Why? Oh, because naturally we women HAVE to watch what we eat. Or we’ll be fat. And if we’re fat, well, naturally nobody will like us. We’ll be the fat kid in the corner and people will call us names. And we’ll be all alone. Forever. Sounds extreme, but that’s what the media’s trying to tell us. Be a good little girl, tell your appetite to shut up and everything will be just fine. Because after all, “nothing tastes as good a skinny feels.”

I used to believe this. I don’t anymore. Now I eat the fucking piece of cake when I want it. Because I’m the ruler of my universe. And I know exactly what I crave.

But it wasn’t always that way. When I was 12, I was hospitalized for anorexia, and later, I suffered secretly from bulimia. I used to starve myself, binge, then purge by exercising until my legs were about to fall off. Or I would just make myself puke. I would not leave my house until I had exercised for at least three hours because I wanted to punish myself for eating the “wrong things” that girls “shouldn’t eat.” Why? Because commercials, ads and female friends always told me there was a right and wrong–a type of morality involving food–and for some stupid reason, I believed them without questioning any of it. I acquiesced to demands of what women should and shouldn’t do in order to be accepted. Or, to at least feel accepted. I wanted to be part of the skinny girls club. The cool, Euro supermodel-type club. The posse of girls who feel guilty for eating cucumbers. But trying to be part of that “world” made me miserable.

I don’t say any of this because I want a pity party. Because believe me, I’ve thrown enough of those for myself in the past. I say this because I want you to be aware of a few things for yourself. Let me explain.

I want you to know that it is okay to think, act, eat, and feel the way you want to feel without questioning or second-guessing it. See, my unhealthy relationship with food was really a bigger metaphor for my relationship with life…and specifically, myself. I always sought approval and wanted others to tell me I looked “good.”

I ate the “right foods” because I wanted to be thin–really thin–so that people would be concerned about me and take care of me. Because I did not believe I could take care of myself or live without the approval of others. I didn’t feel that me taking care of me was enough. All I wanted was love, but love from others. Loving myself the way I was…that was never enough. I just wanted people to admire me and adore me for being thin. I wanted everyone to want me. But getting people to want you is very exhausting. After a while, you forget to want yourself. You forget what loving yourself feels like. You forget that you are even remotely lovable.

I equated my weight and eating behaviors with lovability. And the anxiety I had over keeping my 95-pound figure was unbearable. Although I always loved food and was never overweight, I refused to even dot my fat-free pancakes with a smidge of butter when butter is what I wanted so deeply in that moment. I lived on raw, tasteless veggies with tofu, petrified to use olive oil or anything fatty, fearing it would show up on my thighs hours later. Then of course, I would always feel dissatisfied with my lackluster meal. I would later binge and ruin all my hard work, only to create the vicious cycle of punishing myself, starving myself, and starting the binge-purge madness all over again. This is because I accepted society’s jab at women. I shut myself up and ate only salad when I wanted a steak. If your first reaction to my “discipline” is “way to go” or “I wish I could be that good,” then you might need professional help.

I am not trying to make you fat. I promise. I think it is really great to eat your veggies every day and to take excellent care of your body. That, too, is part of loving yourself and feeling good. But watching every calorie doesn’t make you more lovable. It doesn’t make you a better person. And it doesn’t make you any happier than the chick eating a cheeseburger and fries at Shake Shack right this very moment.

I am just telling you that you should stop assigning a moral value to food. Food is just food! Even the worst possible food — a deep-fried donut– isn’t going to jump out of the box and claw your face off (My cat is more likely to do that). Start using common sense. Your ass isn’t going to break a chair right after you eat a Krispy Kreme. Eat one every single day, and well, we’ll talk.

My suggestion? Stop listening to critics who tell you you must suppress your appetite and control exactly how much you eat. Yeah, maybe your body won’t be too happy if you scarf down too much cereal in one sitting. But then again, it really is your business and no one else’s. Nobody else should tell you what to eat. Unless you are obese and at risk for a heart attack or diabetes, it’s nobody’s concern to tell you how much you should weigh. Numbers should never, ever define you. Weight, age, dress size…all the numbers we women obsess over…are just numbers to which someone, somewhere, long ago assigned meaning.

And now you get to erase that meaning. You should be the judge of whether your body wants a cup of pasta or a decent-sized bowl feasible for dinner. This is where intuition comes in. This is where you stop and ask yourself–REALLY ask yourself- what you want.

Eat a little bit of what you want when you want it. Do this in moderation, of course. Obviously, don’t go eating a Big Mac every day. But satisfy the craving and you won’t have the urge to binge. You won’t feel deprived one bit!

For all women who live on diet “ladylike” products and feel like they need to punish themselves when they “cheat”: your inner child is crying inside and begging you to have a little fun. Stop punishing yourself for having a high-calorie cocktail with the girls at happy hour or enjoying a bowl of ice cream once in a while. Even if it isn’t frozen yogurt and even if you decide to “go all the way” with hot fudge…know that your body will forgive you. Yes! your body will forgive you! Your mind, however, is causing the problem by holding a grudge against your actions. So stop it, already!

If you’re concerned with the extra calories, never eat your ice cream alone. Always enjoy it with an episode of I Love Lucy or something to make you laugh. After all, laughing burns calories.

But just for today, I ask you to stop judging yourself for eating what you choose to eat. Just for today. Just be mindful and be aware. But please, don’t judge or pick on yourself. Try it JUST for TODAY. We will work on tomorrow, tomorrow.

Photo credit: AiPetcher

A lot of the time, when I am living my truth and doing what I believe is right, I feel I’m going to get burned for it. Usually, though, it’s my own fear of living this truth that smokes me. The fear and anxiety feels like a stream of tiny, blood-sucking red ants skittering through my veins, gnawing at my insides. They feast on the sugar of my soul; anything that makes me remotely happy. And then I feel powerless—paralyzed by their sting, itching to get out of my own body. I sometimes want to just let them devour me. But I haven’t. And I won’t. But it’s hard.

So many of us live in constant fear. Fear of not having enough. Fear of not being enough. But fear is the worst type of cancer of the soul. And if we don’t find a way to control this fear, it will eat us alive.

Yesterday was the feast day of Joan of Arc, a teenage warrior-turned-saint who was burned at the stake for listening to the “heavenly voices” urging her to lead the French army against the English forces. Although she was successful in battle, she was called a witch and a heretic for following the “voices” and was scorched to death. I cannot even begin to imagine how scared she must have been, not only in battle but when she learned of her fate. But she rebelled until the end. Is she a failure because she died? No. Because she showed us all how to live.

Joan of Arc taught us that we must do what it is we are being called to do. But first we have to listen.

What does this even mean? It means to reflect on your life right now. It means to live fiercely by seeking the lifestyles, careers and people that naturally make you feel happy, whole and fulfilled. Being a warrior means to stop and ask yourself, “am I living my life for me, or am I following some social norm that tells me I’m a lunatic if I don’t live a certain way?”

Here is my advice: Be a warrior like Joan by fighting the external, destructive fire with the creative fire inside you — the gorgeous blaze that lights up your soul and enlivens those around you.

The first step to becoming a warrior is to care. For yourself. For the world. If you care, you have to bravely accept and acknowledge the anxiety and the fear that are suffocating you. Then, you must seek help. You must meditate, pray, read, seek professional help, attend support group meetings…anything that helps to patch up your emotional armor so you can bravely seek your desired life.

People will tell you that you are stupid and crazy for following what you believe in. You will be laughed at for verbally defending yourself when you’re poorly treated. You will be called irrational if you leave your well-paying job for a simple lifestyle of philanthropy or dump your fiancé because he doesn’t at all support your career, passions, and life path. You will be called a nutcase for deciding, after much thought and reflection, to quit a job that’s so emotionally and physically draining, when you don’t have another one immediately lined up. You will be chastised for taking a leap of faith. You will have to deal with consequences of taking this leap of faith. You might lose friends and you might no longer associate with certain family members. You might end up in debt for a while.

But I assure you, if you are living your life from a place of love–doing what you believe, in YOUR heart, is what you need to be doing–you will be guided to a very personal, very fulfilling victory.

This I believe.

Photo credit: Maxim

I turned on MTV this morning to find yet another blonde chick shaking her ass and waving her bedazzled leopard print manicure in front of the camera. But it wasn’t just any blondie. It was Ke$ha. I freaking love this girl. Let me tell you why.

Ke$ha has come a long way–from being the random chick who puked in Paris Hilton’s closet after “The Simple Life” to the pop star whose hit songs “Tik Tok,” “We R Who We R,” and “Die Young” have made her a success of much higher volume than her teased, bleach-blonde hair.

Sure, many people hate her because she rap-talks her way through most of her songs. Perez Hilton dislikes her because he thinks she “looks like she smells and never showers” (Source: PerezHilton.com). And his comment is one the least abrasive ones I’ve seen. This girl gets blasted for having “nails on a chalkboard vocals” and dressing like a “slut” with “drug and alcohol problems”(amplicate.com). She has also been called stupid, fake and talentless.

Yet, although she does walk around like a hungover baby dominatrix in skin-tight leotards and an excess of glittery eyeshadow (sorry honey, ‘ya do), her style doesn’t make her any less lovable, and it definitely doesn’t make her dumb. Ke$ha is, in fact, brilliant. She received a near-perfect score on her SATs and was in the international baccalaureate program at age 17. She was about to go to Columbia University to study psychology. But she gave it all up, quitting high school and following her dream to become a star (source: Ke$ha’s official website, www.keshasparty.com). She was broke and living on food stamps, but changed her life by chasing her dream…probably with a shot of Jack Daniels (JK!).

Many people say she had and (still has) no idea what she was doing. That’s not true.

Ke$ha’s every move is brilliantly deliberate, from her overexaggerated party-girl appearance to the dollar sign replacing the “s” in her name. And while she seems childish, soulless and overly commercialized to a lot of haters (from the music critics who pan her to the evangelical hypocrites who call her the devil), she serves a good purpose. She helps people to have fun on the dancefloor and to stop taking life so damn seriously all the time. I think this chaotic, often depressed world needs a little Ke$ha every now and then to shake out the blues. And I actually think she wants to make people get up, dance and be happy.

While she may not be a role model for little kids, she’s a role model for all of us adults who worry way too much what people think of us. Ke$ha lives an unfettered, unfiltered life. And I don’t think that’s such a terrible thing.

All I’m saying is that I think there’s more to this starlet than meets the eye. And I would like to hear more of her. If you can’t stand her, then just change the channel. Simple as that. I also think you should listen to this awesome NPR piece that captures Ke$ha’s personality. Find it here.

Also, be sure to catch her new reality series, My Crazy Beautiful Life, on MTV.

Charlie Brown / Charles Schulz

Charlie Brown is the ultimate schmuck who fails at nearly everything he attempts. He’s the little guy we can all relate to when we burn the toast, spill the coffee or miss the last two steps on our way down the stairs (owwww!).

But despite his foibles, his fumbles on the football field, and his sorry choice of a Christmas tree, Charlie Brown never fails to win our affection. No matter how many times he takes a tumble in the dirt…no matter how many times Lucy bitchslaps him in her five-cent advice booth, he keeps on chuggin’ along. He loves with all his heart.

Yes, he’s known for throwing his hands in the air and shouting “good grief” every time something goes wrong. Interestingly enough, it’s not long before he’s back on his feet and playing on the field with the rest of the Peanuts gang. He forgives and moves on effortlessly.

Charlie Brown seems, at times, like an 85-year-old curmudgeon trapped in the body of an eight-year-old who doesn’t know enough to change that yellow shirt that probably smells like yesterday’s dirt and disappointments. He’s jaded and afraid to be happy in fear that something will go wrong. He is easily discouraged and often wants to give up in his pursuit of happiness. And yet he never officially does give up. Really, all he wants is a chance to not suck at something. He wants to make other people happy, but everyone seems to think he’s even a failure at that. He can’t cook a turkey, so he throws together his own version of a “Thanksgiving meal” consisting of buttered toast, popcorn, pretzels and jelly beans. Of course this agitates his friends who want turkey.

To me, though, Charlie Brown’s pathetic little meal is adorable and perfect. It’s a heaping plate of his love; it’s all he knows how to prepare, and it’s all the food he has in the house. It’s all he has to give. That’s what makes it so memorable.

I am going to say something along the lines of Julia Roberts, whose character Shelby in the movie Steel Magnolias said, “I would rather have 30 minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” Well, I would rather sit at a table with sweet, imperfect Charlie Brown and enjoy his mediocre feast of carbs than indulge in a spectacular meal prepared by a meanie who would stab a friend in the back with the same knife he used to carve the turkey. In the end, good, real and caring people do win.

I don’t care whether Charlie Brown can kick the football or not. I want him on my team.

Photo Credit: Michael Gottlieb

I know this sounds wrong, but after watching the so-bad-it’s-good movie Mannequin (1987) starring the gorgeous Kim Cattrall (pre- Sex and the City, of course) and adorable Brat Pack alum Andrew McCarthy, all I want to do is hide in between the clothing racks at Bloomingdales, sneak out after hours with a hottie, try on all of the most expensive clothes and slide across the makeup counter in Louboutins while lip-synching 80s tunes. Role play is so sexy! I’d love to switch from rocker babe to Gatsby-esque flapper to modern uptight socialite to East Hampton bathing beauty all within an evening’s time. I am sure the rent-a-cops would have a blast watching it all on tape the next day.

But wouldn’t the mischief of it all lead up to best sex ever? Well, sure, as long as there ain’t no elevator music playing in the background. Nothing like a little Kenny G. or Michael Bolton to kill the mood. But a little Chaka…now we’re talking.

A pan with only a few lingering driblets of red sauce is like the messy bed after a night of ravenous lovemaking.- Me

There’s a scene in the movie “Meet Me In St. Louis” (1944) where Esther Smith (Judy Garland’s character) swoons over the guy who recently moved in next door. She sits on her windowsill, twirling her hair and gazing at him from a few yards away. Of course, he doesn’t see her. He doesn’t even know her. But she’s already in love—determined to find a way to strike up a romance with John Truitt, the sweet-eyed cutie pie who lives at 5133 Kensington Avenue.

I never thought the same thing would happen to me.

Oh, it happened to me.

The second I moved into my old apartment and saw him through the peephole, I knew I just had to see this scruffy, rugged outdoorsman eat my cooking like a caveman – down n’ dirty – without a fork. I wanted to make a mess with him in my kitchen. If only I could get him to notice me.

I had done everything from listen to the wall with the back of my martini glass in lieu of a stethoscope. I pressed my back against the wall to feel his footsteps in the next room. Let’s be honest: we all know that I wanted him in my room. Better yet, in my bed.

I’d go downstairs to put my laundry in the wash then fall asleep on my couch, humming the Mr. Rogers theme song. I would accidentally leave a thong, a sock or an oven mitt on the floor as bait. He would casually knock on my door to ask if I’d been missing an item of clothing. I almost replied, “I’d love to be…” But instead I just invited him in for a glass of wine.

One night around 11:30, I arrived at his door wearing a pink and black cheetah print dress, carrying a steaming plate of yum yums. He was confused, but he sure was happy to see me. I didn’t know whether it was the food or the dress. Nonetheless, my cooking began a two-year fling with the smokin’ hot boy next door.

I love feeding people, but I especially enjoy feeding men I date. I also love when they cook for me (hint, hint). Cooking is such an act of communion with your lover. It’s all about adoration, appreciation, and sex appeal. Try this recipe for your sweetie and you’ll see and taste exactly what I mean.

Tease Me, Please Me Turkey Burgers Stuffed with Mozzarella (Topped with Roasted Tomatoes & Pesto)

What you’ll need:

• 1 lb. ground turkey
• 2 eggs
• 1 handful of breadcrumbs
• Fresh parsley
• 1 mozzarella ball per patty (so have about 5 or 6 ‘mozz balls on hand!)
• Basil
• 3 chopped garlic cloves
• 1 finely chopped onion
• Olive oil

For the roasted tomato-pesto mixture:
Pick up some fire-roasted tomatoes from the deli bar at your local grocery store. You can even use sun-dried tomatoes (my favorite) for this recipe! This recipe doesn’t require a homemade pesto sauce. Why go out of your way to make it when you can find something perfectly delicious in the sauce aisle? After all, we’re only using it as a condiment here. And it’s going to be yum-a-licious.

What to do:

1. Mix ground turkey with breadcrumbs and eggs, then add the garlic, onion, chopped parsley, chopped basil, 1 teaspoon of salt and 1/2 teaspoon black pepper. I also like to add a teaspoon of olive oil for extra flavor.

2. Use your hands to mix everything together nicely.
Form medium-sized patties in the palms of your hands, then press a small mozzarella ball right into the center of the burger patty.

3. Bake your patties on a non-stick cookie sheet for about 15 minutes at 350 degrees, or until the burgers are golden brown and cooked thoroughly on the inside and outside. The mozzarella will ooze out of the burger when you cut into it…delicious!

4.  Top with your roasted tomatoes and store-bought pesto sauce. This turkey burger is so delicious that it doesn’t even need a bun. But if you need your carb fix, be my guest. And enjoy!

LetsCleanUp.com.au

When I’m feeling sexy, I tend to attract positive things into my life, and I also have a hell of a lot more fun. Here are a few ways you can help yourself feel like a goddess right now. Believe me, your soul will purr when you’ve accomplished everything on this list.

1. Lose your sweatpants. Please, honey. The only thing you’re attracting right now is a handful of lint pills on those over washed Victoria’s Secret PINK sweatpants. Put on some cute shorts or a flirty skirt that makes you feel your sexiest. Remember, you don’t need to wear dresses to feel sexy. You need to wear what makes YOU feel sexy. If that means a pair of tight-fitting jeans that show off your booty, then so be it. If it means wearing a pair of destroyed jeans with a hot tank top, then go for it. Just make sure you’re not wearing something that makes you want to curl up on the couch and fall asleep. Unless you plan on simply having dreams about sex and not going anywhere. That isn’t the goal today, though!

2. Spritz on some perfume. Don’t overdo it, though. You don’t want to smell like a hoochie in Gucci perfume. Wear something that boosts your mood. I recommend LAVANILA – a combination of lavender and vanilla that smells like the sex bed of angels. http://www.sephora.com/vanilla-lavender-fragrance-P231501

3. Brush your teeth and clean your tongue thoroughly. Most people don’t realize that the tongue is where much of the bacteria remains in your mouth. Gross, yes, but if you clean it properly with toothpaste and a tongue scraper, your mouth will be minty fresh and you will feel delicious!

4. Fix your makeup. Freshen your eyeliner and add some fresh blush to give your cheeks a shiny apple glow. But too much blush can make you look like Ronald McDonald. And we aren’t trying to get onto a Mickey D’s campaign. Natural and simple is best, with a coat of your favorite lipstick. Anything that makes you feel powerful.

5. Role play. Sometimes it’s fun to pretend you’re the lead character of a romantic comedy or epic love story. As long as you don’t take it too far and develop an identity crisis, you’re good

6. Eat something sensually and slowly. Say, a lollipop or a banana. You will feel a whole lot sexier when you take your time while eating. You shouldn’t rush through sex, so why rush through eating that yummy banana? Be sure to peel it slowly, too

7. Exercise. No, I am not one of those people who encourages exercise as a way to prevent the “muffin top.” I encourage exercise for the health benefits. But did you know that you can also increase your sex drive significantly when you work out? Hell yes, sista! According to a study published on ABC News, weight lifting, yoga, running, biking and even walking can give women feelings of sexual pleasure or something called Exercise Induced Orgasm. My kind of workout! Read more about it here: http://abcnews.go.com/Health/study-reveals-coregasm-orgasm-exercise-real-women/t/story?id=15955635

8. Dim the lights. Bright lights give me a headache. Turn to dimmer floor and table lamps for a sexy effect. Burn scented pillar candles that smell like your favorite dessert. Good enough to eat.

9. Fantasize. I do it all the time. Do you have any idea how many beautiful men I have fiercely undressed in my mind while on the subway? Let yourself imagine. What’s the hurt? It’ll only make you feel better and get your mind off of other things that are bothering you.

10. Listen to sexy oldies. Nothing like a little Chaka Khan, “Sweet Thing.”

11. Find your favorite body part and accentuate it with color, jewels, beads, feathers, whatever!

12. Ditch the granny panties. Or ditch the panties altogether. When appropriate, go free! There may be a time and a place for these. Now is not that time. Putting on your Big Girl Panties means knowing when to take them off.

13. Paint on a coat of bright, sexy nail polish on your fingernails and toenails. This makes such a positive difference in the way you will feel. Just please, please don’t dig into your handbag to answer the phone when you’ve painted your nails. Nothing says unsexy like a smudged mani.

14. Kiss the mirror. Leave your lip prints there and tell yourself how beautiful you are. This is where true sex appeal begins. Stop all criticism now. Love yourself every day and you will feel sexier and sexier.

Any other suggestions? Add ‘em to the list in the comments section!

Photo credit: Sugar Magnolia

I believe in wishes. Go ahead and laugh

I am a hopeless, old-fashioned romantic who wishes you so many beautiful things in this wonderful, often challenging life.

I wish you a mirror that will only show you how inherently gorgeous you are.

I wish you a sword to cut through the bullshit of society. I wish you the courage to do it.

I wish you a cocoon of light to protect you everywhere you go.

I wish you a handful of true friends who love, understand and cherish you – even when you don’t feel like yourself.

I wish you a big, bright yellow umbrella to conquer the rain with a smile.

I wish you a bottle full of bubbly laughter whenever you need it.

I wish you a delicious meal that thoroughly nourishes the soul and body.

I wish you a pretty dress that sparkles and swirls across the floor…and someplace special to wear it.

I wish you fireworks in the sky, and in your love life.

I wish you a lucky penny, heads up.

I wish you a kite to fly and the ability to always feel like a child inside.

I wish you the most luxurious, sudsy shower in the world to wash away the dirt of life.

I wish you $20 in your pocket when you least expect it.

I wish you a beautiful moon, a clear night sky, and someone to share it with.

I wish you more wishes, and I wish that you will wish. Because wishes make life so much more radiant and wonderful.

Photo: Google

A lot of people say friendships are short-lived in New York City. Everything moves so fast. You talk to a kind stranger on the subway then never see him again. You give someone directions and wish her well on her journey. I’ve had many of these fleeting conversations. But nothing compares to the one I had with Benny.

I first met Benny after waking from an afternoon pity nap– rosary beads in my hand and religious articles all over my room. A pity nap is the kind where you have nothing to do, no job, nowhere to go and no money in your pocket, so you just pull the covers over your head and pray to every religious figure (dead and alive) you’ve ever heard of– from Jesus to Buddha to Jehovah to the Dalai Lama –to make all your problems go away.

Thanks to a debt collector that woke me up from my nap, I couldn’t sleep. So I made myself a plate of leftover pasta. Just as I was about to heat it up, I found Benny on the floor near the microwave. He was lying on his back, kicking his barbed legs in desperation, his torso the color of a rusted coin from the 1970s. I grabbed a napkin, crouched and picked him up. There he lie in my hand, the ugliest, most pathetic cockroach moving slowly, like a battery-operated toy about to lose its power. I lost my appetite.

I wondered how many New York kitchens he ransacked before he decided to crash at my place. It didn’t matter now. So, I held him and gave him a name. He looked like a Benny — innocent and non-threatening. Just a sad little creature who wanted something to eat.

“Benny, baby,” I said, cradling him in front of my chest in the napkin. “I’m sorry. I’ve been searching, too. I can’t seem to find the sugar bowl, either. It’s like you almost seem to have what you’re looking for. But it’s always an almost. Always an almost.”

He curled his legs as if he understood me. But he didn’t. In another lifetime, Benny could have been my friend, my partner in crime who’d steal packets of sugar for me at the diner; the silent listener who’d hand me a tissue to wipe my snot after I’d been crying.

Instead, in this moment, in the quiet of my apartment with the overcast sky out the window, he was a dead insect in my hand. I wrapped him in the napkin and slipped him into the toilet.

“I’ll find the sugar bowl for both of us,” I said.

And I will.

Photo credit: vromansbookstore.com

Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve felt like a defective toy.

I looked normal, but didn’t “work” quite as well as everyone else. I was always somewhat offbeat. I had trouble tying my shoes, could never tell the time, had a hard time determining right from left and took a very long time to comprehend anything I read. I did poorly on standardized tests, and I was a little wonky; not graceful like other little girls. I always struck out at Wiffle Ball and tripped over my shoelaces. To make things worse, my voice was a little deeper than the rest, so I felt older and out of place yet was still very much a child.

When I got to middle school and high school I felt it took me so much longer to understand things than everyone else. It also was a lot harder for me to fit in social situations because I always felt awkward and anxious around my peers. I would go home and cry to my mom every night, feeling the sobs deep under my rib cage.

I was a broken child. After my parents divorced when I was five, I felt abandoned by my father and went through most of my childhood paranoid that my friends and family would leave me. Some of them left me because my constant paranoia, lack of trust and abundance of self-doubt made them anxious. I felt useless and unlovable. Yet all I wanted in the world was to be loved and accepted. Metaphorically speaking, all I wanted was a home.

When I reread the story “Corduroy” by Don Freeman, I realized that I am, in many ways, the department store teddy bear with the missing button — I feel unnoticed and ignored in the ocean of toys and I lack some of the elegance the other stuffed bears and dolls seem to have. Yet, I am a sweet, loving creature in need of a friend and a place to call home. I am begging to be lifted from the lonely shelf with kind hands– to be welcomed and loved even if I can’t seem to find my missing button.

With love and affection, we thrive greatly. Let me tell you about Ginger, my cat. She is a lot like Corduroy; a lot like me. She was living alone in the dark basement of a sushi restaurant in a dirty cage until my friend rescued her and put up a Facebook status asking if anyone would like to adopt Ginger and give her a home. Immediately I answered, “that’s my cat! Bring her to me! I want her!”

I didn’t care that this cat was scared, unkempt, emaciated and very feral. I wanted to take care of her, love her unconditionally and take her into my apartment. At the time I, too, felt lonely and in need of love. I had just been dumped by my boyfriend and was yearning for something to hold, hug and feed. I wanted someone–something to nourish my soul. I wanted to promise another creature I would never ever, under any circumstance, abandon it.

A year and a half later, my cat Ginger is healthy, very confident and extremely well-fed. She’s no longer the meek little kitten who nobody pays attention to. She has grown into something more like a tigress! She is no longer emaciated and hungry; she is actually a few pounds overweight because she loves food so much. But she is happy and she is the most loved cat in the world. As I write this piece, she is sleeping comfortably in a ball in my couch. She looks like she’s smiling. My heart feels so warm. I now feel like the girl who purchased Corduroy from the department store, brought him home and sewed a new button on his overalls so he’d feel more comfortable.

In loving other creatures on this earth, we know we are not alone. In loving, we fulfill the emptiness and loneliness of the human spirit.

I know I am not alone.

We all take turns playing the role of the underdog. We feel inadequate, lonely, unnoticed and insignificant. We want to cry, “pick me, pick me!” But we can’t seem to find the voice to speak up for ourselves. Sometimes, in order to find the love we desire, we have to be the ideal friend, lover or companion to others. We have to open ourselves up. We have to love like crazy.