jigsaw puzzle with three missing pieces. To his credit, he often tries to re-adjust them for me. But let’s face facts. Nobody else can adjust your undies for you. That might be the worst part of having no arms; never really getting your undies to your liking.

So we do the Undie Adjustment Dance almost nightly. I used to get mad. I’d say, “WHY do you have to DO that!?” Why indeed. Have you ever met a mouse? A moth perhaps? Mice have an uncontrollable urge for cheese, even when it is perched upon a steel trap. Moths beat themselves silly against hot lightbulbs and singe their wings in candle flames. It’s what they do. There’s really no point in getting mad about it.

I’ve learned to adapt. I let him have his nightly fun re-arranging my undies and then when the festivities are over I put everything back where it belongs. That’s how love works. I happen to know there are parts of his world that I have, on rare occasions, disrupted. Of course I only do it because it makes perfect sense to me.

I have a thing for putting his water glasses in the dishwasher. He drinks a lot of water. I find his glasses all over, and I assume (wrongly) that he is done with them. I put them in the dishwasher, where they belong, and then he gets parched searching for the glass he was sipping from only moments before I “hid” it in the dishwasher. This is somehow annoying to him, in spite of how obviously helpful it is.

We torment each other in these amazingly predictable and odd ways, and it’s somehow become the weird glue that’s made us stick. Occasionally one of us has a bad day and freaks out over the undies or the water glasses in life, demanding that the other one reform immediately. But then we laugh at the same jokes, recite the same lines from a favorite movie, or roll our eyes in ecstasy over really good blue cheese, and we decide to cut each other the tiniest bit of slack. The fact is, we aren’t going to change each other. Of course it doesn’t stop us from launching a try now and then, but really, twenty eight years is long enough to conclude that a track record has been established . You shrug, you kiss, you move on.

Why I’m Hell-Bent On Happy

Circle The Wagons!

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 11, 2013

hell-bent [hel-bent] adjective

Stubbornly or recklessly determined
Determined to do or achieve something

hap·py [hapē] adjective

Feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.
Having a sense of confidence in or satisfaction with (a person, arrangement, or situation)

Hell-bent and happy don’t usually hang out in the same sentence together. When I began to formulate the concept for Hell-bent On Happy, it came out of the recognition of a need. This phrase for me, captures the image of a dog with a meaty bone, determined to hang onto it.

We have to be committed to our happiness enough to learn how to power through the many and sundry obstacles, that I like to think of as the Asshats.

Asshats are simply circumstances and individuals, alone or in groups, who are counter-productive to experiencing joy, and the opposite of happiness. Perhaps you married one once. It happens. There are accidental Asshats, those who unknowingly participate in Asshat behavior, and sadly, I’ve been one of these on several occasions. But there is also a deeply devoted group of professionals. Professional Asshats who are not content to stay in their own company, and quietly carry on amongst themselves. They are zealous, and they recruit with fervor. They don’t think, “I’d like to be miserable, but it’s cool if you want to be happy.”

Misery doesn’t just like company, it likes crowds. It wants a huge mosh pit of cranky bastards to join into the fray. Us happy folk, we do like to hang around other happy people, but we need a bit of encouragement to get serious about it. Being happy and maintaining a sense of joy requires us to choose what we think and focus on. It calls into question three things:

How do we spend our time?
Who do we spend our time with?
How long do we spend time with them?

Happy people need the same hell-bent attitude towards their own happiness and well being that the Asshats seem to have for being and making others miserable. Both attitudes are contagious. I believe it’s a mistake to take our own happiness too casually, “Maybe I’ll work on it, maybe I won’t,” is not a philosophy for success. One of my mentors in life, Jim Rohn, said it so well. “Casualness leads to casualties.”

Being Hell-Bent On Happy gives me courage to speak up for myself and others who want to live a happy life. It reminds me that the Asshats don’t have all the power, or the right to spew their crap without a rebuttal. It gives me the bravery I need to call out the people who are militantly being a pain in the ass, or giving us all a twitch, and say, “We’re on a mission to be happy over here, and I think you’d fit better elsewhere!”

Whew! That made me nervous, just writing it! But it felt GOOD!

I had a similar experience at a business conference a few months ago. The conference was packed full of some of the best speakers I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard some of the great ones. One of the speakers was Marianne Williamson. This was a great opportunity, and I was really excited to hear her talk. Part of her excellent talk included the idea of approaching other people with the idea, “The love in me salutes the love in you.” I was jotting notes, and getting a lot out of it.

Unfortunately, just as she was getting into the meat of her presentation, the group of people immediately to my left and in front of me seemed to lose interest, and begin chatting amongst themselves, discussing where they would like to go for lunch at the break, and where they might go for dinner and lots of other Asshat behavior.

At first I simply found it irritating, and attempted to ignore it. But it soon became clear they were not about to shut up, and just yackity-yackity-yack about their own personal stuff. I lost my ability to strain forward to stay focused on the speaker.

By nature, I am not a confrontational person, and I don’t like confronting Asshats. They scare me a little. My nickname among my immediate family is The Nice Lady, because I’m usually so diplomatic! But my stress was going up, and the silent death threats I was sending these people were not getting through to them at all. Thankfully, some of the earlier speakers had driven home the importance of bravery, which I had taken to heart, and put on my own list of things to work on.

With a fearless glint in my eye, I scrawled in my notebook, “The talker in me salutes the talker in you, but kindly shut the fuck up.” I seriously considered handing it to the Asshat on my left. I looked down at it and I realized I was so pissed off, it was nearly illegible, and there was already enough talking going on, I didn’t want to have to explain!

So I leaned over, made intense eye contact with the Lead Asshat and said in a stage whisper, “I can’t hear the speaker because YOU are talking!” She got a funny, pinched look on her face, but lo and behold, she and all her Asshat friends shut the fuck up! I could feel the quiet people all around me doing a little victory fist-pump for all the folks in our section who were spending time and money to actually hear the speakers.

Sometimes to defend happiness, joy and other valuable virtues, you have to step out of your “nice” comfort zone. In my case, being Hell-Bent On Happy means developing a tolerance for a little more confrontation when necessary, to defend my happiness. A joyful life cannot flourish and grow in a toxic environment. I’m the person in charge of creating and managing my own environment. I’m a big girl now.

Hell-Bent On Happy People have to be okay with not being everyone’s cup of tea 24/7. You can’t be happy hanging around a band of Asshats. Either happiness is important enough to give some of our time and attention to, or it’s not. Hell-Bent On Happy People are stubbornly determined to be happy, experiment with bravery, join forces with other Hell-Bent On Happy people and to learn how to defend it when neccessary. Circle the wagons! The Asshats are coming!

Pants Are a Scourge

“Clearly, I’ m Not In Charge.”

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 10, 2013

Pants. They drastically increase a person’s responsibility in life. I’m considering starting a revolution of people who are all very tired of being responsible, who, rather than flip out, just stop wearing pants. In the 60’s, women liberated themselves from social expectations by burning their bras. Maybe we could begin with a nice bonfire of pants.

It begins at a frighteningly young age. We start out wearing Onesies, where our chubby, Michelin- Man thighs can be squeezed at will, or in those soft, fleecy sleeping bags with arms and bunnies embroidered on the lapel…but somewhere around age two, someone puts you in pants, and as soon as that happens, suddenly here come the expectations. Now they want you to use the potty and stop spitting out your strained peas and for Pete’s sake, they insist that you share things. Back before those stupid pants, this was never an issue.

Pants are complicated. The question, “Who wears the pants in this family?” is still code for, “Who’s in charge?” seventy years after women quit wearing skirts every day.

Did you know that if you are wearing an attractive skirt, people will actually do things for you that they would not do if you were wearing jeans or slacks? That’s right. Stand next to a car with a flat tire in a skirt and see. Men, you are excused from this experiment. Seriously, people will hold more doors, pick up fallen change, carry more of your parcels and basically act like better human beings when you shun pants.

Pants are a scourge.

Pants are anathema to all true relaxation. They don’t belong at the beach, in a massage or any place tropical where you might sip a margarita. Pants equal full adult responsibility. Put on your pants and you are sending Life a text that says, “Bring it on, I’m ready.” Other than Scottsmen, who are in several weird categories all by themselves, such as being completely unintelligible, people don’t charge into battle without their pants on.

Pants baffle me further. Why is it called a pair of pants. It’s one article of clothing. It’s pants, not a pair. A pair is two. Pants refuse to comply with the laws of mathematics, they are so bossy.

Bossy Pants. Nobody ever uses the phrase bossy shorts or bossy skirts or bossy boxer shorts do they? Why? Because you can’t really pull off bossy behavior without your pants on. I mean, you’re welcome to try putting on your short-shorts and then address the Board of Directors if you’re feeling brave, but don’t blame me if the acquisition goes poorly. I warned you. We only want to be bossed around by people in pants. Bossing people around in skirts pretty much went out with Margaret Thatcher. After that, pants won.

Should life ever become all too much, and should you need to send a smoke signal out that says that you are no longer the person in charge, and all complaints need to be directed elsewhere…just take off your pants.

I guarantee, if the pilot of an airplane came out of the cockpit without his pants on, somebody else would be asked to land the plane. Someone in pants. Taking them off is a very clear signal that says, “I’m not in charge right now.”

Are your teenagers bugging the hell out of you, clamoring for you to arrange this and arrange that, take them here and pay for that? Off with the pants, watch them scatter!

The big difference between doctors and patients in hospitals? Pants. The ones still in pants are in charge and the ones in sketchy gowns are not. It’s all perfectly clear. As soon as they hand you the gown, you know immediately, there’s been a power shift. That’s why dentists and chiropractors will never get the same respect as an M.D. They can’t get you to take your pants off. At the end of a long week, I consider it the height of relaxation to remove my Bossy Pants and put on shorts or a swim suit or even a cotton sundress to simply send the world a signal that says, “Today I will not be making any further Big Decisions. Direct all inquiries elsewhere.

Talk to the Pants.

Hellbent On Happy

Staying Positive and grateful in an imperfect world laced with random asshats