I’m not buying what you’re selling. Salesman hold no sway over my decision making process. I wipe the shine off every proposition and look directly into the soul of the offer. Or the Offerer, as the case may be. I have an advantage, you see. I’m hearing impaired. I tend to hear the soul and not the words. One of the many reasons I don’t spend endless nights crying about my so-called handicap.

I’m the first to admit that I’ve fallen for a line or two. But that’s merely the downside of tending to wishes with the same nurturance I tend to flowers, kitties, children and lovers. With my sights set on summer blooms, I often fail to see the thorns strewn between the stalks. Or between the lines. But eventually, when the time comes to commit – the color fades and the picture comes into vivid focus.

So what I wonder is this:  What separates the soul from the offer in the first place? Is it money? Because as much as I despise a lame cliché, there truly ARE those thriving from an honest living.

Perhaps it’s self-delusion? Possibly. I’ve just admitted to as much myself. ‘Want’ can certainly be a powerful force, I know.

Well here’s what I want:

~ To be captured for my heart and the truth in my soul – with all it’s limitations.

~ To be hired for the honest job I endeavor – honestly – to provide you.

~ To be heard. For all my wisdom, my years of experience and my desire to get it right. For both our sake.

~ To have the freedom to experiment beyond prescribed boundaries because I bring a unique set of assets to everything I do. Don’t try to cage me, because if you do, you’re losing even more than I.

One hard look at the successes in my life, whether personal or professional, make it abundantly clear that the unique human touch I bring to every undertaking can never be replicated by those plying plastic smiles and cheap promises. The finest script ever written passes right by me the moment I see into your eyes. And that’s the measure by which we should all abide.

This is me. And if this is YOU, I might be interested.

Have you ever read an advice column and thought, “What the hell?” Wishing you could jump in and add your clever 2 cents worth? Maybe you’ve worn through their same pair of shoes, or simply felt the advisor was full of crap.  Here’s your chance to chime in and add to the din. I’m launching a new column for those who’ve been struck, or perhaps stranded on the Boulevard of Love.  I’m calling it Love Street.  Jim Morrison, the self-acribed poet of love sang it best: ‘She has wisdom and knows what to do, she has me and she has you…’

Wisdom, maybe. But insight for sure. I have a harem of crazy sisters and even more lunatic friends who come to me for my twisted perspective on love and life. Why not give it a shot?

And with that…

Dear Cupcake,

A couple months ago, my boyfriend of 4 years suddenly ended our relationship over a stupid thing. I was driving down a dangerous mountain pass to meet up with him at his parents place when I was pulled over by a cop. I called my boyfriend to let him know I’d be a bit late because of it. He flew off the handle and began blaming me for everything under the sun. Not once did he ask if I was safe. It was the last straw for both of us. Looking back, this was typical of his selfish, temperamental nature. Deep down I know parting ways is the right thing to do. But I’m still terribly heartbroken because I still love him. About a week ago, we spoke for over five hours and agreed to forgive one another for all that went wrong between us. So why, then, am I still so angry with him? ~ Signed, Pissed1

Ah Pissed1… I congratulate you on escaping from Mr. Blamegame. Your were caught within an unfortunate vortex with no known event horizon. Meaning you had no chance of ever being anything to him but GUILTY.  Which looks hot on the occasional Saturday night. Trust me, it’s a look I’ve mastered. But it isn’t exactly what you want to wear every day.

You know, I’d still be Pissed too. And I wouldn’t waste an ounce of precious energy forgiving him. Your only priority right now is to heal your battered little heart and forgive YOURSELF for allowing anyone to treat you in such a disparaging way. And for so long! It’s akin to wearing white after Labor Day – it just isn’t done sweetie. Once that truth really sinks in, I suspect you’ll be even angrier with him. And justly so.

My advice to you is to buy a new pair of shoes. A really sexy, dangerous and expensive pair.  And the next time you see him, look him hard in the eyes and imagine kicking him where his tiny pebbles dwell.  He’ll feel it, I promise. And you’ll feel so much better.

Want my advice? Email me confidentially at LoveStreetCupcake@gmail.com . I’ll publish & reply to quandaries that fit neatly and safely within a post. I can’t promise magical results, but I will take you seriously. Your email gives me implicit permission to publish your question wherever and whenever.  If I know who you are, I promise to keep your identity anonymous even if bribed with a giant toblerone.

Which, in my book, makes you officially old. And it’s about time too, since I’ve been saving up nude photos of you to submit to AARP Magazine’s Annual swimsuit issue. Don’t get me wrong sweetie, I don’t mind that you’re losing your hair faster than your Hair Club membership can restore it, but we can’t afford diaper service too. One club at a time baby… at least until your social security kicks in.

To be perfectly honest, I am thankful this day has finally arrived. It officially ends all future legitimate self-references to how young you are. As I sit here folding your superhero underpants, I ask myself if you’ll ever grow up. Peter Pan has nothing on you baby. Except his fancy pants and wide, ummm… wingspan :0.

It’s true you’ve made a name for yourself around here as a Writer (and I use that expression in the most elastic of contexts), but you’re most famous for the inception of Drunk Blogging. In fact, you are the demi-god of drunken prose and grammatical iniquities. You’ve created your own secret garden replete with banged up participles, sprawling adjectives and linguistic abherrations. You batter the English language into submission like Lesner in a backroom brawl.

And yeah, you’re tough. But here’s what I know:  Behind that brick exterior and neatly trimmed chest hair, there lies a huge marshmallow heart. One that I will protect and cherish for an eternity. You truly are the poet of my heart.

Happy 34^th Birthday My Love!

May this be your best year yet!

I love you.

I’ve lost some things. Not small things, mind you.

Not so long ago, I entered that strange tunnel when everything that surrounded me was stripped away and I was left gaping like a cored apple. All my seeds were showing and the more unscrupulous f*#ks that circled around me plucked at those as well.

It’s what happens afterwards that defines us. I was reminded of that the other evening when I met a woman so bright and lovely it was as if she had been shellacked in sunshine. We talked as though we’d been handed a script, smooth as fresh milk. There were things we just knew about one another without having to ask. We cut straight to the chase - no inventory needed. It was evident in that unspoken clarity that each of us had suffered great loss. But that’s not what we talked about. It’s what we have left that made us laugh, and it surely made us cry.

They can knock me down, I said, but they can’t keep me down. They can take away my money, my house and my possessions, I continued, but they cannot take away my smile. They can crush my credit and ruin my reputation, but they can’t take away my ability to love. And no one can stop the world from loving me back, I added.

She knew exactly what I meant. She had just lost both her breasts to cancer, but not her life, she mused. She still had her beautiful children and grandchildren. And just the other night, her husband of several decades told her that she was never more beautiful than in that moment. I knew just what he meant.

I know the losing in this life will not cease. I can feel things pulling away from me even now. Losses are like dark brooding clouds. They move in when you’re not looking and rain down on you, soaking your every minute, until everything you have left is saturated and gray. And then suddenly, all that remains stands out in eerie relief against the glowing sky. What I have left is my prize.

I used to believe my life was a garden. My very own little plot of land to create in any way I wished. Season after season I could plant new ideas and bury wishes that would eventually spring into bold, vivid color. Luscious flowers would gently open before my eyes. Petal by delicate petal until they blossomed into the gorgeous future of my imagination. Blooms as big as cabbages, and birdsong to greet each new day. All would be right with the world and my place in it would be assured.

Or so I thought. The future is something no one can foretell. But still, I imagined I could make a difference. That I would reap what I had sewn.

Now we live in a time when we are fortunate to gather the fallen apples others have left behind. The grass is brittle and frozen while weeds await the precise moment when they will spring up and grow out of control.  Birds are chattering in the cold as the snow blankets their carefully built nests.

And yet it is here, in this Dead of Winter, that we are called upon to pony up our seeds of hope and plant them as the New Year dawns. Now,… while the wind howls and the dark owns the daylight and while more people are losing their jobs, their homes and their hope.

How easily I can be defeated by this cold, as anyone who knows my soul will attest. I can draw the shades, sleep through this day and night and allow my seeds to wither and die. My hope will slowly rot into the ground from which it sprang. It is not hard to imagine.

Now that I have put down roots I must choose what to do with them. It is still quite true:  The future is something no one can foretell.  But on the horizon of my dreams there is a glimmer of sunlight. Just a glimmer. So I will plant my dreams beside those roots and water them with my imperfect love and hope the sun finds me. Because in this New Year, I want a beautiful garden. And I want all my roses to be pink.

Happy New Year.

Somewhere, tucked between the pages of your day to day thoughts, you’ve hidden away the things that are most precious to you. Tiny translucent ghosts that if left unchecked, threaten to send you into flights of fancy with no itinerary. With no plan whatsoever.

These are the hidden stars of your imagination,... constellations of fancy with uncharted stories to tell, sparkling with their secret promises. Like you, I’ve fore-sworn temptation in favor of the practical here and now. Little luxuries set aside because common sense says we must do without. So much joy, so much opportunity. Squelched.

In a moment of lucidity, I realize that I’m missing my swing at bat. The pitcher holds my star, my hair smells like the wind and I should be outrunning the ball. Instead, I haven’t looked towards the sky at all recently. And I’ve forgotten where I left my cleats.

Absolute freedom is a roller coaster ride. What if I hand over my last ticket and just climb aboard? What would I hear if I let those ghosts have their say? Will they take me for the ride of my life? Or will I just blow away with the slightest disappointment?

The dust that has gathered upon my heart has nearly swallowed my dreams. And I am guilty for sitting quietly while allowing this to be so. I should have been reading the constellations overhead. And inventing new stars.

… That you spend hours and hours of every day posting and commenting on political and social posts that have no potential for advancing my home buying or selling endeavor?

… That you are sarcastic, contentious, an extremist, a know-it-all or just downright hateful? Because when I read your posts and comments to others on this forum, I am truly appalled.

… That you are not really the professional that you hold yourself up to be? Instead, you spend your day more focused upon shoving your ego into overdrive the moment a new controversy arises?

… That you will treat the potential buyer, seller, agent, or inspector of my property with total disdain and prejudice if she is gay, muslim, a republican, or fat?

The more I think about, the more I DO want to know these things about you. Before it’s too late!

I am your client, your referral source, your colleague and everyone who is looking for a Real Estate Professional. I happened upon your link while searching the internet to learn more about YOU. What I found is that you are simply one among a parade of losers who deplete the productive hours of your day in a worthless discussion about religion, politics and rag magazine banter.

I don’t mind if you engage in a healthy debate now and again, but I plan to run, not walk to the next professional who presents themselves in the manner to which I’d like to be represented. Fortunately, you have plenty of competition. Their quality posts and congenial commentary here have really impressed me.

Think about that when you next log on.

Men look. Women sneer. And the kids just get all saucer-eyed trying to figure out why a grown woman is riding her mountain bike around the neighborhood the same way they do. It’s just not normal in this town. Nearly everything is different about living here and I’ve come to realize that I’ve rather lost my way. This is how it is to be a stranger, I think. Even better, I won’t think at all. I can’t help but wonder what might happen were I to rely on instinct and habit instead. Would I appear as out of place?

A foreign object. She is me. I am her. All so very alien and unfamiliar. And so is the real estate industry in this town. To me, the way real estate is practiced here, it may as well be another industry altogether. After meeting with several of the bigger companies, I’m not sure I belong. And yet my desire to get back in the game is locked up inside of me struggling to escape. Something has to give.

I think I’ve lost my groove. A dead giveaway that something is wrong. It is possible to survive with less than my soul desires, though I am a dark romantic – always in search of elusive perfection, always wondering where, to whom, and if I truly belong. It’s the late night that gives me problems.

One thing is certain:  I have big decisions to make.

However it finally happens, it must come to me. That’s the way it has to be; that’s the way it will be. Because I know what I want and I won’t let go until I have it. Whatever that may be.

Today, hundreds of posts will populate this forum, each one trumpeting the greatness of our nation. The patriotic nature of this holiday spawns a passionate fervor. And it almost never feels like prejudice. Instead, it seems befitting of our eminence, of our central position in the social universe. 

Such arrogance astounds and saddens me. Not because I don’t love my country, but because I view patriotism through a broader lens. I love my country, yes. But I truly love my planet.  A lovely cerulean rock suspended prettily in a lemony sunbeam… this is my home. This is where my patriotism truly lies.

Celebrating independence is fine. But we are not independent anymore. We have never been more dependent on our fellow planeteers than we are in this era. To persist in this belief that somehow we are a nation standing alone, standing above, is not only arrogant, it is an exercise in self-delusion. The intertwining of our planetary co-existence is so vast, it overpowers my imagination to even ponder. So the question is, have we evolved to a place where we can celebrate our inter-dependence?

Our nation was formed by wanderers from the beginning. Wanderers, thinkers, and fighters with a collective idea. A good idea and one I truly cherish. Let us not forget though that together, by cooperating, they were able to accomplish what each man fighting alone, could not. Working together paid off. THIS is the gift they left us. Listen carefully to the whispers of our ancestors, there is a beautiful lesson in their accomplishment: We need one another.

Shall we set aside our self-important posturing long enough to spend the gift our ancestors left us and elevate ‘freedom from oppression’ to the next level? By discovering what else is possible, by coming face to face with alternative fates, we might forge a new and grander alliance. Our nation is but one stage on this vast and glorious earth. True independence will come when all of us can share in it.

When I see images of the sparkling mote of dust our planet reveals itself to be from afar, it simply takes my breath away. Everyone I have ever known, loved, admired, feared, or even heard of, has lived out their entire lives on this lonely island in space. It is our responsibility, our soul’s collective mandate to deal more kindly with one another, and to ensure the freedom of all earth’s children, so that they too, may flourish upon the wan blueness of this precious little world. The home we share. The only home we will ever know.

How well I remember the wild, wild west. That adventurous place back in time where we roped and blogged our way into the new frontier of real estate. We saddled up and settled in and found our storytelling voice. Meanwhile, others held back and circled around the campfire, perfectly content to listen awhile as we spun a few yarns under the first light of the bright western stars.

There were outlaws, gangs and gunslingers, and even a few legendary battles. Gaming, round-ups and rustlers and a few hangings to boot. Late nights in the saloon were good for drunk blogging, some spirited wrangling and if you were lucky, a new sweetheart on your arm. But more important, we had true pioneers who laid claim to the new gold of our industry. Cowboys and cowgirls with the spirit of tomorrow fearlessly plowing a new crop of writers with their inspiring guidance and expert roping skills.

Yep, those were the days. And now I wonder… where have all the cowboys gone?

It isn’t as though I awoke one morning on this hot, dry plain to find the sun hadn’t risen in it’s assigned position. Or that in the few short years since we’ve settled these hills, there haven’t been new and fresh voices. There are plenty. But the echoes in the canyons don’t reverberate with the same soul anymore. The reins have been pulled in, the stories have all been told, and things have become awfully tame on this big old dude ranch of ours.

With the rustling wind at my back, I ride into the open range and hope the old cowboys who’ve ridden off into the sunset have found their blue skies and green pastures. Their just reward for all they have given of themselves and all that we have gained from their tenure. They are missed and they are Wanted, Dead or Alive.