For two years, this has been the view from my office chair:
My husband Andre shelled out ten bucks to a Washington Square Park street vendor in New York City, on a sweltering June day, to buy this 1950's tin goddess. Once home, I gleefully hung her directly over my desk.
This became my motto.
Not because I'm a bitch, but because, drum roll please, I'm not.
Of course, at times I can be bitchy (usually when I'm hungry or tired). Or impatient (usually when I'm crafting a wreath out of dollar store ornaments at 4:30am). But I can also be thoughtful, generous and just plain silly. Truth is, my personality runs the gamut in the calm, controlled way of a well-adjusted, usually happy, always self-reflective person, living a full, beautiful life.
The slickness of my wise, all-knowing, retro muse, with full-on red lips and nails to make her naturally more authoritative, is that she's not actually commenting about bitchiness at all. Nope. To fully understand this chick, sort of like her owner, you've got to look beyond the obvious first layer, to uncover a message that goes a whole lot deeper.
To me, as she rests casually, elbow on knee, bangles a-dangling, my girl is issuing a warning about the danger of perceptions, or more accurately, misperceptions. Her message? A plea to carefully consider the movies of our lives, examine the roles given to each member of our supporting cast, then ask if theirs is a honest, accurate and up-to-date depiction.
And rest assured. If you haven't auditioned for the part, you should never accept it.