I absolutely adore Mondays.

Yes. Me. I love them. They’re my favorite. Better than Friday even.

Mondays are my vibe day. My creative day. My wear yoga clothes all day, day, my big hearty breakfast day, my work from home in my beautiful office, seated in my cushy turquoise chair, sunlight streaming in the window and warming my feet as I type and schedule and research and drink coffee and and play music day.

On Mondays the kids always get to school on time.

Doesn’t that sound just perfect?

Tuesdays, usually we’re on time. By Wednesdays we’re playing with tardy slip fire. And then the week wraps up, and I’ve gone to a half dozen meetings, a handful of events, written a thousand e-mails, spent three hours on the phone, made eye contact with my husband, cooked meals while helping with homework, played a board game or five, and gotten everyone everywhere to all their things somewhat close to on time. Continue reading



$780. That’s how much my Tuesday cost. Seven hundred and eighty dollars, and three hours out of my day.

I walked out of a meeting, smile on my face, ready to continue what had already been a great start to the day, and then I saw a boot on my front wheel.

Parking tickets. I might have had a few. Maybe three. Or four. Actually. . . five. Five tickets, one of which was still in my purse. Um. Oops. I guess the mental “fuck off” I sent the City of Sacramento when I got them didn’t make it to the right department on time.

Or did it?

The cost of that energetic message? So much more than the money I didn’t have. So, much more than the time spent in line, waiting. And on the street, waiting.  And on the phone, waiting.

The cost of this waiting is high.

Procrastination. The art of later. This waiting, the kind born out of busy-ness, of avoidance, or boredom, or of fear, is unproductive. Continue reading


Failure, and its perception thereof, is a tricky bitch.

Failure can be good; it’s how we learn, it’s how we grow, it’s how we get better at . . . not, failing.

But. Failure also doesn’t feel good. It can come with labels, with guilt, with expectations, with judgment. The worst part of failure, in my experience, is that feeling of letting someone down. Of being the opposite of successful.

It’s the feeling of disappointment.


Growing up, the very worst punishment of all, the ultimate consequence, was knowing I had disappointed my parents. I’d rather have missed every dance, every sporting event, every social gathering, than to disappoint them.  Continue reading