Know Thyself and Thine Dentist

In the journey to grow into a better person, it is a necessity to know thyself. If you ignore your failings, you will be entangled within their snare. Deeper and deeper you will fall, until all light is blocked. You will, eventually, become...a narcissist. Yikes.

For example: At the dentist office last week, I ripped a big, loud, long fart in the bathroom. Having held it in until I was in what was thought to be a secure place, I felt an inner pride. Turns out, there is no noise reducing insulation inside the walls of the restroom. Noises in the toilet, do not stay in the toilet. Luckily, my tactful son didn't tell me of the staff giggling over my sounds. He waited until we got home. Had I known at the time, I would have ran from the office and never returned. Even if it meant a lifetime of decayed teeth. I learned a lot about my sounds that day, and how I they were perceived by others. Beautiful moment.

Last night I re-learned a personal fact: I'm not cool. This lesson came from family members. Turns out, signatures are expected to be fooled around with. How you cross your T's, dot your I's, loop your O's. Structure, overall appearance, size, letter emphasis, letter interactions and playfulness. All are open to alterations. Leave them for a lifetime of monotony? Blah. This points directly to a dull personality. Might as well wear a neon sign flashing: I am boring. Don't even waste your time getting to know me. 

Mine own signature? I write my name in cursive the way I was taught in elementary school. Could I be less hip? More dull than a sloth in a coma? Epitome of party nerd? Might as well put a bag over my face and turn me out into the street. No one wants to hang with the same-signature writer. 

One last bell of shame to share: I laugh too loud at comedy movies. The gaffling geek with the grossly gargantuan giggles? The one who whoops so loud you miss the popcorn you're attempting to catch in your mouth? The one you want to whap in the head to shut up that mouth? That would be me. How do I know? Because I have been on the spiritual path to know my vices for decades. 

Are you getting the connection between knowing thyself, and body/mind/spirit growth? Did my examples help?

Suggestions to learn your inner clock makings:

Know any teenagers? Ask them in what ways you are a complete mess, and the answers will be full and forthright.

Eat or drink anything that will leave gunk in your teeth, such as blueberries, broccoli or licorice. Then, wait and see if your friends tell you of your socially inappropriate, vulgar mouth. It is through the type of friends that we accumulate that tell of who we are attracting. Good ones will point out your grossness in a kind way. Same goes with toilet paper stuck to your shoe, or leaving blue jean zipper down.

When someone says you look gorgeous, do you poke his eyes because he must not be using them anyway? Or, do you look at him like a creature crawled from beneath a rock and ask if he thought you somehow did not know this? (hint at the correct answer: we are all gorgeous, baby)

Search out ways to know thy self. The signs are ever present. Inner knowledge is the only way to grow. This is coming from the grand guru herself, so you know it must be Truth.

Another way to grow?

Buy my book. Wise, comedic literature leads to compassion.

Heather Leigh,

Knowledge to the inner core

Feudal Wall Between Therapy and Humor

My father and I recently exchanged e-mails. Me asking if the gig he just drummed at was a successful party. Him replying that it was fun, but that he was ashamed, no fist fights and police did not have to be called.
(He retired from being a nurse to revert back to his twenties as a drummer in a rock and roll band. I am so proud. Gives me hope in my future.)
It was after our chat that it hit me: Dad has accomplished the goal that I have set for myself as a parent: To raise my boys so that they won't be screwed up enough to need therapy to get over my parenting skills, and enough dysfunction in the home that they walk away from the family nest with a sense of humor. As they are twenty and seventeen, so far, I am on track. They are still young, so I can not say this with totally certainty. Sometimes afflictions don't show up until much later in life. But, so far, so good.

I had a friend who once told me that parenting is a one-way street. Parents give, kids receive. It's the moms and dads who insist on appreciation from their kids, attach strings to all gifts, and force their will on every cotton pickin' thing, that fail. While I can't say I've never partaken in these vices, I try my best to avoid them.

But I don't know that I agree whole-heartedly with the one-way street theory. The boys have given me the gift of blowing my ego smack off my shoulder. When they were young, the little love buckets would poke at my thighs and upper arms and let me know how fun it was to watch my fat jiggle. As teenagers, they verbally examined every thing I said so often, I questioned my every thought and word. Was I as crazy and weird as they portrayed me to be? Because, some of the stuff they said was true. I was not as perfect as my mind had led me to believe.

I've broken many parenting traffic laws along the way. In their vulnerable, trusting, innocent youthful years, I got away with many alternate facts: The ice cream truck that drove through the neighborhood? A music van, no treats there, kids. Those rideable toy horses and cars that once were posted in front of grocery stores? Every one of them were perpetually out-of-order. This scam saved me enough quarters to get them through college. Carrot soup? Renamed as 'orange' soup and they slurped it down.

Yes, I was a lying, scurvy mother. But if no one reveals to them my devious behavior, they will never know.

I even lied, just once to Dad. At sixteen, after mowing the back lawn, he brought me out a warm can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Not only did I keep my mouth shut that those are gross, I allowed him to believe that that was my first sip of alcohol. Again, if no one tells him my duplicitous mouth, he will never know.

As I have allowed myself to be vulnerable before you, I urge you to do the same. What kind of lying, cheating harm have you done to the children in your life? Please, reveal it in the comments box below. The more we know of other people's failings, the more open we can be about our own. Not only will this allow people to feel less shame about their past, it will also give us more ammunition for gossiping.

Have a splendiferous new year. Try to keep it between screwing up so much that you need to wear a straight jacket, and partake in enough adventure to keep you laughing and joyful.

Children's book series that follows my parenting goals?

Check out Scout and Ellie

Heather Leigh,

Habitual Parental Liar

Fishing With Alpacas And Turkeys

My son's beta fish, Tyler, has his own home gym. It consists of a plastic bubble attached to a round mirror, about an inch and a half in diameter. The bubble keeps the mirror from drifting down to the bottom of his bowl. If you know anything about gravity, you'll understand why the air filled bubble is necessary.

In case you aren't up on beta fish lore, they don't know the difference between another real fish, and their image. We don't need to call them stupid. 'Not the swiftest swimmer in the bowl' works, without any animal cruelty in this post. When confronted with a mirrored image of themselves, the reaction is one normally reserved for a true threat on their territory.

Our last beta would flare her gorgeous rainbow hued, flowing fins at her rival. She would head butt the mirror with savage thrusts. Not only did this provide us sick-o fish owners with joyful amusement, she got exercise, released endorphins, and had a daily adventure. This was so intense for her, that she was only allowed five minutes at a time with the horrifying reflection.

But Tyler, well, he's been not so great for us to gawk at. He just swims away and refuses to face his enemy. I won't use the word wimp here. Bravery-challenged is more politically correct. Fish are sensitive, after all.

At the farm behind our house, we have been thrilled with the arrival of four young alpacas. They have the 'Beatles from the 1960's hairstyles. If I wasn't so stunned with their sudden appearance, I would have thought to holler at them to get a haircut. How can they bloody well see with all that fur in their eyes?

Our dog, Daisy, ran along their fence. The alpacas (is it too soon to name them George, Paul, John and Ringo?) were already unsettled from their landing in a new home. Now, they were encountering their first St. Bermastiff. Confused looks abounded. They knew it was not an alpaca, not part of the long neck pack. So what was it, covered in tan fur, long tail, and way too much energy? Such a long strange trip that day had held for them.

When I went back to say hello to them yesterday, the alpacas had gotten over their initial disorientation. Heads lowered, all four were chewing grass. It felt a wee bit discombobulating to me, though. All the other grass eaters have normal length necks. Alpacas have the look of goofy royalty--not a creature that spends it's day doing regular farm animal stuff. It was a week of expanding horizons for all of us.

In the excitement of the alpacas, I forgot the turkey incident. Another new arrival, a few days before Christmas, was a dozen turkeys. Although they are not expert pilots, turkeys can awkwardly flap up onto a four foot high fence. One brave turkey made it to the top of his enclosure, and then kept going to the other side. Free at last!

Daisy was so excited, she raced over to give a little nip on turkey feathers. Thankfully, she is a well trained dog, and backed off as soon as I told her to stop. The turkey gobbled displeasure at us. Daisy and I decided it was a good time to slink away. Pissed off turkeys are not fun to deal with.

I have no idea what could have happened to those turkeys, but when we returned the day after Christmas, they were gone. I'm as perplexed as you must be.

Hope you are enjoying as much entertainment this holiday season as I have been with my animal encounters. If you own a beta, be sure to buy the exercise apparatus at your local pet store. Happy New Years!

Resolving to include more entertainment and laughter in the new year? 

Check out this romantic comedy;

Heather Leigh,

Easily entertained by other creatures

The Joy of Junk

Tonight's dinner: sustainably caught Alaskan salmon, organic brown rice cooked in organic vegetable broth, organic steamed spinach, organic locally grown radishes. Another night of healthy eating.

What is wrong with my family? In high school, I existed just fine on Coca-Cola and Doritos, Twinkies for dessert. Where did my path veer away from the good tastes in life?

I blame the beginning of my dietary demise on the Diet For A New America video. Filled with horrific images of the factory farming realities of our dinner, I put down my steak knife and picked up the tofu. After that, the vicious cycle was relentless.

Back in the early 1800's, when I went to college, I became a vegetarian. Okay, maybe it was the early 1990's, but if you ask my teenagers they will easily tell you that I come from an era unheard of in their circle. Anyway, back then a salad consisted of ice berg lettuce, oily or creamy dressing, and bacon bits. I was constantly told that there was no meat on the salad, only to wipe off the crispy fried pig pieces when the salad was given to me. And, if I didn't want to starve at a friend's house, this was my meal.

I got great questions, too: "If you had nothing left to eat in the world, would you eat a steak?"
I was always polite, never saying what I was tempted: "If there was nothing left, I would eat you. Starting with that pudgy tummy. Mmmm."

These flowed into the guilt trodden years. People were cutting back on beef and pork. Then the reaction to learning of my nothing with a face diet became, "oh, I hardly ever eat meat anymore." This is when we were figuring out that animal products with every meal were not exactly what a healthy heart requires to keep beating. But rather than eating with more health in mind for themselves, the lessening of meat was intertwined with guilt. And it was as though my vegetarianism was a sling of mud in their face. That they owed me a personal apology.

This decade has gotten to be so healthy, we're borderline smug and self-righteous about how we spend our food budget bucks. Non-GMO, gluten-free, high fructose corn syrup, palm oil, and so-called natural sweeteners. We even debate cage-free over pasture-raised. Locally grown over organic. We've upped the ante, raised the bar, on every aspect of our grocery list. Then sneak over to MickeyD's on the lunch break and wolf down the Big Mac, hiding in the back of a tinted-window, hybrid SUV. If the neighbors catch you, all hope of your healthy liver cleanse will never save you from their ridicules and judgments.

This blog posting of food has got me dreaming of dessert, I'm thinking about some gluten-free, organic, non-GMO, chocolate rice cereal. With, of course, organic almond milk. But then, the organic sweeteners may not be good for my digestive system just before bedtime. Better to go with some pure, filtered water infused with fresh cucumber slices, to fill by belly.

Or maybe I should just say screw it all and sneak up to the store and buy Twinkies and chocolate syrup. What would you do?

While you are deciding which dietary path to continue on, read this wholesome, wonderful book about getting the very best from massage. Because massage is both incredibly healthy, and feels better than any junk food you could possibly ever devour.

Wolfing down the best massage you will ever get.

Heather Leigh,

One of those health nut eaters who also writes awesome books

Witch Identity Are You?

Monday, I will no longer be a witch. After much deliberation and inner angst, I decided to get the wart at the end of my nose burned off. See, it started out rather small. A little bump on the nose. It made me laugh. I'd look at my mirrored reflection and think that my true inner identity had surfaced. That the outside world would know the truth. I would never have to say a thing. An unspoken, shared knowledge that I'm not human.

But then it got bigger, and now it's ugly. Time to let go.

Does this mean that I have to explain myself with each new person in my life? That they will have to be told that I'm not like them? That they are standing before a conjurer of magic and spells? The wart let us do away with such time consuming small talk.

Have you ever gone through this? Not the wart issue, but change your identity? The way people see you? Every time you start a new job, move to a different town, go to a party filled with strangers, they don't know the roles you play. They don't know that you are the damned most awesome player of Apples to Apples, love hip hop more than your teen, and had a movie star crush on RIP Alan Rickman. My god, strangers don't even know what your favorite tree is. So pitifully hard.

What did you do? Make an announcement in a local paper? That would be so much easier than telling every one in your new town all about yourself, especially if it is a major metropolis. Giving your about-me elevator pitch, face-to-face, to a million or so people could take time away from unpacking.

I suppose social media is the way to go on this one.

This summer, I anticipate moving to another county. My plan this time around is to make up my identity. Does the new crowd really need to know I am not the direct descendant of Joan of Arc? That I am a well known author, under a pen name they could never guess? That I won the Nicest Witch of the Year Award, three times in a row? Because, all of these could be true, or at least, close to it.

Behind me in the move, I will forsake my worst reputations. Not being an efficient weed puller, an embarrassing addition in Zumba classes, the habit of wearing pajamas on work-at-home days, and not knowing how to dust. Can't say how long it will take for neighbors to learn my failings, but at least I'll have a few months of respite.

What new identity are you going to take on? We could both be related to Einstein, and share his IQ. If you want to say you invented chocolate covered strawberries, I will send a Letter of Confirmation. Definitely pretend to be on the Witness Protection Program, then only hint at the reason.

Also, practice being a witch. Get the cackle down, eat suspiciously slimy foods, buy too many straw brooms, own a black cat. If acquaintances wonder if you could cast a curse, you can get just about whatever you want. So much easier than throwing an adult temper tantrum.

Be creative in your new self. Only share with me (and anyone else who reads the comments on this page). Have fun with the fresh face that is now you!

This wild elephant has a reputation for making kids laugh, and for being big, bold and beautiful.

Scout and the elephant living in his back yard, Ellie

Heather Leigh,

Witch with elephant sized attitude

Gluten Free Tree

Daddy-Oh sent a birthday card. Read the on going investigation below:

As Dad is quite aware of my dietary wayward ways, he assured me that the illustration of the cake on the cover was gluten-free. Whew. That was a relief to me, but I still wasn't convinced that I could partake in the full reading of the card.

Was the tree that supplied the paper raised in a GMO free, organic forest? Did it have a chance to spread it's branches, cage free, toward the sun? Were pesticides, fertilizers, or harmful methane gases used to enhance growth? Did the tree get to spend its formative years with mom and dad?

And what about the birds? Before the tree was chopped down, was a six week eviction notice given to any nest dwellers? It can take a long time to find the perfect new home for baby chicks.

Had the tree ever been in an accident--hurricane, tornado, flood, tsunami or earthquake? All of these directly effect the quality of the paper. I do want a prime card, in case I choose to re-gift, or sell it to a pawn shop.

After researching my birthday card to see if I can read the inside, I'm going to tackle another project: The Golden Rule. You know the one:

Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You

This one deceptive, sneaky line has screwed up our nation for long enough. It has been the cause of decades of re-gifting, gnawed away at millions of friendships, and wrecked marriages. Do you feel my pain? You will after I explain the monumental problem.

Others may not want what I want. Get it? The Golden Rule MUST change to:

Do Unto Others As They Want

For decades (almost five--I'm getting up there), I've received boxes of every kind of chocolate known to the human race. Everything from truffles to fruit covered to fudge, even divinity. I detest all of these. It seems to be a coincidence that the giver of the chocolate is passing along his or her favorite. And then, oops! They get to eat the contents of the box.

There is only one true love for me. And that is chocolate covered caramels (a few granules of sea salt topping is the only acceptable addition). If the Golden Rule had been written correctly, I would have wolfed down cases of fine cacao and processed sugar by this time.

--okay, now that I think about it, perhaps my waist line is better off with the old Golden Rule--

Does this one-sided giving practice sound familiar? Hit home in your experiences? Ever receive a gift perfect for anyone, but you? Don't persecute the giver. They"re only exhibiting the overwhelming influence of the ghastly Golden Rule.

Repeat after me: Oh Lord, I am ready. Ready to accept myself as worthy of the New Age Golden Rule.

Join me in starting a Protest Rally: Change the Golden Rule March. This will be viral by morning. Be ready to march by the weekend. 

Protest sign ideas:

Bull the Rule

Golden is Olden

Demand YOUR Chocolate

In the comment section at the end, be sure to add your Protest sign ideas.

Want world peace? Protect yourself by only reading healthy birthday cards, and accept the new version of the Golden Rule. Spread these messages to all of those connected to you. It is for the highest good of us all.

One last thing. Before you go around thinking that I am writing against liberal ideals, think again. I am one of those smug Hybrid car owners who shops organic, buys local, and recycles carrot juice containers. But, I'm also a firm believer in making fun of myself. Because if I don't, who will?

Want more of my luscious humor and snarky insight? 

It's all here in this romantic comedy novel. 

Click here for splendiferous book

Heather Leigh,

Reader of lightly treading birthday cards.

How To Become A Cat. Whisperer

I am the caterpillar whisperer, owner of a syrup-high house for flies, and a patron of spiders.

Caterpillars cling to our house. Every Fall, the black-orange-black fuzzy crawlers return for a chance to be noticed by me. But, you argue, each year is a different generation. Correct. But the knowledge of my existence is passed from egg bundle to yearly bundle. Call it the genetic code of claspers.

How did I get my whispering title? From being their savior. Even with six eyes, caterpillars are almost blind. I have found them lying atop our outside trash can, on the side walk primed for a shoe squash, and in the crevices of my car's hatchback.

Ever so gently, I swoop up the cylinder puffs and drop them off on the nearest tree, bush, or popular green eating spot. In order not to spook the little ones, I quietly tell them about their new home. I can feel their pin headed minds relax as they know they are in a safe place. So over simply a few generations, I have become the venerated cat. whisperer. It's a beautiful thing.

Not being one to toot my own horn, I must also reveal that my car is sweeter than yours. We have the biggest Japanese maple tree in the 'hood, that drips down scraps of sap. It's broad branches and seasonally colored leaves cover most of the yard and driveway.

Plummeting sprinkles of tree sugar coat my moonglow painted hybrid. This scrumptious feast lures in flies and gnats. Insect addicts. It is a blessing that flies are not extinct. When I drive away in the morning, they are stuck to the car by their scrawny legs. It's a shameful way to die. Because if there is one thing the world needs more of, it's flies and gnats.

The birds are so pleased with the flies hanging out that they crap in excitement. My fortunate car is adorned every morning with fresh droppings from the excited birds. The animal kingdom simply is smitten with every aspect of my being.

After my joy of being a mom, cat whisperer, and fly drug pusher, I am a spoiler of spiders. It's the webs that fascinate me. Each one unique, efficient, and architecturally amazing. Spiderwebs serve as home, traps, and food containers. Spiders remake them every day.

Gazing at the corner ceiling art, I am mesmerized. Tell me of any other artist who has that skill. The many-legged never even attend web design classes.

What right do I have to destroy fine art?

So spiderwebs have to be rather old, bedraggled and disgusting before I ever have the heart to destroy them. I'm guessing that the spider appreciates their solo admirer, as there are many webs about our house. What animal doesn't love a fan?

Yes, they call me the Cat. Whisperer, and many other names.

Want to read more about brave, intelligent girls? This one is only three inches high:

Inspiring adventure for courageous readers:

Heather Leigh,

Lover of the forsaken