The Point of Failing

Writing, like traditional martial arts and relationships, is all about failure.

Failing to get the right sentence structure, or create a visual that reads like the image in my mind. Lucas (the producer at Warp) told me years ago that he knows a famous author that will spend two weeks on a single sentence. I wanted to ask, ‘in one stretch?’, but I kept my mouth shut. I will go back to paragraphs many times, write and re-write, until I feel like a failure, and certainly want to (and sometimes do) give up, but then return once again.

When I was a lowly second section (that means I was about 6 months in), I was regularly collapsing on the floor of the studio (in our line, it’s not called a dojo, it’s the “studio.”). In any case, the 8th degree black belt said I can “work through anything.” In other words, get up and keep going. “Set your mind.”

That was it. No encouragement. No sympathy. Just do. Very Yoda-like in my humble opinion, so I got up and started again, just like the writing (which coincidentally, happened not long after this aforementioned incident).

Then relationships. Failure abounded after I started dating (well, to be honest, long before an actual “date” occurred) but when the guy was right, I actually realized that failure was no longer an option – or rather, my response to failure was no longer the option. Just like martial arts, I had to set my mind and “push through it,” the global, oft-repeated mantra heard by all.

Now lo, these long years after first hearing the words,  the notion of pushing through it all sometimes…tiring. Sometimes, I just want a break. I want things to be easy, not always a bloody struggle, like Atlas pushing the rock up the hill. My shoulders are wide but come on. Yet my stubborn Swedish/Danish roots come through, and after I’m done crashing (figuratively and literally) on the bed, I wake up, and start all over, determined to replace my temporary failure with success. Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

2 weeks to lose 2 inches- Get some (physical) religion

Greetings to readers in the latest countries of Peru, Andorra and the Czech Republic. Is it the frog detterent blog or the Swedish Tickle? I’ll never know and don’t much care. I adore my followers to matter where they reside. Wait, She says “forget the blogs. It’s all about the music.” As usual, She knows how to put me in my place.

Given that I have been eating my way toward Easter, I felt it incumbent upon me to make up by reminding everyone to 1) do side bends, 2) add weights and 3) start a clean diet for 21 months. Take the challenge readers, your waistlines and lovelry one will thank you. (yes, you read that write. Loverly is my personal version of loved one+partner=loverly. Correct usage would be, “you are my loverly.”

Sweet nothings from Maple Valley to you.

Now on to the blog. “She” chastized me the other day. (New readers, She is the person who shall remain anonymous forever-more, since she refuses to be outted, thereby invalidated all her good, blunt, funny and sometimes off-color advice. She keeps me humble and in-line, lest you think that task falls only to my husband. Not so).

“What is this? You’ve lost 2.5” (inches) on your butt and you haven’t shared this with anyone??” Boy, was she pissed. She proceeded to tell me about slogging through my other, slightly worthless blogs, waiting for a kernel of insight (as promised in my tagline) only to feel as though I’m holding out on her.

“Do I have to tell everyone that I’m shrinking?” I ask, hoping to retain some modicum of dignity.

“It’s too late!” she cries, reminding me how I’ve talked about batwings and chinhair, and aired my dirty laundry a-plenty, all in the hopes of helping others learn my mistakes. “Tell us! We need to know this!!”

Lara Croft Tomb Raider - The Cradle of Life (Special Collector's Edition)
Me in the next life

OK. I’d like to reveal that this is some ancient elixer of inches reduction, but it’s not. In truth, it’s much of the old, regurgitated advice from thousands of magazine articles. The difference? You ready? I actually paid money ($125 US) to visit a naturopath recommended by friends, and with the blessing of my homeopathic, eastern Swami, and got the skinny. Instead of immersing me in water to determine my fat content, she put 5 pads about the size of Band-Aids on my body, entered the info in a computer and walla!10 minutes later, provided me the modern version of my body stats. It was U.G.L.Y.

155 pounds, 38.5 pounds of fat. I’m 5’10’+ I’ll skip the part about lots of muscle, the toxicity of my body (low), the water weight carried inside and outside of the cell (normal) and cut to the chase. I got religion.

Channeling Laura Croft

Religion about getting off my lazy eating regime. Sure, I work out all the time and my body reflects this. In the past, I’ve slimmed down but the dimply cellulite on the front and backs of my legs have remained. And you see, I’ve this vision of coming back in the next life as a Swedish version of Laura Croft, trapeze in my living room the size of an airplane tarmac and all. Ok, I wouldn’t mind the chest as well. It’s going to happen until I make some changes.

“You are cutting carbs and protein,” Gaylen the naturopath begins. “You need to cut the starches and sugar, while increasing the protein.” Many of my readers my recognize this advice, as it’s nearly identical to the P90X plan. Lots and lots of protein and limited bad carbs. The difference? This cleansing process completely eliminates fats, sugars and starches. It’s this:

Here you go:
5 servings of proteins a day (100grams per)
2 apples
2 salads (green)
1+ gallons of water or tea a day
2 tsp of pure coconut oil**
The juice of one lemon and as much salt as you want

No dairy
No fats of any kind (EXCEPT– coconut oil. Now, this deserves a note. It’s found at PPC, Whole foods etc. It’s for cooking, and is hard. I was dubious, but determined to follow my naturopaths directions. Thus, I scooped the oil, put it in a pot on the stove, and had enough for a few days. Actually, it’s very smooth, not vile, left no aftertaste, and ensured I didn’t completely end up looking like dry toast).

This sounds lean and horrid, but believe you me, it’s a TON of food. I felt like I was eating all the time, and by week two, was dreading “another salad!”. Also, on the protein, it can be grilled, steamed, cooked in any way, but no fat added. I found it very easy to go out with friends and family, have the salad w/lemon and salt, all the other food and not feel uncomfortable or starved.

The difference? Measuring at 2 weeks.

The scale doesn’t lie.

I’d only lost 2 pounds. BUT, I’d lost 1% body fat, and more importantly, inches everywhere. To wit: (inches lost below)
2.5 off the butt
2.25 off the waist
.75 off the chest
1 inch off each thigh
.25 inch off each arm.

That was 2 weeks. Another week and I’d lost another inch off my waist and hips. Haven’t measured my thighs. All I can say is I’m fitting in clothes that haven’t seen sunlight since before my daughter was born, 6 years ago. And let me say, getting Physical in the words of our dear Olivia Newton-John has been like a rebirth. Think Madonna back in 1984 and you are getting my drift. Removing 2.5 inches from the backsides makes quite a difference. (’nuff said!)

The best news? I have tons of energy, sleep great, and most of my cravings have been killed off like the yeast in my bod (gerrosss). If you want some ideas, hit up the P90X recipe site. To be religious about, subtitute the broth for water, and avoid the above. In 2 weeks, you will have a different body.

The Ibiza-tone Butt: yours in five floor exercises

As much as I tried to avoid looking at the ad that seemed to jump off the screen, I couldn’t help but glance at this perfectly shaped derrier in a bathing suit only legal in the southern hemisphere. I was rather happy to note that Jane Fonda was indeed, right 20 years ago, for she ushered in the age of the “butt-up,” now more commonly known as a ‘bridge.’ I’ve been doing them for years, with varying degrees of concentration. For the beginner who doesn’t want to spend money lift up his or her fanny in front of a bunch of skinny strangers, do this in front of the tv, or in your room, hotel or even bathroom floor. These are fast, (not-so-easy) and that’s why they are effective.

Start on your back, legs bent, hands under lower back. Each set should be a maximum  of 25 reps. start lower if you need to. (see photo)

Full set= 25 of each of the following (these are ALL referred to as Bridge movements. The most basic of movements- and all you need to get started).

You can put your hands under your butt
if you have a weak lower back.
  1. First movement– knees spread apart (along with feet)- so knees stay apart as you lift up
  2. Second movement– draw knees together, and lift up (adds a compression to the
  3. Third movement-keep knees together (remember your heals are apart), and then you lift your butt up and down
  4. Fourth movement-keep your butt up (continually) and spread your legs apart (slightly relax butt @25%) and then lift up and squeeze as you draw your butt together)
  5. Final movement– draw feet together, and lift butt up and down.

You might not be able to do 25 reps of any of the above the first time through, or maybe even the first week. Start out with fewer reps, but still try and do 3 sets. You will work up to the full amount.

If you do this every day, you will realize HUGE results in three areas.

  1. Your butt of course- the cellulite will go down. It will also tighten and have a “lift” that is so commonly envied.
  2. The place right below your butt- the skin that perhaps is now invisible because your butt is drooping
  3. Your hips–when you lift your pelvic nice and high, the skin around your hip bones is stretched, thereby tightening this hard-to-get to place.

Calorie estimation if you are tracking via myfitnesspal.com? Use 83 calories for 10 minutes of vigorous exercise. Half of that if you have only done 5 minutes.

Jogging Zombies: the runner’s face

Once upon a time, back when I indulged in facials and eyebrow waxing on a more regular, and necessary basis (or in other words, when this Swede was an appropriately hair free gorilla), the aesthetician wouldn’t stop talking.

I’d hate to be this woman. she posted her
pic under the caption runner’s face–and not in
a good way. At least she’s happy. she’ll prob
outlive us all.

“And you see these women with runner’s face and they are so hard to wax,” she was saying, talking rapid fire as she applied hot wax to my face with a titanium spatula. “The crevices are so de
ep it’s hard to get the wax in and the hair out, and the skin!” she moaned, removing the spatula off my own skin and applying the thin cotton strip, pressing down with her bony fingertips. “It’s so thin it’s like a grandmother!” Then she unceremoniously ripped off the cotton, and with it, my furry face.

I was thinking about this today, because in the fifteen minutes of sunshine we had in the “great northwest,” I thought, if I didn’t have my cast, I’d be tempted to be out there. But before I could feel the regret of not running, I thought back to what my aesthetician said as I rubbed my cheek to make sure I still had an epidural layer. I told her I’d never heard of Runners Face before.

“In the beauty industry, that’s what we call it,” she explained. “We can always tell if a client is a runner or not, man or woman. The face is where most collagen resides, and it’s the first place the collagen leaves.” She went on to tell me that once it’s gone, the only way it will return is if the person, male or female, is under 35. “After that, it’s all over.” Note to self: don’t get all emotional with this person. She was a little short on compassion.

A few months later, I paid a visit to my own doctor and asked her about Runners Face. She confirmed earlier reports. “Collagen dramatically decreases after 35. That’s why you see so many women getting fillers. These are unnatural replacements for what nature gave you.”
There I was, smack-dab in the middle of a moral dilemma (name the movie). To run, or not to run, that is the question. It is great for the heart, but bad for the knees and ankles, unless you read and adopt Chi Running, which counter acts both. Now this? Yikes. Running can’t get a break. Speed walking however, may be getting a boost here in the next while, at least in Maple Valley.
 
Movie: Gone in 60 seconds, when the detective is talking to Raines.

Shedding the Winter Muffin Top

Tips from Mr Universe runner-up
that we can all live by

Spring always inspires me. I want to rake and trim, eat healthy and start shopping for sexy, springtime clothes. This is circular, because I can’t actually always fit in existing clothes, and if I’m going to justify spending money on new clothes, well, I better look decent.

Invariably, I replay what a former trainer told me (A 3-time, 2nd and 3rd Mr Universe runner-up). He was big, black, built and bald.

“You’re not just eating the wrong foods,” he told me. “You are eating the wrong foods at the wrong time). He emphasized I required more protein, less carbs and most importantly, I needed to stop at 5 instead of starting at 8 pm. “Eat every two hours, no matter what, and eat your protein first.” He also said one other thing.

“Cardio two times a day until your body fails you,” without waiting to see if I understood him. “And that goes for weights, which you’ll do three times a week.”

At this, I protested. I was going to bulk up and turn my fat in to mass. He smiled, obviously hearing this before.

“Big thighs,” he said. “The worry of all women.” At that, the fine looking man said no more and took me for a tour of the place. Walking among these humongous men of color, I was one of two white people in the entire joint. I felt odd, out of place and frankly, ghostly in my white fatness. Sensing my discomfort, my newly-annointed trainer turned to me and muttered something like “you get points for showing up at 5 am.” I stood a little taller at that, I’ll admit. My big, bloaty butt wanted to me in bed.

We made our way to a row of women on the treadmill and other cardio. He asked a random sampling if he’d told them what he told me (repeating) and then asked “what happened?”

“I leaned out,” said one. “Lost three dress sizes,” said another.

“See?” he asked me. “You have to eat more, all the time and push until failure.”

Ahh. The point of the article. Whether it’s JK Rowling giving her famous Harvard commencement speech, or Mr Universe Runner up, the point is to push the mind and body to the point of failure. Then, and only then will you know you’ve made progress.

Yesterday, as I lifted the weights above my head (for I am still forbidden to walk on my bad leg, so am consigned to doing upper body only as my lower body goes suffers through physical therapy), I recall Mr. Universe runner-up. I push…I grimace…all the while consoled by the fact that tomorrow, my arms will thank me. So I continue, proceeding to push myself to the point where my arms collapse, literally failing to assist me any longer in the exercise.

With that, I stop. I have succeeded in my attempt to fail, and that’s what I wanted in the first place.

The secret to living longer: Leaving the past behind

Do you ever meet a person that tilts your world? By that, I mean that what’s said stays around, seeping in layer after layer?

Two days ago I had the opportunity to interview a master yogi I’ll call Roberto. His actual title could be that of doctor, former police officer, father, husband and motivational speaker, because he is all of those things. He’s also one of the most successful network marketing professionals in the US. I won’t tell you his name though, because he’s going to be profiled in the current business book I’m writing on the subject of people who succeed and why.

The yogi told me this: “The majority of doctors agree that most medical issues are stress related. The media has it wrong. It’s not diabetes or cancer or heart failure that causes death, it’s stress. Those are simply manifestations of the cause.”

His words of wisdom that have been on my mind for the week?

Did you know that yoga practitioners
teach that hair is an extension of
wisdom, and that’s why a lot of men
don’t shave/cut their hair & why the women
have longer hair? I just learned this after 20
years of doing yoga!

“You can’t change yesterday and you can’t control the future. Live in the present.” Translation: do the best can on what you can, appreciate the little things (you woke up, the sun was shining, or if it’s grey and raining, that it’s raining because moisture is good).

Roberto then told me about leading a group of millionaire/billionaire hedge fund managers through a session on meditation. He’d been called in because the CEO of the group was worried about the suicide rate (can you imagine being the boss of a firm that has those kind of personnel issues? It’s not like we’re talking grumpiness about uniforms).

“Half-way through, I have several 35-ish type guys break down sobbing,” Robert tells me. The men are suddenly “aware” to the fact that they have zero purpose in life other than making money. And the majority of that money is derived from taking money from the pockets of others, who more often than not, know that it’s a grandkids college education or a retirement that’s being put at risk, and/or lost. The guilt of earning money on the backs of others who lose it was, in the words of the CEO, “literally killing then.”

Robert then said “people who live longer haven’t won and don’t win. Those who live longer in peace and comfort are the ones who win. You can still make a lot of money and have peace,” a motto, by the way, that Robert whole-heartedly believes in. “Who doesn’t want to make money? We all have a right to do that. But it has to be done in the correct way.”

This is my summary of the Master Yogi’s living in peace:

1. Guided by principles. Is what one does guided by a set of principles that stand the test of time.
2. Founded on good intentions. I like the word intention, because it means one is not setting out to screw another human being. The good intention is to put people to work, and if this is supported by principles, that work isn’t going to happen in a schloppy factory somewhere.
3. Leave the past behind. To err is human. That happened yesterday. Today is different. Today is for learning and for making difference decisions.
4. Look to the future, but don’t try and control it. The results of the your decisions today will show up tomorrow. The results may have unintended consequences–some good, some ill. Yet if the decision is based in solid principles and guided by good intentions, then the probability of a bad outcome is much lower. Even so, don’t worry about tomorrow. You did your best now let it go.
5. Daily meditation. A firm believer in meditation, Robert stressed that meditation can be moving (yoga, or even walking or Tai chi) but the goal is ‘quiet.’

I would modify the last line only slightly. I grew up repeating the phrase “do your best and let God do the rest.” You can substitute God with the God of your choosing, Karma, the Universe, or whatever force you believe it. It all comes down to the notion it’s I’ve taking it from my hands and put it in the hands of a higher being, and I’ve given all the stress and worry and angst that goes along with it.

In my kitchen, I have this phrase that says (in summary), thoughts becomes actions, actions become habits, habits become character etc. Robert started me thinking again…being more conscious of my every thought, action etc. And with that, I’m off to have a great Saturday.

Dark circle remedies and wisdom, a natural combo

A few things on my mind.

Dark circles. Did you know that this is easily solved by using hemorrhoid crème and witch hazel pads? Conjures gross images of pustules on the butt, I know. But seriously, I was told this by a dermatologist friend who said it’s the most effect, cheapest and best kept secret. I used it. Works. Husband uses both all the time (one or two swipes under the eyes and walla). (put this in the tips and tricks section of this blog. I sometimes forget it’s there myself). Other home remedies exist as well.

Wisdom never retires. That’s my own phrase. I was interviewing a guy that used to run half of the country for the largest consulting firm in the world. He’s been “out of the game” for 11 years and didn’t know if he had much to contribute to my latest book. I told him that “wisdom never retires,” and then asked him what he defined as ‘retired.’

“I sit on the board of X company, and advise Y company, and I sit on the board of the Seattle Art Museum…” and then he listed off two other mentoring jobs and I told him “stop.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Successful people don’t retire. They don’t just wake up one day and stop contributing. They keep going.”

Another gem of his? When we were talking about community service, he said too many people “sign up on a list and don’t contribute.” He went on to say that contributed means being involved to the degree that it’s making a difference in people’s lives. “Will they look back on you and say ‘that person made a difference in my life?’

“If they can’t say you made a difference in my life, then you haven’t contributed.”

Tears from a man

It takes a lot to bring a strong man to tears, but it does happen. For first time readers, here has been what I lovingly call my “two weeks of Job,” which you have to know first.

Married 15 years, I figure I’ll start ice skating hockey to “become closer to my husband,” who plays hockey. I do well for the first two lessons (training with Rog’s trainer, a former NHL guy, who I have mentioned before). I fall, all 140 pounds of me crunches my left ankle inward, which, by the way, I hit the week before in martial arts class (I’m one belt away from my black belt), thereby cranking a previous wound.

Fast forward three days. The house is in an uproar, I’m laid up in bed, kids are not getting fed (well, they are, but I’m not sure Top Ramin counts as real food). A week in, no laundry. Dirty underwear abounds. Rog won’t allow my friends to come over and help, but on day 10, I call the calvary and food starts showing up at our doorstep (I gave out our gate code and arranged for the drop-offs when Rog was picking up the girls from school). Still no laundry. Day 12. I’m off the drugs, and as a consequence, have headaches that make me puke, then I can’t keep food down, my internal PH goes to pot, and I get mouth ulcers on my tongue that then spread to the roof of my mouth (think canker sores on steroids). A want to die. I call my swami.

“Drink water with lemon juice and take alka green.” I do. For all those with canker sores, when the acid in the stomach goes nuts, it erupts in sores in the mouth. Lemons restore the alkalinity in the body- the # source of such. In 24 hours, I’m better. 2 weeks yesterday. Rog has a meltdown in the car

“I’m not loved,” to which I responded “Of course you’re not. You’re being mean to all of us and you’re making us miserable.” Then two weeks of pent up frustration on both of our parts comes down to this:

“I always though that my job was to take care of the family financially, and I’ve done that. But I can’t do anything about your foot–and I was the cause of it— and with Porsche’s hair falling out again–my little girl…” and here he lost it. Tears from a man who never cries, and in the middle of a mall no less.

It’s true. Man has penis, and that means provider and caretaker. But he can’t do a darn thing about our daughter, who will lose all her hair now, and as I type this, she is with her father and getting @200 shots on her head (and they can’t put her to sleep) in an effort to keep the hair follicles open until the hair starts to grow back. Nor can Rog do a thing for me. 2 weeks down, 6 to go. It’s hard, I get that. Personally, I’d rather have my hair fall out than be an invalid. The house is a wreck. The kids are unhappy. Rog and I are miserable. Alas.

“It’s only hair,” I remind Rog, “and it’s starting to grow back. She’s not deaf and she’s not blind. She has her limbs.”  Then Rog tells me that my confidence gives him confidence, and for one of the few times in our marriage, I’m reminded that he actually has breaks in his aura of assurance. It never occurs to me that he has the spikes of humanity that afflict the rest of us.

Following some sushi, we both feel better, having purged the mental and emotional constipation that has afflicted us for the last fourteen days. Last night, around six, he made the first dinner- beef stroganoff. Sure, it took him nearly two hours, and he doused it with a bit too much ground mustard, but I must say, we got fed (and thanks to the lemon juice, I could eat it), and it was good. He laughed, and as I looked at my husband, who also happens to be my good friend, I thought it was a glorious sound, and that the tears he shed in the mall (of all places) were worth it.

Need a relationship upper? Get rid of “the sportsman stench” : The Rocket Sport Dryer review

It’s big. It’s black. It inflates. Best of all, it’s a relationship upper.

For what am I referring? The Rocket Sport Dryer, strong enough for a man, but seriously, made for a woman. Know why?

Product DetailsSports equipment stinks, and I’m not talking just football. In my case, it’s hockey, but it could be lacrosse or baseball. Anything with equipment and clothes that don’t get washed every usage can be nasty. And “the stink” is equal opportunity, man or woman located here or there. Don’t matter.

In my case, it’s hockey. It’s a smelly, gross sport. When my fingertips touch the gloves or shoulder pads or my husband’s hockey gear, they are stained with a stench that can only be found in the bog of eternal stench. Even a fingertip on the inside of the helmet soils my hands, and I have been known to life the socks with a pencil and the hockey skates themselves don’t get raised without lifting blade-first.

This wasn’t the worst part. The worst was being misled and downright lied to about where said hockey tree was going to reside.

“In the garage of course,” was Rog’s first suggestion, lo, these long 8 years ago. Quickly, the lie was proven out. In the summer, it stunk up the three car garage worst than the dead varmint we found under the car after a long trip. It had got in (probably through the cat door), gotten stuck and died, rotting in the heat of the garage. That stink, as bad as it was, had nothing on the hockey stink.

“Outside is so much better,” Rog rephrased, migrating the metal stand to lawn. So attractive. I’m all about trailer-trashing our front yard. I’d come out, ready to mow, and find his gear strewn out, all across the lawn. It reeked. Worse? The grass died, the yellow outlines akin to the markings of a dead person on the ground. It should have read Crime Scene Here, Do Not Cross, for I wouldn’t get near it.

“You’re killing my grass,” was all I said, the grumpy, b***y tone not so subtle.

During the winter, the stand moved in downstairs, like a thief in the night, the pole of pain, along with its accoutrements, found itself in front of our pellet stove, blowing fetid air up to the right (practically killing our puppy), up the stairs, to the main floor, then another level above, to our bedroom.

It work me up. I stood, my nostrils flaring, stomach roiling. I lean over the banister, and saw the light of the flames glancing off a mystery outline. No, he couldn’t have. I walk downstairs. The smell grows worse, as though I’m walking up behind an elephant after a bad case of worms. Yes, he did. He put the damn thing in front of the pellet stove. I’ve had enough.

“If you ever, ever want to bed me again, you will get rid of that reek,” I threatened.

The solution to the stench

Fortunately, some man, some where, had heard this before. And that man, in his wisdom, determined that marriage could in fact, coexist with hockey. So he created this Rocket. Here’s how it works and why you should buy it (from me, the non-hockey player perspective. I’ll give you Rog’s opinion in a minute)

The upside
1. it’s small. it can fit nearly anywhere. in the shower, in the corner. wherever
2. it folds down (e.g. it’s portable) but when erected can actually handle all that gear
3. it’s quiet. Quieter than a dryer. like wind blowing.
4. it’s fast. In an hour (or sometimes longer, I don’t know all the settings), it’s over.

The downside? When it starts up, some “reek” is going to escape. For this reason, Rog fires it up when I’m not in the room (and he does it downstairs). I’m asleep, I don’t smell it nor do I hear it. But even when it’s on and I’m writing upstairs, I won’t hear it, but I will get a whiff of ICK for about a half hour.

Why does Rog like it? I don’t complain nor run away from the room.

That’s it women. Get this for your man, or yourself, if you too, are a stinky sports-playing woman. It’s the best gift you can give to your family.

Rating: 4.5 stars (why not a 5? I want it faster, quieter and less smell escaping. In other words, I want the ultimate machine. I can dream can’t I?)

Pushing through failure: gettng back up

It’s not cool to say, but I’ve been riding a wave of tears the past few hours. These are not the sobby, in-your-face-crying-in-desperation. No. These are the, I-am-so-pissed-off tears that come with not achieving a goal. I wanted $2M. I got $1.5 in cash and the rest financed. I wanted more, but I got more than enough to achieve our movie-making goals. Still, I was pissed. That’s what us type-A stubborn Swedes do. We get angry, and then guess what, we refocus.

My Dad told me the other day I’m more Danish
than Swede. In one fell swoop, he’s ruined
my identity. Do Danes make pancakes?
And what the H**l is Dad doing telling
me now, after all the blogs I’ve written about
my dominant Swedish site. I’m going to have
a crisis.

I hit the gym. I went to hot yoga and sweated off a few pounds. Then I went running. Ultimately, I skiied on crappy snow (which is really the bottom of my pitiful barrel). To no avail. My producer, who is really like the CEO of a company and I’m more like the business development/finance person who brings in the money to create the next product, brought up the next few films, and mistakenly thought I’d given up helping him fund future movies.

“Stubborn Swedes don’t quit,” I assured him in an email. “We just refocus.” I then went on to craft more emails, told my producer I was going to launch off anew, and today, Monday, I did it.

Swedes. We don’t quit, we refocus.

PS. you can become an adopted Swede in spirit. We make kick-ass Swedish pancakes.

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