the two-suitcase project


The Piscean Princess Extravaganza (you can read about that here) was a raging success. So much so that when I returned home to San Jose from Santa Monica — I knew I didn’t live here anymore.

There’s post-vacation funk and then there’s you’ve-seen-where-you-are-supposed-to-be-and-now-you-are-not-there….funk.

I’ve been planning my exit strategy from San Jose for awhile now — I was never a fangirl of it — and now that the Incredible Exploding Marriage is behind me, there is nothing keeping me here (except for my brilliant evil genius Jillian — Scarecrow, I will miss you most of all!)

It’s been a toss up between NYC and Santa Monica for my next destination — and my birthday trip was the tie breaker. My concern about Santa Monica was that it might be full of plastic hipster posers with the combined depth of a paddling pool. I was wrong. Santa Monica was the funkiest, friendliest place I’ve been in quite some time and everywhere I went people wanted to play with me. (Do NOT try this in San Jose).


It’s where the girl with the pink hair, with the whimsical heart, who believes in magic lives.




I could pine away for Santa Monica for another three months. Or I could make it happen now.

I gave my landlord my notice. Created the plan and the to-do list to end all to-do lists to move to Santa Monica in 30 days. I can do anything I set my mind to and I’m no stranger to leaping before the net appears. Only this time, it appeared that not only was there no net…but the ground disappeared as well. Sort of like jumping in to a vortex. Yay?

The universe was unimpressed with my fancy Post-it Note countdown calendar on the wall. And sort of laughed in my face. Well, more accurately…it stuck out its foot, tripped me, kicked sand in my eye…and then laughed in my face.

I was in the belly of the Rabbit Hole — no ground in sight, with seemingly no control over the next move + weirdo Craigslist villains jumping out from the shadows at me. Wheeee!

It really sucks to know what you want to do — and not be able to make other people cooperate the way you need them to. And it never ceases to baffle me when people don’t act like good humans. (FYI Born-Again fellow on Craigslist — you can’t say you’re a good human while you are trying to swindle me out of money for an apartment that doesn’t exist. C’est tres gauche.)

Having numerous decisions weighing on where I’ll be living in 3 weeks — while not actually having a place to live in three weeks and starting to have stress nightmares in which I was lungeing out of a dead sleep to save someone from being shot in the head (wtf!?)…I had to be reminded:

Breathe. You are OK. Nothing is wrong. (but, maybe….lay off the caffeine for the time being)

I took a mental health day…



And the Two-Suitcase Project was born.

The main premise being to boil my life down in to two suitcases…and just go. I can make anything happen and I don’t need other people to act the way I want them to for that to happen — basically… I can “rescue my own damn self”.

Without trying to have it all figured out right-this-instant and trying to carry my entire (old) life on my back I can let it go and embrace the adventure. And thanks to the magic of AirBnb I get to have a place to land, meet new people and explore a few different pockets of the Santa Monica area before finding my just-right place.

Can she boil her life and her business down in to two suitcases? Stay tuned!

In the meantime, I’ll be kicking it with the universe over a delicious beverage and laughing about that time it kicked sand in my eye.

becoming the magician

Things are gearing up for the Piscean Princess Extravaganza — aka…my birthday. Pretty much my favorite day week month of the year — because I’m sort of in to me.

My tarot card for this year (covers the year from birthday to birthday) is The Magician — which is all about the ability to make. shit. happen. Although there is a ton (a tonne!) of work and growth happening behind the scenes here— I’ve been a little disappointed in the tangible growth for myself and my business in 2014 thus far. But as the 28th approaches — I can literally feel the momentum building. It’s a little scary, in the good way.

So understandably, the dominant emotion at the moment is complete overwhelm. Last week I described my brain as a ninja maniac (that likes to chase Squirrel!). My head is so filled with ideas and projects and things I want to accomplish — that it’s been almost impossible to capture them in any retrievable format and create a plan to follow through consistently. I’ve downloaded planners and workbooks and project management apps — but so far nothing fits. So I continue to live in the land of Post-It Notes. (Buuut, I think I may have found a ridiculously fun + magical solution to tame the overwhelm that will be completely customizable…hoping to be able to share that with you next week.)

Anyways…back to the Piscean Princess Extravaganza, shall we.

The personal work I’m doing for myself right now is requiring me to constantly step out of my comfort zone — basically to blow up the damn thing. Living outside my comfort zone basically means being a little scared and a little uncomfortable all the time — which is nothing like lying on the beach in Cabo drinking Mexican Monkeys. Nothing.

But some pretty amazing stuff happens when you let yourself be uncomfortable — and before you know it…that’s your new comfortable.

My birthday is usually quite fancy — but this year it’s completely outside the comfort zone and involves checking off several bucket list items. (I’m the Magician. I get shit done. My new creed.)

Piscean Princess Extravaganza

 Here’s the PPE Plan so far:

1) Major hair make-over later this week — there will be pink involved

2) Solo road trip to a new city with very little agenda

3) Watching the sunrise on Santa Monica Beach (and then diving straight in to the ocean — no tippy toe-ing)

4) Having a cocktail at SUR lounge (of Real Housewives/ Vanderpump Rules fame — Hi, I’m Lisa and I’m addicted to the Real Housewives of Anywhere.)

(That’s my hipster beach-front pad…complete with silver hipster cruiser bike above. Renting a room in a lovely Aussie chap’s condo — if you know me, you know I’m pretty attached to my space…so this is a complete 180 from my usual travel MO)

Every item on this list scares the shit out of me.

That must mean I’m on the right track.


you are not broken…but you might be homesick

Disclaimer: This post was originally titled “F*ck Drugs” because I hate how drugs alter and steal beautiful souls. But, ultimately it’s not about the drugs — so I made a wee tweak…but I still wanted to say it. Because it’s worth saying. Let’s just call it the subtitle.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s death over the weekend deeply affected me. He is likely my favorite actor of all time — but it was more than that.

I have directly experienced the chaos and torture that drugs create and seen beautiful souls disappear — souls who didn’t understand how loved and loveable they were. And I’ve been in that place where the pain feels so excruciating that you would do just about anything not to be there anymore.

There are many reasons why PSH’s death feels like such a tragic and senseless loss. But I would probably boil it down to it always sucks to know that someone was in that much pain. Enough pain to prefer a soul crushing escape — that for the majority…there is no way back from.

It seems particularly sad that you can be outwardly brilliant, successful, celebrated and loved by millions (and now mourned by as many strangers)  — and still not be able to celebrate and love yourself. Because ultimately, that’s where all pain comes from.

Pain is the difference between where you are and where you want to be.

And as humans — we most want to be seen, heard, accepted…feel like we belong, like we are worthy and like we matter. To feel OK inside our little pod. No small task — even when you have an Academy Award that is supposed to prove that you are all those things.

We came here to rock out with our socks out — unleashing our unique gifts and genius with glee on this crazy planet. The twist is that we all have smooshie, vulnerable, delicate tootsie pop centers. That tend to get dinged and chipped as we go about the business of life. Pieces of us get scuffed up or lost and we stop believing in our magic.

Nothing is broken — just temporarily separated. Askew, if you will.

It is painful to be separated from pieces of yourself. The longer and further away from your Self you are — the more homesick you get. Being homesick because you are away at summer camp for a month is miserable. Being homesick because you are separated from pieces of you — for years, or more often decades, at a time — is excruciating.

But Fuck Drugs? Really? Didn’t he choose to do drugs?

Drugs/addiction are just a symptom of homesicknesses — one of many coping- mechanisms-gone-wrong. Depression, fatigue, anxiety, eating disorders, abusive relationships, soul-sucking jobs, emptiness/ apathy/ boredom etc are other flavors of homesickness. A completely whole person — with their tootsie pop center intact — could not choose any of these things for themselves.

When I heard the news yesterday, I just wished that there was a hug strong enough, or words kind enough to take the pain away … to let someone realize how magical they are, how worthy they are and how much they matter.

But there isn’t.

It’s an inside job.