Why you should move your kid to an island

When we decided to sell everything and move our two-year-old to the middle of the ocean, we essentially had no idea what we were getting into.

We knew a few things . ..  

We knew if we waited any longer, we’d be stuck in a school system and probably would never leave. Once these kids get into a school it’s sacrilegious to move them if you can at all avoid it. Although, I really don’t think that should be that big of a deal. Learning to make new friends shouldn’t be something we wait until college for.

We also knew that we loved the ocean. Who doesn’t? And the beach. Who doesn't?

We knew we hated the winter. Who doesn’t? Okay, so there are some of you out there, weirdos.

We knew we didn’t exactly “fit in” in suburbia. Okay, we stuck out. I learned at Gymboree class that not only did not give a shit if my kid was doing what your kid was, I really wasn’t interested in your excuses for why your kid wasn’t doing what you thought your kid should be doing. Shut the fuck up.

I also was 100% sure I couldn’t pull off the “Jon and Kate plus 8 hairdo”.  

So we did it. We moved to a rock in the middle of the ocean “for a year”, three and a half years ago.

That two year old is getting ready to start school on said rock in the middle of said ocean.

So I thought I’d write a little note to parents all over the world who dream of a different type childhood for their little ones, one that doesn’t include comparisons, egos, xanax, or requirements of matching bows with every outfit.

You know, the kind of life that you have a wine spritzer because you want to, not because you have to, Mrs. Robinson.

My kid’s hair looks like shit all the time. She gives new meaning to “beach hair don’t care”, she may even be crossing over to “Beach hair, give NO FUCKS”. Even when she lets me brush it, it looks like crap. In fact, 90% of the kids I know give no fucks about how their hair looks. Occasionally, one will get in a mood, and dial up their hair, it lasts minutes and is usually forgotten in a matter of seconds from the time they start playing. It's stringy, sun bleached, and salty.

No mother I know cares what their kid’s hair looks like. NONE. If it is remotely clean and out of their eyes so that they can climb and not kill themselves, GODSPEED.

My darling has her own “style”.  For a while, it was a mix between the lips of a Palmer Girl and a Street Urchin, but these days it has morphed into a mix between Blanche Devereaux of the Golden Girls and a cowgirl. Neither of which work on the beach, but no one cares. She has her jewels, her makeup, and her red boots, and all parents are supportive, and by supportive, we all laugh behind her back.

Also in our group, we have a child who prefers to be called a Dolphin, one who refuses to wear underwear, and one who is oddly drawn to the 80’s. Many other idiosyncrasies, but they're all “unique” and allowed to be so.

I’d like to announce that she recently decided to start wearing tops with her bathing suit. Not that I or anyone on this island cares. Tourists care. That’s weird. Isn't it weird that we live in a world (or at least most people do), which sexualizes kids to the point that they have to wear an uncomfortable bikini top? Why do any of us? Fucking conservatives.

My little mermaid also CAN NOT sit down at a table without taking off her shoes. It is seriously like she is unable to do it. She is also almost incapable of wearing socks (the boots are helping), and I’ve been gearing up for months for her to be able to STAND to wear closed toed shoes.

These kids here can hardly stand wearing any clothing at all beyond, shorts, tees, loose dresses, and bathing suits (maybe). Comfort is key. Looks mean nothing. And most important, ain’t no mother judging what your little vagabond shows up in.

Because we don’t give one fuck. Not, even, one.

“Did you bring the Sangria? Great.”

“You okay?”

“When is your Momma getting in?”

“You need my help?”

Those are the sort of fucks we give.

It’s literally a “group textable event” when your kid takes her first strides in the pool by herself because we all can stop worrying a little bit about THAT ONE. Because we are surrounded by water. THAT is what we care about.

No, seriously, we don’t talk constantly about what little Billy has been doing academically. There is no “milestone talk” at all. If we talk about them at all, it’s about how weird they are, and how funny they are, and how we think we might be royally fucking them up.

“I seriously think she is hiding her reading from me” Actual words from me.

“Oh fuck that” actual words from another mom.

Oh, and we don’t “socialize our babies”. We get together so we don’t kill them or more likely, ourselves. They seem to socialize themselves.

There is something about water that makes socializing a lifestyle, not a verb. Oh, and they know how to act around water, and on boats, and they aren’t constantly trying to drown themselves.

We also don't over schedule our little Sallys. I'm not really sure why anyone does this to themselves, but it just doesn't happen here. We would never sign our kids up for 3 weekly activities, never.

First, it sucks. Second, it sucks. And third, Fuck that. Because our lives matter too. Maybe here it's just easier to blow off what we don't want to do because no one cares, or we are naturally more relaxed, or we are just more likely to say “Fuck that”, just like we did when we moved out of the states to begin with. But there is something to showing by example that we matter too?

MOMS LIVES MATTER.

I do not want my little sparkler growing up, only to throw her entire life into her kids. I'm not building this identity for it to be lost completely for anyone or anything. I matter, she matters, we all matter.

The days of “martyr mothering” are fucking over.

Over-scheduling as an entire concept is denied here. We show up for a beach day, bring goggles and a few other things, maybe, and they figure out their fun. It usually ends up being something neighboring dangerous, and they usually end up handling it, all while we lounge around cocktailing, eating, laughing, you know? What people do with their friends.

P.S. You never ever see a parent hanging out with a parent they don’t like. Life is too short for that, and I’m sorry, but fuck that.

Then there is the weather, it's always nice, it's always the same, until it's not, but usually we are able to be outside, there is rarely a day that my little mermaid is not in some body of water. There is something there, happiness? Just add water.

I like to rinse the attitude off, oh, and it works for big kids too (like mom sized kids).

Let's not forget, we outwardly drink,  there is no Mrs. Robinson, COO COO CA CHOO shit here. There is no “daytime wine spritzers” or adult sippy cups to keep from the kids. “That's Mommy’s beer”. No hiding. No shame. Just real.

We all drink. Shit, half the moms I know take a few courtesy puffs to take the edge off of parenting most mornings. (stop acting like this shit isn’t hard)

So one of my BEST parenting decisions I ever made was to move to this rock. Raise my sparkler here during the time that she is influenced the most by the people she is surrounded by. She is real, comfortable with herself, and is loved and accepted by our island family.

So if you are questioning moving here with your baby, here is what I say to you -  this is the absolute best childhood I could dream of giving our child. If you are questioning the “American Dream” at all, you can escape the rat race here. If you are longing for real moms, void of comparisons, and competition, I found that here.  There is a simplicity and beauty to letting them be.

Now for school. Deep breath in.

Come for the Beaches, Stay for the People

So many of “Island Life” writings and ramblings are about the weird stuff that happens on an island, but as I was reminded today by my dear friend, well, basically “chosen family”, Kathryn, that isn’t really what “island life” is about.

No, island life is not about the weird bugs, or the odd smells, or the occasional high heel rotting off as you walk down the street, it really is about the people.

Don’t get me wrong, the crystal clear waters, white sand beaches, endless boating days, and food is all amazing, but the true beauty of the island lies in the people that live here.

There are all types of beauty in the people here. All types of “island family”.

Whether it is someone stopping to give you a helping hand, a ride, or just the time to talk, we are a family. My friend Jess, who has been here twenty years or so told me that when Marilyn hit (a devastating hurricane) people would just take off in the morning and go see how they could be of help TO ANYONE.

Because no matter what is going on in the world, we are all on this rock together, and when the shit hits the fan, no matter how big or small, we are in this together. I wish the whole world could adopt this.

It’s not just the hurricanes though. We raise our babies together. We celebrate our lives together. We cry together.

There is a greeter at Cost-u-less, she is literally the sweetest woman on earth. I remember a day clearly that I was having a horrible day. My mom was having a rough time back in Illinois, and I couldn’t get to her, that’s one of the downfalls of not living in the states, you can’t just pick from a smorgasbord of flights and hop on one. I had one booked for a few days later. I was sad.

She recognized this immediately. We have always exchanged loving greetings and I have grown over the years to look forward to her face when I do my mega shopping for the company that is coming, always telling her who is coming and how excited I am. But, she knew my spirit was low. She asked me how I was, and my response was unenergetic. She asked me “What’s going on baby?” and I started to cry.

Her arms reached out, I fell into them. She held me while I cried for a moment. She let me go, held my pain without judgment, because that is what we do here. That is why we stay here. Because, no matter what it is, we are here together.

Whether it is keeping an eye on someone’s kid, tying their shoes because mom is not right there, or carrying some of the load, because we see a fellow islander hauling a load of crap, we are here together.

I have literally had an islander tell me to get out of my car so that he could park it for me, just because he saw that I was struggling. Hell, my friend gave a stranger her car because they needed to run home and get their spare set of keys for their own car… But guess what? They aren’t strangers anymore!

Then there is the fact that we don’t have our natural families here, most people don’t, unless you were born and raised here, you are not surrounded by your relatives. But, a different family grows, your “island family”. These are the people that you spend your long weekends with, your holidays with, and your days off with. These are the birthday parties, the impromptu Fat Tuesdays, and other random excuses to hang out.

These are the people that you plan your emergencies with, eat your wine-soaked dinners with, and let your real sense of humor out with.

These are the people you plan Easter Egg Hunts, Tea Parties, and these are the people that you formulate your traditions with. “Island Traditions”.  

These are the people you call when your lose your shit. These are the people you trust with your babies, the people you trust with your story, and the people that you have chosen to spend this amazing life with.

There are assholes everywhere, they are much fewer a farther between here, or they would be blackballed. I’m not going to say that I LOVE everyone I meet, I’ve even found people that I don’t care for at all, but as a whole, the people here are the real beauty.

Come for the beaches, stay for the people.

How to Live Happily on an Island

“The fact that you find all this funny might just save your life”

-Carrie Fisher, to her daughter about their fucked up family.

Living on an island is like that. If you don’t find life’s idiosyncrasies funny,  you will want to die here.

I drank a cockroach, people. And when I spit him out? (obviously, a he) He was still alive. He actually took off running. He thought, “Oh, wrong turn”. HELL NO, you’ve got to die.

Right now? There is someone dead in our spare room. I CANNOT find him. We’ve torn apart the room, stem to stern, and cannot find the death. It’s either a lizard, a rat (please god, no), or a bird? Possibly?

You think? Oh my Jesus, what? But this shit happens every day.

I can answer why the chicken crosses the road, because they cross the road every day in front of my car, and here is your answer. The chicken crosses the road because she is stupid. There, I solved it.

I wore my flip flops around my house for months out of fear of bugs when I first moved here, luckily I got in GOOD with my exterminator, Elvis, and started to get used to the idea that these little fuckers are here because it’s a great place for everyone to live.

Whether it is spiders, roaches, scorpions (quit being a bitch, they aren’t the deadly ones - here's the story to prove it), lizards, chickens, no-see-ums, or mosquitos, the “wildlife” here plays a part. A very funny part, but if you don’t find these little annoyances funny? You’ll drive yourself MAD itching, and freaking, and eventually standing in the middle of the room naked so nothing will crawl on you.  

Now? I can find it funny that my car, now named “The White Roach” had to be exterminated because it was the home of a roach colony. (I do believe that they were doing a whole “Heavens Gate” thing, and got what they were destined for)

Speaking of cars, the car situation is a whole other hilarious subject. The term “Island Car” is used here a lot. Basically what it is is a way to describe your car after about 9 months of being here.

Your car will stink.

Because we have this magical life of going to the beach every weekend, we have magical wet sand in the back of our car, coupled with wet gear, snorkels, goggles, life jackets, mermaid tails, you name it, it is wet, and in the back of your car, dripping.

Musty much?

You’re also toting a cold beer to and fro, which on these mountainous curvy roads, filled with potholes, the occasional cow, chicken, or iguana, and possibly a suicidal tourist (seriously, stop stepping into the road for no reason), it spills, a lot. “Beer in the hot closed car” is not a candle Yankee will be making anytime soon.

You would never leave your windows open to dry it out: Hence “The White Roach”.

Your car will also get banged up. I do not care what kind of driver you think you are, your car will not weather this place unscathed. Even if you are the absolute best driver in the world, everyone else isn’t. The roads are narrow. There are curves, potholes, distractions, and don’t forget about the suicidal tourists. The view alone could cause you to lose a mirror or two.

I’ve lost 2 mirrors. Two license plates. The undercarriage. And rammed a few people's cars (now my dear friends). You make friends your way, I’ll make friends, mine.

I could write for years on the beauty of this place, and have, and will. But that isn’t all that is here. There is a lot of funny shit here. A lot of things that people don’t see when you step off the plane and taxi to the Marriott.

The real stuff.

The stuff that if you had the guts to live “the dream”, sell it all, and move to an island, this is what you’d have to find the beauty in, at least as well. Because, if you cannot find this stuff funny, in the middle of paradise, you will be miserable.

But you can be miserable anywhere, right? You can be angry, and resentful, and disgusted no matter where you are. You can hate your circumstances, hate your surroundings, hate the people who are making you the way you are.  

Or you can find the beauty, the funny, and the connectedness of the mundane, the weird, and the not-so-optimal.

I believe that is the difference between a happy life and a wasted life. I’ve been lucky enough to know a lot of happy people, sure, they partner their happiness with gratitude, but the one thing I would say stands out the most, is that they find “FUNNY” where they otherwise could find “the hell”.

Cheers to finding the funny. Please don’t let there be a cockroach in my cocktail!

How to be Forty and Not Annoying

Tequila, LOTS of tequila. Beer, wine, and the occasional rum and coconut water

(seriously . . . Rehydration plus dehydration = pure genius)

Sure, booze helps. But who you drink with is key, as well as a few other ingredients.

Step ONE: Surround yourself with the right type of women.

We really ARE who we hang out with, as if we needed mom to be right about one more thing, right?

This one is really important. We, as women, really are affected by the people we put in our “crew” or “tribe”. If we surround ourselves with bitches that compare themselves to us, we surround ourselves with scarcity, and scarcity is a cancer. Women who support us, encourage us, and respect us, build our fabulous.

I’ve always said, if you are comparing yourself to me, you’ve already lost.  The same applies if I compare myself to you.

Basically, I surround myself to the women that I most want to be like, as if everything they are will rub off on me.  My bitches? They are me. I celebrate their success as if it is my own. We fucking rock.  

You can spot the ones who are nasty (or, not “ready for friendship”) with no problem. They’re the ones who compare themselves to everyone, especially you. Instead of “I love your….” it’s “If I had your….”. It’s not “you” or “I” with a secure friend, it is “we”.

We give healthy compliments to each other too. Like, “YOU ARE A FUCKING SUPERHERO”, not like, “I hate you, because you’re skinny”... “You look so happy” yes. “Why do you have to be so beautiful” no.

Run, if they’re competing.

Step TWO: Celebrate EVERYTHING.

We are only here so long, and frankly 400 years isn’t enough time for me, (I’m still looking for my vampire). So while I am here, I plan to make a big deal over everything.

EVERY. GOD. DAMNED. THING.

My birth is basically a national holiday in my mind. Every calendar holiday, yeehaw. Every random good fortune, pop the cork. Every other person’s random good fortune, CHEERS. If I'm invited, I'm making it matter.  

One day these things will be over. 

One day I will take my last breath.  And you can bet your ass that no one left here to celebrate my life will be left without a million stories, crazy ass things, stupid things, and hilariousness to speak as they hold up the cocktails I provided.

My funeral will be much like a wedding, without the boring vows part. Chicken dance and all.

“Remember the time Lizzy disappeared under the car?” yeah, a lot of that.

Of course, there will be swag bags, condoms included, mourning makes people horny. I don’t need a bunch of Lizzys running around.

But, until then, I will be celebrating and making these stories happen.

Step THREE: Eat Butter . . . Often.

Actually, the most fabulous forty year old’s that I know love food. They love eating it, making it, and love enjoying it with friends. I mean, you have to eat or you will die, why not enjoy it?

They enjoy everything that they do. Sleeping, eating, and going to the bathroom. And only ONE of those is appreciated alone.

I’ll really never understand not eating what you love, or not doing anything that you love, really. Sure, you can't eat a box of bagel bites for breakfast and still make it up the stairs, well, unless you're five, but have a box every now and again if that is what you take pleasure in.

Come on, stop taking life and yourself that seriously, take care, don't be an asshole to your body, but get together with the people that you love and break bread…. and then put butter on it.

Can we stop acting like denying ourselves of everything we love is living? Please?

Step FOUR: Laugh

Some of the happiest women I know find the funny in the mundane. If you can find the humor in wiping the ass of another human being, you can find funny anywhere.

Laughter is serious in my circles. Dead serious.  

I’ve often said the key to happiness is finding the funny at the funeral AND at the wedding. Finding joy in the sad times, the ugly times, the “I just shit my pants times” ; the “times of growth”, that’s the key to happiness.

I’d rather be known as “that crazy bitch who laughs at the funeral”, than the one who doesn’t find it weird and hilarious to be hangin' around a box filled with a dead person.

Step FIVE: Value YOUR Time  

Stop talking about your fucking age like it’s just happening to you. Unless you’re on suicide watch, we all have a choice to be here. Either enjoy this hotel or check the fuck out.

In fact, the fabulous forty year old’s are not victimized by this number, they worship this number. They don’t wish for times passed or times to come, they enjoy today. They make the most out of both their inside and outside beauty, and always try to be better at what they are doing. They know the value of their time, they honor it by being grateful for it, and they bask in it like a clownfish on ecstasy.

They give their time like it is the only valuable thing that they’ve got, because guess what? It is all we’ve got.

They make the most of TIME.

I have been lucky enough to collect these fabulous forty year old’s, and many other “fabulously aged people”, and it all comes down to self love, gratitude, true friendship, the value of time, and the sheer will to say and take what they want.

Here is to enjoying THIS LIFE, RIGHT NOW.  

One last word…. Don’t put down your body, not to yourself, not to your people, it does absolutely no good for anyone. You know the ole saying “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all”? If you can’t appreciate that your body has gotten you to this point, fine, you have work to do, but fake it until you make it.  

Be FABULOUS

How to Really Make Women Happy

I am a self-made food fucking junkie.  

I grew up in a house with a limited budget. That's how poor people say they had no money. We were DIRT POOR. Having electricity was not always a given. My mom made it all normal by reading to us by candlelight and designing little pickup cuisine with saltines and government cheese, made into sexy little delicacies by calling it fromage and wafers.

As I got older, maybe because of such romantic meals and the beauty that surrounded such encounters, I connected all goodness with food.

There is literally no childhood memory that I own that doesn't surround food, the good, the bad, all of em.  

In fact, I got in trouble almost every day for sneaking food in class and harnessed a pretty successful candy dealing business out of my locker in the eighth grade, thank you to Vince, the janitor, for seeing my ambition and not my blatant rejection of authority.

Since my days of not having enough, I have eaten my way through my life, butter and goat cheese being the closest thing I have to a religion.

I surround myself with people who love food, love to enjoy it with each other, love to share it, talk about it, and don’t mind teaching me about it. I truly believe that if you learn about someone’s food, you learn about their life. If you learn about a location’s food, you learn the very heart of their culture.  

When I moved to my island, my main concern was what we'd be eating. I've been lucky enough to find people that enjoy the whole experience as much as I do.

Fast forward, present day, I am on #ROCKtreatPR, a writers retreat with 9 of the most talented, beautiful, courageous women, who have been invited to Mario Pagan’s restaurant to enjoy his food.

www.mariopaganrest.com

We get dropped off by our cab driver in the middle of Condado, and after a little searching, we find Mario’s beautiful restaurant. Ambiance is not even the word as we walk in, it's simple and clean, and we are welcomed into a private room, welcomed with a drink called The Magdalena: lemon, St Germain, gin, vodka, and lavender.

I'm in love. There is candlelight. And even if at this point they would have placed a saltine with “pasteurized cheese food” in front of me I would have been thrilled… but that was not the case.

Mario, oh Mario, you've reminded me that my next husband must be a chef.

I’m not a huge fan of cauliflower typically, but my mind was broadened with a smooth and delicious cauliflower and truffle soup, I would have bathed in this. Next, a black chilean sea bass on cassava, with foie gras and port wine reduction. An eggplant cannoli with burrata cheese. Finally,  Angus beef with local yuca gnocchi, and caramelized onions.

At this point I am stunned. Everything is cooked to perfection, and Rafael, the most professional “keeper of the writers”, aka, server, has made the experience seamless and comfortable for all. You can really see why he has been with Chef Mario for more than 20 years, he is incredible.

And then he brings us coconut cake with bienmesabe sauce and cocoa ice cream. He’s a closer. 

The meal was probably pound-for-pound the best meal I’ve ever had in my life. He came out and so graciously greeted, charmed, and took pictures with us. The company I was with, well, they are second to none.   

To be included in something so special, with beautiful women writers (now basically family), being fed by someone who is so talented and charming, well, I will never forget it.

And like the days of eating saltines by candlelight, this experience will stay with me always.

Thank you Mario and Raphael, and the rest of the Mario Pagan team, for making us feel like queens!  

Links to the #ROCKtreatPR Group: 

Chrissann Nickel: Women Who Live on Rocks

Jennifer Legra, Dominican Republic: Drinking the Whole Bottle

Riselle Celestina, St. Maarten: The Traveling Island Girl

Mariah Moyle, The Bahamas: Out Island Life

Brittany Meyers, Tortola, BVI: Windtraveler

Claudia Hanna, Cyprus: Live Like a Goddess

Liz Wegerer, Bonaire: The Adventures of Island Girl; Island Girl Writing

Jennifer Morrow, Puerto Rico: Jen There Done That

Sherri DeWolf, Key West: Deeply Creative; Island Jane

How to not belong.

It’s 3 years and counting. . . 

We came down here for a year, and there is no leaving now. At least for a long time.

Island life has bewitched me, and there is no place I can truly imagine myself, except on an island.

I don’t fit in anymore up there in the lower 48. I go back these days, people are busy and frustrated overall. They have obligations that they hate, and things that they do because they have to. I’m not saying that nobody here does things that they don’t want to do, but the priorities are very different.

Back on the mainland, everyone is very “busy” and very “tired”. They believe that how busy they are determines their worth, and how tired they are is the excuse for not doing what they don’t want to do in the first place.

Simply saying “I don’t want to” has become rude, and lying to ourselves and others has become the norm.

They move around a lot, change lanes a lot, and are miserably frustrated on the road.

And how is it that they can keep their cows in the fence and off the road?

70 mph feels like I am flying a fighter plane.

I no longer know how to drink in the states. I was never actually good at it. Jesus was basically my “driver” for about a decade. It’s come to be completely normal to drink behind the wheel, and respect Darwin’s law, since we are basically a mountain sticking out of the sea.

You fuck up? You are fucked.

Of course, you’re only going 30 miles an hour usually, and slower if you need to, so it’s much less likely to be an issue. If I were keeping score, I’m only one side mirror down.

Do you know it’s only acceptable to have breakfast cocktails at Sunday brunch in the states?

At first,  when I am there, I bask in the convenience of everything. Every single trip to the grocery store warrants whatever I want! Oh, and cheap too. I act like Mrs. Gotrocks, throwing anything and everything I haven’t had in awhile or haven’t tried at all in my cart.

I may be spending $300 bucks at the grocery, but god damn it, I have enough food for an army instead of just barely 3 people.  

People always look at me funny when I am RAVING over just how beautiful and inexpensive the strawberries are, “Get OUT of here, $3.99? HOW can that BE? THESE ARE GORGEOUS… smell them…. NO, REALLY, GET YOUR NOSE IN THERE”... That is me, at the Hyvee, acting like I’ve never seen a fucking ripe berry in my life.

Before you know it I am sporting “the blump”, because I no longer have self discipline and like a puppy, if it is there?  I am eating it.

I’m jumpy about water usage. I get all weird around people who are excessively using H2O. I can’t handle it. A meal with family can send me into a tailspin. “WHY IS THE WATER STILL FUCKING RUNNING?”. It’s not that I am judging anyone, it is that I am now programmed that water is precious.

I won’t lie, the minute I get into a hotel, I do take a long leisurely shower, shaving everything I possibly can, but I’ll never be the same, I’ll never be able to truly enjoy it.

People don’t want you talking to them in the states. I’m not saying no one does, but the ratio is really different. I say “Good Morning”, “Good afternoon”, or “Good night” obsessively as a greeting here. Mostly because nothing would get done when I am out and about without saying it. They take their greetings very seriously here.

People look at me in the states like I am going to take their wallet. And “Good night?”, well, they think I am titched.

Ahh, 3 years, seems to have went by in a blink. The days of velvet breezes, patchwork blue and green waters, new friends, and the simplicity of doing as I please have made me unsuitable for where I came from.

Truth be told, I probably never really fit in there to begin with.   

Owning up to what you are

I believe that you are what you will die if you don’t do.

This week I was invited to a retreat for writers. When I got the message I was shocked. Sure, I have been recognized on planes, and in stores thousands of miles from here, but this was the first time I actually heard myself called a writer.

I first started writing just after my divorce. I shut myself into my apartment for 8 months, I’d go to work, come home, go to work, come home, go to work, go get my nails done (I am not an animal), go to work, come home, and I would write, and write, and write. I wrote my life story, I was in my mid twenties then. I learned a few things during this time. I learned that I was funny as fuck, I learned that I had been through immense pain, I learned that I was strong, and fierce, and I learned that I was someone of worth, to me, my friends, my family, and the world.

I learned that I made a lot of huge mistakes.

I learned that when I made these mistakes I actually became a better person. Maybe not for a while, but I learned that if I waited long enough, they usually led me to something better, and in turn, I should be grateful for all my fuck ups.

I forgave myself and the world for all that I had endured, with gratitude.

I eventually ventured out to make a lot more mistakes that led me to a lot more beauty.

When I got to this island I knew that I had to write about it, there is some major funny shit on this island. There is funny shit everywhere, but this is a mecca. I didn’t start writing for any other reason other than I think I may have died if I didn’t. It was later that I realized that I had the ability to inspire people to live the way they wanted.

I always considered myself a woman who writes, a survivor, a thriver, and at best, a funny fuck up. But never a writer.

To say yes to going on this writer’s retreat meant that I had to admit that I am a writer. These women are writers. I am one of them. It is scary to put a stamp on myself, and more importantly to admit that it is a title that I want. Like when you finally admit that you’re a mother, like, wait a second? Why is this little creature calling me by my mother’s name?

But isn’t it scary to admit that you want something, to commit to a purpose.

So now I have to own up to the title of “Lizzy, the funny fuck up writer.”

How to love change, again

Seasons are changing here. Overnight it feels like summer, the tourists become less and less and the water becomes warmer and warmer. I’ve settled back into my island life, my sarcastic grateful life of garbage and breathtaking views.

It has been all about getting on a schedule and making things “normal” for Scar, not that having me as a mother is ever normal, but getting her to gymnastics on time a few weeks in a row is a definite “win”, and I take the wins where I can get them.

My advice to the abnormal is to not have children. They become exactly like you and then you know firsthand why people have looked at you funny all of your life. You also get a bird’s eye view of just how cool you are, and I choose to focus on the latter. Because I am positive, goddamnit.

She goes to school in August, THANK GOD. I don’t mean it like it sounds. But I have done my time, and in a few years I plan on missing these days. But for now, I want to lay around and write, create, and masturbate if I damn well please. I want to be alone in my home. I want to day-drink like a normal person.

(Before anyone writes in, I do not condone drunk driving with children. Kiss off.) 

But it will be a big change, and I have so many projects in the hopper for when I am not being bossed around by a five year old all day.

That’s what life does, it changes seasons, and it makes you miss the snow when you’re standing in the sun. I like the gratitude of yesterday and today's excitement of tomorrow. 

I used to actually bitch about having to go out for “yet another” fabulous wine soaked dinner. One day I’ll look back and romanticize obsessing over every shit this kid took, or the time she refused to wear anything I bought her for two years straight. Even now, as I write this, I look up at her and laugh because she is so fucking beautiful and funny.

But, things are changing over here, big time. I am changing again, and if there is one thing on earth that I love, it is change.    

Choosing to find the funny

I have not been on this island in what feels like months.

Getting off that airplane felt so good. That velvet breeze blowing all the busy-ness off me. The people I know by face only in the airport greeting me with a “Good Night”, because they know I belong here. That’s one of the things about a small island, they know your face. I must’ve fallen in love with this feeling long ago in the small town I came up in, but back then I couldn’t see beauty the way I do now.

It feels good to have someone know your face, it feels good to be known in all ways.

I went home for an extended trip. I love my family, they are some of my favorite people. There is something about someone who knows your whole story. Sure, you can be an asshole, but they have seen your foundation, they know what bricks went in. They know how hard you were to build, and how many times you’ve been knocked down.

We are all f*cked up in our own way though, we all have those bricks that weren’t laid by the kindest of hands. Sh*t, sometimes we were even built by the wrecking ball itself. The world can be an interesting builder, and in the process of our masterpiece we can be leveled, hard. I learn that everyday we all have our sh*%, we all have our highs and lows, but what defines us as who we are is how we chose to rebuild. Do we make ourselves more beautiful and magnificent or do we decide to say “f*ck it”, pitch a tent, and survive?

Holding on for dear life. A refugee.

No one ever leaves childhood unscathed, you hopefully don’t leave your twenties unscathed, and, if you’re doing it right, you don’t leave your thirties without scars, and so on. Because if we don’t, we aren’t putting it out there. We aren’t being real or vulnerable enough. We are able to give our childhood to our parents as that is their shit, and probably a little from the generations behind them, but everything else? That’s ours. That is our story, and if we don’t have a plot when we die, that means we existed, we didn’t live.

Finding the happiness in it all shouldn’t just be at the ending, it should be throughout, weaved in the funerals as well as the weddings. People are weird at funerals, you’re in the room with a dead person and no one acts like it is not f*cked up. That’s funny.

I’ll take a lifetime of f*ck ups over a lifetime of boredom, and at the end of it all, I’ll take the laughter and pain over convenience.

Choosing pleasure everytime

I have been thinking a lot about what I am lately. What makes me, me?

I’ve thought about my choices. I mean really, at the end of the day, that is what you are, your choices, right?

Oh god, I’ve made some fucking bad choices. From going head to head with an Andre-the-Giant-look-a-like on Tequila shots on Saint Patrick’s Day, to saying “yes” to the wrong marriage proposal. I’ve gotten out of DUI’s and into beds, and I’ve chosen to spend my time with people who couldn’t see me at all. Oh yes, that is me. I am my bad choices.

I have painted bathrooms, and painted the truth, and painted myself into corners.

I have been jacked up, jacked around, and I’ve been a jackass.

I regret not seeing my worth sooner, I regret not seeing what was worthy of me sooner, and I mildly regret not protecting my skin from the sun until my thirties. Every five or so years, I regret cutting my bangs.  

I regret not taking my brother’s last call seriously.

I don’t regret going to the bar or not going to church. I don’t regret giving away my money or hanging out with drug addicts. I don’t regret spending the weekends with my nieces and loving my sisters and my family. I don’t regret loving the people who didn’t love me back.

I don’t regret every time I chose pleasure over pain.

I am the Pleasure Seeker. I can’t find any other way to describe the way I live. Every choice that I do not regret has been because it has led me to pleasure in some way, shape, or form. It has allowed me to give it and take it and to me that is something our world needs much more of. Does that mean it was easy? No, not at all. But everything that I have ever done that I love has led me to pleasure, and usually it isn't easy. Pleasure isn't easy.

From the first time I stepped off the plane to feel the velvet air over me in The Virgin Islands, I felt pleasure. The smells, the sounds, the realness. All my pleasure.

From the sheets on my bed, to the food I put in my face, it is all for pleasure. To make someone’s day better, my pleasure. To take care of my family, my pleasure. To put my words into the universe for all to read, my pleasure.

To show up, make something better, my pleasure.

To surround myself with the people that bring me pleasure, they are real, and funny, and excited, and passionate, and they are my pleasure.  

Every single thing I do with my body, my mind, my heart, and my soul, is for pleasure.

I unapologetically choose pleasure. I am The Pleasure seeker.