Aarrgh!

OK, I'm about to put a KNIFE in my HEAD. Sandra can't even talk and she's making me CRAZY! I can't even tuck her blanket in around her in her wheelchair without her giving me a look that says, "You can do better!"

Her other assistants don't come back until the end of January ... I'm not gonna make it.

OK, so I let her fall in a river. And the night nurse stole her camera and rings and cash. And maybe I shouldn't have taped that spoon to her hand to try and get her to feed herself.

Maybe I'm not 100% "On My Game" but DANG! Back off with that look, O'DAY!

--Sandra's Assistant
(for now)

Ball in Water

OK, so we got Sandra up to O'Day Camp thinking it might improve her mood. And today it's really warm so I thought we should try her physical therapy outside. But there's still some ice on the ground, and the river had gone up ... and both Sandra and her exercise ball fell in the river. We eventually got Sandra out, but her ball went on it's way. Here's a video.
More later,
Sandra's Assistant

Update on Sandra

Good news! We taped a spoon to Sandra's hand today so she can try to feed herself -- and she tried to stab me with it!!! That's the Sandra we know and love. More reports as they come in.
-Sandra's Assistant

A Note From Sandra's Assistant

Hey all. For those of you who don't know, shortly after Sandra's last posting she was involved in an altercation on the subway that sent her to a hospital and ICU for the past two months. I am happy to report she has opened her eyes and can now make noises that kind of sound like talking. She is also able to hold a ball in her hand! Progress!

I'm sure she is diligently working toward recovery. She seems to be, anyway.

Sincerely,

Sandra's Assistant

PS -- I'll be posting for Sandra until she gets back. (Now that I have her password!)

Probably People

If someone says to you, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” they “probably” shouldn’t. People who engage in this kind of manipulative gossip need to be rounded up and shipped to their own island where they can torture each other in a “Lord of the Flies” kind of way. Their whispered secrets, nasty rumors and flat-out lies are merely pathetic attempts to puff their egos by deflating someone else’s.

What do the Probably People get out of telling you something they “Probably” shouldn’t? They get the satisfaction of spinning you into the murk of self-doubt. They balloon themselves on smugness with the power of “Probably.” They make themselves feel big by making you feel small.

Don’t have any truck with the “Probably People.” And don’t be one. No one like a gossiping weasel-faced, back-biting jerk.

Birthday Baptism

For my birthday this year I took a week off and went up to O’Day camp. And I learned something very important on my birthday. The lesson has to do with wine, a full moon, an owl and a kayak. Bottom line, never rush out of a kayak.

Enjoy some cake.

Flaming Exclamation Point

Toilet Paper People

There are some folks who always have toilet paper in the house, and then there are those who are completely baffled when the roll runs out and they suddenly find themselves using bits of the Crate and Barrel catalogs to finish up business.

Based on my extensive experience with people of all walks of life I can pretty much make this snap judgment:

People who

A) live alone

and who

B) always run out of toilet paper

are also people who

C) forget to buy pet food, pay bills in a timely fashion and stuff their faces with junk food and chew with their mouths open.

I prefer to work with people who are prepared and aware, but usually I end up working with “Dude, what happened to the toilet paper?” types.

You know who you are. And you know you need to fix yourself so that you can become a marginally functioning person – they rest of us in this country can’t carry you forever.

So step up, grow up, and sign up for a Sandra O’Day workshop.

You can spend two intense days alone with me in my New York City studios – or you can sign up for a five week workshop at my retreat O’Day Camp.

Either way, you need to do something. People are starting to talk and it’s time you know what they’re saying.

I’ll tell you what they’re saying, and I’ll help you change it.

www.sandraoday.com

Jerk-Face Jerk

Put your legs together you jerk. She can't make herself any smaller for your over-blown ego. You are a jerk and you're lucky I just took a photo and didn't slap you in your tiny balls. (Probation is good for something.)

Label me Sandra

Our society is extremely superficial. We love labels. We love them! We love labels on our clothing, our cars and especially on ourselves. So folks slap “Christian” on themselves or “Buddhist” or “Liberal” or whatever, and then they feel they’re adequately advertising their beliefs. They’ve got the label, so they think they don’t have to do the work.

Wrong again, Sparky!

People, it’s not what you believe that matters, it’s how you behave. If you call yourself a “Christian” and you judge people before you know their story, if you steal and gossip and commit adultery, you’re not doing the work, you’re just wearing a label! It’s like carrying a Dolce and Gabbana handbag and calling yourself a model. You’re not! You’re a lazy and deluded fatty, so wake up and do the work!

Look, I don’t care what you believe. If you want to make a pyramid of coffee cans in your garage and make an alter to a ceramic cat it’s fine with me, as long as you behave courteously and respectfully toward others. I don’t care if you pray to your bacon in the morning and worship the lint from your dryer as long as you’re thoughtful and aware of those around you. It’s about kindness and decency, people, not about who wears the most popular tag on their ego.

So to those of you "working" at the Times Square "Prayer Station" get a grip and go home. You're a pain in the patootie with your "repent before God destroys you" blathering. We're just trying to get to work, so get out of the way.

The Crap Game

I recently spent some time with some O’Day Seniors. I took some very nice aged Vermont cheddar to one old gal I visit and she says, “I like yellow American cheese. Now that’s good cheese.” I took another elderly fellow a really beautiful apple pie from a local bakery. A pie I had to order a week in advance and then wait 20 minutes in line to pick up. I give it to the old dude and he promptly goes into his kitchen and comes out with an Entenmann's pie and says to me, “Now this is good pie.”

Orange dairy food product. Gummy assembly line pie filled with ingredients you can’t pronounce. I’ll give it to them. They’re super-old. They can eat all the squeeze cheese and apple goo they want.

But the rest of us need to consider, what kind of crap do we crave? What kind of crap do we shove into our bodies?

Have you ever gotten onto a subway in New York City just as school is being let out? A herd of unhealthy fat kids with McDonald’s wrappers stuck in the corners of their mouths. Fattening themselves up for the pharmaceutical companies so they can make a whole lotta’ dough offfa’ their diabetes drugs and Relacor for stubborn belly fat.

“Oh, but Sandra, fresh vegetables are so hard to find. I’m doing the best I can. I’m stressed out!”

Stressed out? It’s time to stress in folks. Look inside. You can’t make things better by popping a pill when you’re playing the crap game! The pill is just another piece of crap.

Take a good look at what you put into your mouth, people. Ask yourself who benefits. And get out of the CRAP GAME.

Why?

I spend a whole lot of time getting from appointment to appointment here in New York City and I see a lot of people. This young man stands out, however. Very white, very long ponytail, pants pulled down like a gangstah -- with a tie-dyed shirt. Confusion abounds. I wanted to grab him and force him into a Sandra O'Day One-On-One Power Seminar, but I was afraid I'd never stop slapping him.










Here's a close-up. If you know his mother please make sure she sees this.

Good Short Fire

Fresh Ground Coffee

The following conversation took place while I was visiting a friend in her very fancy, extremely expensive Manhattan apartment.

Sandra O’Day : Mmmm. That coffee smells really great, Doris!

Doris the Whiner: It better! It’s a pain in the butt to make.

Sandra O’Day: How so?

Doris the Whiner: Well, I really like super-fresh coffee. So I have to measure the beans, put them in the grinder, grind them, clean the grinder, boil the water, pour the water by hand through the filter bit-by-bit to slowly saturate the coffee ... it just takes a really long time!

A quick silence.

Sandra O’Day: Let me get this straight. You’re complaining about pushing a button on a grinder so that electricity, which you and everyone in your entire city has, will grind the expensive, designer coffee beans. Beans that were hand-picked on a treacherous mountainside in the relentless heat by someone in a developing country who has no electricity or running water and is paid a fraction of a penny for her hard work?

More silence.

Doris the Whiner: Cream and sugar?

Sandra O’Day: Black.

Hateful, Hateful Tribeca Mommies

Apparently my last posting was too “aggressive” and “violated” some stupid agreement I had made with both my parole officer and anger management therapist. So I ended up back at the smelly hippie “anger management” camp yet again.

And it was worse than last time. We had to hold hands and SING what we were grateful for every morning noon and night. We endured drum circles, talking sticks, rain sticks and regular old stick sticks. Those hippies love their sticks. I had to listen to too many self-indulgent bleeding hearts talk about their FEELINGS. Their stupid, stupid feelings. And I had to eat tofu NOTdogs, which taste like crayons dipped in butt hole.

But now I’m back.

First, I’d like to point out that all you Tribeca mommies sent me plenty of nasty-nasty e-mail. E-mail that is far worse than my last post. Your e-mail was so nasty that I can’t even post it or I’ll be sent back to smelly hippie anger management camp for violating my agreement yet again.

I can say this, however, in response to the e-mail I got from “VintageMommy.”

VintageMommy, at fifty-four years of age you are too old to be breastfeeding. You are not a "miracle of science." You are yucky. Your e-mail name should be DisgustoOldMommyWithAncientLeakySaggyBoobies. You’re going to break your old calcium-deficient hip when you trip on hideous, plastic baby toys. Nobody likes you. Not your husband, not the other Tribeca Mommies, not even your children. Your Franken-Babies are going to grow up, squander your money on charity and join the peace corp. You will have no retirement money left and you will have to go live with them up at their smelly hippie anger management camp.

And I will laugh and laugh and laugh.

Anger Management

For the past four weeks I’ve had the sheer pleasure of attending a sleep-away camp for anger management. Yes, I was packed off into the woods by a bunch of smelly hippies who were trying to help me get in touch with my “Inner Peace Maker.”

I can tell you why I’m not in touch with my “Inner Peace Maker” on a regular basis. Because people are idiots. They are stupid, rude and they have no sense of personal space. The worst offenders are people with young children. They don’t train their children properly and their hateful spawn are taking over the country. To add insult to injury these “parents” all have dogs. And they don’t clean up after their dogs. In general, these people are tremendous assholes.

(Yes. I’m using curse words. I’ll throw a fiver in the curse jar so the swearword police don’t come after me.)

My offending incident involved asking for a plastic bag at the Whole Foods in Tribeca. I know plastic is bad. I get it. Really. I really do. I usually bring my own bag, I recycle and reuse, all that. But one rainy day in New York City I dashed into Whole Foods and purchased some produce. I don’t travel with my grocery bag at every moment in my existence and I wanted to take my vinegar, lemons and arugula home in a bag that could withstand the rain –- with full plans to use the bag in the future to scoop cat poop into. But while checking out, the cashier at Whole Foods (which should be called Whole Paycheck because it’s so stupidly expensive) asked me, “Paper or plastic?” and I replied, “Plastic.”

A hush descended upon the checkout line as if I had asked for a baby-skin lampshade.

Uber-wealthy, Tribeca, fifty-year-old mommies with toddlers in strollers gasped. Their devil-spawn, designer twins pointed at me in contempt as they drooled onto their five-hundred-dollar matching hemp bibs. I was immediately branded “The Bad Lady Who Wanted Plastic.”

And you know what I did? I told everyone to fuck off. Yes. I know. I violated my parole and my own resolution to curb my use of offensive and aggressive language. But I did it anyway.

I went on a rant about the carbon footprint of designer invitro babies. I did it. I went there.

Did you know that no matter how teensy-tiny your own carbon footprint is your child’s carbon footprint is SIX TIMES BIGGER?! And that’s just one child, not the two you get for the price of one when you let your doctor play GOD.

So fuck you all you rich bitches who are having Five-Hundred-Thousand dollar TWINS while I use my plastic bag for cat shit.

I said all this out loud. And for this public expression of contempt and TRUTH I got a fine from the police for creating a public disturbance.

What about the disturbance of your double wide baby stroller and the shit from your Labradoodle that you don’t pick up?! What about that? No fine for that? WELL, THERE SHOULD BE.

No, Sandra O’Day was the one who had to spend four weeks with stinky hippies in an anger management camp where I had to eat tofu “hot dogs” that tasted like crayons.

Fuck you Tribeca Mommies. I hate you and I want to punch your toddlers in the face. And I’m not alone.

Rihanna, Wake UP!

Rihanna. Honey. I think someone made a voodoo doll with your face on it. And I think Chris Brown has stuck a few pins in the heart of that voodoo doll, because rumor has it you’re engaged to marry him. I’d like to point out that he used his fists on your face before he made any subtler moves.

I read you also recently got a tattoo. Of a little gun. On your shoulder.

Are you going to shoot him with it when he’s beating you with his fists? Is it supposed to serve as some kind of a reminder to a “better-not-be-a-next-time” clause in your so-called “relationship”?

Rihanna, I’ve served time in prison. I can assure you that the crimes I was incarcerated for pale in comparison to what he’s done to you in the past and what he will do in the future. (Beat your brains out.)

He boxed your face into a pulp before the Grammy Awards so badly that you couldn’t even perform on the show!

Jealous much, Chris Brown?

Your biggest appearance to the nation should have been doing what you do best – SINGING! Instead, you made your biggest splash as the poster girl for abuse in the tabloids the next day.

He is using you to advance his career. And if you don’t play along with his enormous ego you’re going to end up being our next Whitney Houston. A huge talent chained to a toxic loser.

Rihanna, you don’t have to become just another Mrs. Brown.

You don’t have to apologize for being gifted.

No one should ever do that. Wake up, take a deep breath and stop apologizing for being the bigger talent.

An open letter to Rihanna

Rihanna. Honey. Chris Brown beat you. He made your face look like a peach that had been thrown down stairs. Maybe you need to take a break and testify at his hearing before you start going on vacation with him.

Hooking up with that ape again is stupid and dangerous. It’s a hazard to your health and it sends a message to women everywhere that it’s OK to go back to moronic cavemen who beat them. It’s not OK. It’s wrong. It’s as wrong as drunk driving or huffing spray paint and then operating a forklift.

Tell you what. I’ll send him a T-shirt with the police photo of your beaten face on it. Make him wear it every time you’re with him, so you can get a good look at him and what he did to you. (And what he will do again.)

Have him wear it in the recording studio where you’re recording a duet with him for his new album.

I hope your face isn’t the percussion instrument for the song.

Watch Oprah on Thursday the 12th. She's talking to you.

Wake up, Rihanna. You deserve better, and he deserves time in jail.

The "I'm Not There Yet" Game

One of my clients recently told me that she can’t have sex with her husband because she doesn’t like her body.

WHAT? A woman who isn’t 100% happy with her body?! How unusual. How unique. (I hope you notice the sarcasm font.)

She said she had gained some weight in the past few years, and her husband is still all over her, but she’s too embarrassed by her body to have sex with him. She said that she’s, “Just not there yet.”

OK, honey, are you insane? He thinks you’re hot. So be hot. Don’t wait until you think you’re sexy -- because most of us can’t live up to our own rigid standards. Your husband, however, still gets rigid when he sees you fresh out of the shower wearing only a towel. HE is the one who desperately wants to help you get out of the “I’m Not There Yet” game.

Take off the towel, knock him onto the bed or the table or the floor and feel good about the fact that HE'S TOTALLY INTO YOU!

People, we’re only as attractive as we let ourselves be. Don’t play the “I’m not There Yet” game. Be there. It’s where you are. It’s called NOW, and NOW is pretty dang sexy.

GOYA!

My neighbor in New York City is a very large, unhealthy, junk food addict. She works from home, so she rarely leaves her small apartment.

We New Yorkers live in the most convenient city in the word –- a city where you can have anything delivered, and my neighbor most certainly has everything delivered.

She even had an exercise ball delivered, which popped soon after she sat on it. She was disappointed not because it popped, but because she had hired somebody to blow it up for her and wasted the money.

Recently she adopted a scrappy looking dog. Dogs need to be taken for walks on a regular basis. Amazingly, my neighbor is doing this chore herself, and I think she may be dropping some pounds.

I saw her on the street the other day and had the following conversation:

Sandra O'Day: Hey Neighbor! Cute dog. What's his name?

Big Neighbor: I named him Goya.

Sandra O’Day: Because you like Goya beans and food products?

(Silence)

Big Neighbor: No. It’s an acronym. Goya stands for Get Off Your Ass.

Sandra O’Day: I’m stealing that from you.

Big Neighbor: Take it and run with it, O’Day.

Do it folks! G.O.Y.A.!

Is That A Jet in the River ...

... or are you just happy to see me?

Thanks to pilot Chelsey B. Sullenberger III for safely "ditching" in the Hudson River and not landing in the O’Day offices. Photos taken by my assistant from the office balcony.




What a neighborhood!

Avalanche of Upheaval

Hello O’Dayers! Greetings from the O’Day offices here in New York City, and boy-howdy has it been busy! 2009 has taken off like a rock rolling down a very steep hill, and there’s no trying to stop it. At first I was overwhelmed by all the new and challenging demands. I was even a little bit frightened that I wouldn’t be in control of my schedule and environment! But then I realized that I was playing the “Control Game!”

Folks, let’s face it. We can improve ourselves, set goals and work toward them, but sometimes our circumstances change. Appliances break down, people show up to stay with you for weeks on end, friends burst into flames. But it doesn’t mean you can’t continue to improve yourself, it just means you have to do so in a completely different environment in which you thought you’d be working.

Trouble starts when you think the events around you are an excuse to stop your self-improvement.

Cookies are not the answer! Skipping a vigorous workout routine is not the answer! Crawling under you bed and crying in the dust-bunnies is not the answer!

Embrace the change! Ride the snowy crest of the avalanche of upheaval –- otherwise you’re going to suffocate in the wet snow of resistance.

So for all of you tumbling head first into 2009 I say, “Ride it out, and ride into the New You!”

Happy Two Thousand and Fine!

Here we are, O’Dayers! Rolling into another year! And boy, it looks like it will be a real adventure. Two thousand and eight went out with a whirlwind of scandal. Between money trouble on Wall Street, the economy crashing like a lead balloon in a hurricane and the biggest Ponzi scheme in history, we didn’t know which way to turn. Seems the minute we checked our backs for knives someone was pitching horseshoes at our faces.

I remember looking down at my investment statements for one second, saw my money was gone, and looked up to see bankers and CEOs lining up for a government handout. Is Washington a soup kitchen, now?! When did that happen?!

“Oh, boo hoo, boo hoo, nobody will buy the crappy cars I make! Wahhh – Wahhh.”

Let’s get a grip right now, people.

Yes, times are going to be tough. That means we have to keep our chins up and keep plugging, not roll over and whine and kick the air like spoiled fat children.

We made this bed together. So let’s TAKE ACTION right now. It’s time to roll out of our dirty bed, do the laundry and when the bed is made again let’s make it a point not to sleep with people who tell us we can spend three times what we earn. Let’s not hop into the sack with liars just because they act folksy. Let’s remember people’s names and take numbers. It's called responsibility, and it's time to invest in it.

Let's invest in MAKING our dreams come true. No more wishing on stars. Wishing on stars is for lazy animated crickets! Besides, stars are millions of light years away! Why put your dreams off for millions of light years?! Let’s put on our MAKE and TAKE some action!

You can do it, I can help you.

Happy New Year!

www.sandraoday.com
PowerofSandra@aol.com