Mar 252015

I DID IT! I did the Today Show wearing jeans and a tank top and my plain old normal hair and ZERO chicken cutlet boobs and THAT IS WHAT I CALL PROGRESS, PEOPLE!!!!

For you newbies: Here you go. Here’s the story about the first time I did Today- when Chris Brown flirted with me and Martha Stewart cooked at me and I lost my boobs.


Originally published September 2013

My fast allowed me some much needed time for reflection. I’ve been reflecting. Let us begin with the kick- off of the book tour- my Today Show appearance.

This is how THAT happened:

I was at home minding my own business when my phone rang. It was my dear friend and Carry On, Warrior’s publicist, Lauren. She told me that as the kick off to the book tour – the Today show wanted me to come to New York City to discuss the book and the Monkees on air. I said YAY! OH EM GEE! and all the others things I assumed someone who was really grateful and excited and who generally had appropriate reactions would say. Then I called Sister and said, “Obviously, this is never, ever, not in a million years going to happen. I will change my name and move to Mexico and live off the land if I must. I am not going on the Today show. Ever and Never and No.” Sister was quiet and then said, “do you even know what live off the land means?” And I said, “YES. Something about more cows and less Facebook. I can do it. Cows have always really liked me.” And Sister said, “Kay. Are you listening to yourself?” And that’s when I knew I was going to end up on the Today show.

Sister called COW’s publisher and told them that without any intervention, I would likely humiliate everyone who had any involvement with Carry On, Warrior and that it really could end so badly that even real warriors and people who carry things might feel ashamed. So my wise and lovely publisher sent a woman to my condo. This woman was like a “fixer” that mob folks have except that she helps ward off impending publicity disasters. And she spent a full day teaching me how to Sit on a Stool, Keep Breathing, and Not Run Off Set. We agreed that this was the only “triple threat” of which I’d be capable.  Then she taught me some interview tricks, like, think of two “go to” stories – one funny, one serious- and if you get stuck, just tell one of those.

On Today Show Eve, I found myself in bed, staring at the door of my New York City hotel room, waiting for Sister to come distract me from this insane situation in which I found myself. While I waited, I remembered that food is also a great distraction, so I ordered a sandwich. This was my first room service order ever and I felt grown up and fancy and pleased, until I got the bill. It was thirty dollars. THIRTY DOLLARS. For a turkey sandwich. This thirty dollars would be charged to my publisher, since I was their guest. So like any sane author would do- I immediately called my publisher’s office and when my editor, Whitney, answered the phone- I said, “WHITNEY. Thank God you answered. It’s Glennon. I am so sorry. I just ordered a sandwich and got the bill and it was thirty dollars so now instead of eating it I am mining it for pieces of gold. Maybe it’s a gold sandwich and that’s why it costs as much as shoes. I’m sorry. I’ll pay you back. Tell Scribner I will pay them back. Or maybe I’ll just bring you guys the sandwich. I’m not hungry any more. New York City is so stressful. I don’t think you guys know that turkey sandwiches are pretty common and therefore not worth maybe quite as much as you assumed.Or maybe it’s because we’re in a city? I don’t see any grass. Maybe you have to import the turkeys? Maybe this is fancy imported turkey or something?” And Whitney was quiet and then said slowly, “It’s okay, Glennon. You’re allowed to have a sandwich. Also, how about don’t call me for a little while?”  “Okay, Whit.” I said. “It’s good to have a plan in times like these.” “Yes,” she said. So I hung up and lay in bed in my teeny silent hotel room and repeated to myself my favorite Simpsons line- the one that Homer says while he’s tripping on magic peppers and finds himself in a terrifying, alternate reality (my situation almost exactly): “Note to Self. Stop. Doing. Anything.”

The stopping doing anything strategy worked till Sister arrived. She was trying VERY hard to act like we were starting a book tour tomorrow- not shrooming our way to the guillotine – which was my take.  I immediately explained to her sandwichgate. She begged me to tell her that I was joking. She implored me to explain immediately that in fact, I had not actually called the publisher to report the cost of a sandwich. I told her sorry, I wished I could help her. She should have arrived earlier. We went to bed.

The morning of the Today Show I arrived at the Big Bustling Building and started chasing people around. In New York City- everyone is running. Even if there is nowhere to be – even if you are just going to get a sip of water from the water fountain- you must run there. It’s like everyone is very late for everything but they like it that way and so they refuse to just get up a little earlier. At the Today Show, this phenomenon is ten times more intense than in regular New York because: TV. So at the show- I chased after people who I am sure were giving me important directions about what not to do on camera but I couldn’t hear any of it because no matter how hard I pumped my smurf legs, I was always three paces behind whoever was talking. I am telling you they should have Jillian Michaels meet all the guests at the Today show because that is what it would have taken to get me to match these folks’ intensity. Since Jillian wasn’t there- I just stumbled along and tried to nod and smile like I heard them and understood. This is not an unfamiliar process to me, so I was convincing.

I wound up in the make-up room and sat down in the chair.  The make-up artist and I both stared at my shell shocked face in the big mirror. She asked me what I wanted. I said, “all of it, please. All the make-up.”

I stayed in the makeup chair saying “a little more, please” until they kicked me out. Then I went and sat in the quiet green room. I had ten minutes ‘till I went on. I kept repeating to myself my two “go to stories” for when I froze on set. I could always talk about the Kindness Revolution and the Anti-Perfect Revolution. That’s what I was doing there. I was the kindness and imperfection lady. Perfect. I mean Imperfect. I could do that. I reminded myself that I am, truly, a kind and imperfect person. I wouldn’t even have to act much.

And then I heard a voice coming from my left. The voice was male and it sounded extra slick and it said in my direction- “Heeeeeeey, beautiful lady.” At first I  assumed this was a shroom induced hallucination but then I remembered that I was not actually shrooming.  So I very carefully turned my head to see Chris Brown smiling at me. Chris Brown.

Oooooooookay. I thought.

And then I turned my head to the right.

And standing right outside of the room was Martha Stewart.


I stared straight ahead and tried to think.  Chris Brown to the left, Martha Stewart to the right.

I was here to kick off my KINDNESS and IMPERFECTION Revolution Tour with Chris Brown and Martha Stewart.


Note to Self: Stop. Doing. Anything. Again.

But then I started to panic. Because on top of everything, it was April Fool’s Day. And I could see on the little TV in the green room that the hosts were playing tricks on the guests. And so I started thinking. WHAT IS OUR TRICK GOING TO BE? Why are we three on the show together today? What do me and Chris Brown and Martha Stewart have in common?

And then it hit me. Oh, for the love.

This was going to be a show about Public People Who’ve Been To Jail.

Lindsay Lohan must have cancelled because she was planning to be hungover and I was the best they could do on short notice.

This was it. It was the only logical explanation.

And so I accepted our tangled fate – Me, Chris, and Martha’s. I stared at the green room walls and felt bad for Bubba and Tisha because they had told all of their friends to watch the show and now it was turning out to be a segment about jailbirds. I worried that they’d really been through enough. I hoped, for them, that next to Martha and Chris – maybe I wouldn’t look so bad. Perspective really was everything, I told myself.

I kept resisting the urge to lean to my left, wag my finger at Chris and say, “Listen, Mister. LOVE WINS.” And then lean to my right and whisper, “Hey, Martha. I don’t even have PANS. What do you THINK of that, sister?”

But then one of the running ladies came out to get me. And I ran onto the set and just as I was about  to sit on the tall stool in front of the big glass window with all the waving, screaming people- one of the publicists yelled“WAIT!” and ran over to me and removed a very long trail of toilet paper stuck to my foot. Which neither Chris nor Martha had bothered to mention to me. So much for ex-con solidarity.  And the next thing I knew the camera was on me. And then this happened.  I just watched the entire segment for the first time last night, you guys.


Sweet Jesus on a Bicycle.

Thank you, Monkees. It is a true testament of your love for me that none of you…NOT ONE OF YOU… pointed out to me that I went on national TV to discuss a A LIFE UNARMED and SHOWING UP AS WE ARE and The BEAUTY OF IMPERFECTION wearing hair extensions, fake eyelashes, 6 inch heels, 8 pounds of make-up, two pairs of Spanx, SILICONE CUTLETS IN MY BRA and a few gallons of Botox in my forehead.

Yes, I did.

Yes. I did.

I did that.

When introducing me, Savannah should have said, “Ladies and Gentleman! Meet the Unarmed Warrior, wearing forty pounds of armor!! If you shoot her in the face- no problem! Her 12 pounds of foundation and Botox are bulletproof! Meet the expert on TRUTH TELLING AND SHOWING UP AS THE REAL YOU! She is here to prove, once and for all, that IRONY IS A WALKING, TALKING, OBSERVABLE THING!!!

Since some of you don’t know me in real life, I think that in order to grasp the hilarity of this situation- you are going to need to see the real me. So here it is- here is the TV me compared to the real me. I sent this pic to a friend recently to show her my new headache remedy. A headband to hold my head together, obviously. That’s what I really look like, you guys.

Today meets reality

And on the left – that’s what I did to myself for TV. For my once in a lifetime opportunity to walk the walk. To practice what I preach. It’s so amazingly amazing, I can hardly stand it.

I am either the worst, or THE BEST IMPERFECTION EXPERT EVER. I can’t even be imperfect perfectly. I kind of love it.

In retrospect, I know what happened. I spent a few weeks “getting ready for TV.” And tragically (on many levels), the only show I was watching regularly then was The Real Housewives of OC.  So, subconsciously I must have decided that people on TV look like those women. And so I morphed myself into one. And when it comes to fashion- one of my many problems is that I have never, ever truly understood the difference between an OUTFIT and a COSTUME. My only outfit is jeans and a tank top. That’s what I know how to wear like an outfit. Everything else is a costume. I have jeans, yoga pants and tank tops. Then – in the back of my closet – I have my church costume, my parent teacher costume, my dentist’s office costume, my TV costume- you see what I mean.

My main concern right now is that these days the only show I’m watching is Breaking Bad. And so I am afraid that on the paperback book tour in April I will accidentally show up to TV shows looking like a 50 year old male chemistry teacher. Please, no.

My next favorite thing is My Today Show Caption. Please read it. “Aware that time goes by fast- and okay with it.”

That’s my claim to fame. That’s it you guys. I am the woman who is aware that time goes by fast. Not only am I AWARE of this, but I’m OKAY with it. I mean, does it get more revolutioary and/or heroic than that?

It’s like- the only way my 15 minutes of fame could have been more impressive would have been I were “The Woman Who is Aware That Rain Is Wet. And Thinks That’s Fine.”

That’s the caption I’m hoping for next time. We can dream.

Anyway. One more thing. Those silicone chicken cutlet boob inserts I wore on the Today Show?  Well. I left a drawer full of clothes in my NYC hotel room that night.  And long suffering editor Whitney had to go pick up my forgotten stuff and Fed Ex it to the next hotel stop on the tour. And when I opened up the delivery box, my fake boobs were sitting on the top of the nicely folded stack of clothes. MY BOOK EDITOR FOUND AND MAILED MY BOOBS.

And so I sat on my new hotel room bed and thought about that situation for a while. And then I decided that I had to say something to her about it. Because someone else handling my boobs is a big deal to me. For the past decade, at least. And this had to be acknowledged or it would forever be The Thing Whitney and I Don’t Discuss. And so I texted her and said- “Whit. Sorry about the boobs.” And I waited for a long half hour until she texted this back: “G. I can honestly say that I have never, ever returned an author’s boobs to her. We have reached a new level.”


Tour’s over. Boobs are in a drawer. Extensions are gone. Hair’s back to brown and grey. Botox ran out. This is me this morning.  Back to normal.  And by the way- I’m not ashamed or mad at myself for my Today Show experience- not even a little bit. I look at myself on that stool and feel amused and protective of that sweet plastic version of me. I think to myself- Look at her, doing the best she can up there, with the little armor she has left. It was a tough, wild year and she kept showing up.


I’m really, really quite proud of that kind, brave fool.

Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
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Mar 202015

Originally published in 2011 & excerpted from the New York Times Bestseller Carry On, Warrior.

Let’s head back to the morning of March 20th, 2003 for a moment, shall we?

Craig and I have been married for six months. Chase, our firstborn, is five months old. Skip the math and stay with me. I’m home on maternity leave and spending my days alternating between the ecstasy and despair that accompany caring for an infant. I’m a little worn out.

But on March 20th, I wake up renewed and refreshed and tingling with excitement. Because as soon as I open my eyes, I remember: It’s my birthday. MY BIRTHDAY! I lie in bed and wait for the surprises and festivities and celebration of me to begin.

I wait. Then I wait a little longer. I look at Craig sleeping soundly and think, Ooooh- this is gonna be good. He’s still asleep! He must’ve been up all night preparing for my big day. Can’t wait.

Still waiting. Staring at Craig.

Craig opens his eyes, turns to me and smiles. Happy birthday, Honey. I bat my eyes and smile back.

Craig gets up and stumbles to the shower.

I stay in bed. Still waiting. Waiting patiently.

He comes back twenty minutes later and says, “Can I make you some coffee?”

Um. Yeah.

I climb out of bed. I put my hair up and throw on some make-up so I’ll look nice in the pictures Craig’s sure to snap of me when I emerge from the bedroom and see all my balloons and flowers and perhaps the string quartet he’s hired to play while I eat the fancy breakfast he’s prepared.

I take a deep breath and fling open the bedroom door with much birthday gusto. I prepare my most surprised face.

Turns out there was no need to prepare. I am surprised. Because there are no balloons. No quartet. No nothing. Just Craig. Smiling, hugging me. Happy Birthday, Honey. Gotta go. See you for dinner tonight?

Craig leaves. I sit on the kitchen floor of our teeny apartment wondering if perhaps this is a practical joke. I repeatedly open and close the front door in case he’s hiding there with all of my friends whom he’s flown in from the ends of the earth to yell SURPRISE! at me. No friends. Nothing.

I sit on the couch, shocked. I am misunderstood. I am unappreciated.

Please understand. Growing up with Bubba and Tisha, birthdays were a big deal. They made the world stop on my birthday. I never knew what would happen, but I knew it was going to be good. Tisha served breakfast in bed with flowers and gifts and out-of-the-ordinary things happened all day. In high school Bubba and Tisha sent roses to my fourth period history class with a card that said “from your secret admirer.” Nobody was allowed to get flowers delivered to class, but Bubba knew people. He also knew that those flowers would make me the most popular girl in school for the day. And they did. I walked around shrugging my shoulders when people asked me who they were from- glancing nonchalantly in the direction of the captain of the football team. He didn’t know my name. But still, anything was possible on my birthday.

Let’s just say that the morning of March 20th, 2003, I did not feel like the most popular girl in school. I did not feel like anything could happen. I felt like nothing could happen. Defeated, I sat down on the couch with my crying baby and turned on the TV.

The news anchor announced that America had officially declared some sort of war.

WHAT??? I yelled at the TV. ON MY BIRTHDAY?????

And that was IT.

I called Craig at work. He didn’t answer, so I hung up and called back immediately, which is our bat signal for it’s an emergency. He answered on the first ring, “Hi, What’s wrong? Is everything okay? Another fire???”

So, I had set the apartment on fire the week before. Twice. Firefighters had come both times. Blaring their sirens and holding their big hoses and wearing their big masks and costumes and everything, which I thought was a little dramatic of them. I mean the fires weren’t even that big. C’mon. But Craig was still a little jumpy. Anyway -I don’t want to talk about that right now. For the love of God, try to focus on MY BIRTHDAY.

Me: “No, husband. There is no fire. It is much worse than that. You should know that I have cancelled my birthday. Today is no longer my birthday.”

Craig: “What? Why?”

Me: “Because it is already eleven am and nothing extraordinary has happened to me yet. Except, apparently, some sort of war. I hate this day. And so it is not my birthday. Cancel it in your brain. Tomorrow is my birthday.”

Craig: “Okay. Ooooookay. Should I cancel our reservations and the sitter for tonight?”

Me: “No. No you shouldn’t, Husband. We will still go out to dinner tonight. But it will be a working dinner. Bring a pencil and paper, Husband. Because tonight I will be holding a seminar for you about my birthday expectations. They are many and they are specific, so you will want to wear your thinking cap. Also, find a sitter and make reservations for tomorrow night, too. Tomorrow night will be my birthday dinner. My birthday is tomorrow. Consider it a second chance. You are welcome. See you tonight, Husband. For the seminar.”

So we went to dinner that night. I explained to Craig how growing up, my parents showed their love by really celebrating special days. I told him that they paid attention to what I really wanted and cared about, offered thoughtful gifts, and created meaningful traditions. And I explained that this is how I learned to accept love. And so when he didn’t do that, it made me feel panicked and unloved somewhere down really deep.

Craig explained that he loved me very much. And because he loved me, he wanted me to feel loved. But he said that sometimes it’s hard to know what makes a person feel loved best. So he thought it was kind and wise that I figured out what made me feel loved and shared it with him. He said he was grateful. It made him feel safe, like I would help him through this marriage thing instead of being secretly resentful.

The Love Seminar worked for us. It lasted for four hours. There was some crying and lots of laughing and talking about how hard it is to come from two different families and try to make a new one. And how impossible it is to read minds and hearts. How wonderful it is to just hear what the person you love needs and learn how to give it. To set each other up for success rather than failure. Tweet: Hear what the person you love needs & learn how to give it. Set each other up for success, not failure. @momastery

The next morning, on March 21, 2003, my temporary birthday, Craig walked into our bedroom with hot coffee and bagels covered with pink candles. He sang to me and asked me to make a wish.

When I peeked out of the bedroom I saw posters covering the walls of our apartment. They said, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HONEY! I LOVE MY AMAZING WIFE! The posters had balloons and hearts drawn all over them. Boys can’t really draw balloons and hearts. Ridiculously cute.

I squealed and Craig beamed. I kissed him goodbye and he said he’d call soon. Every hour, in fact.

I peeked into Chase’s room and saw that his crib was decorated with blue streamers.

I went pee, unrolled some toilet paper and little sticky notes fell out of the roll, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY!”

Teamwork. Love takes teamwork, I think.

These days, Craig is known for his skill at celebrating special family days. He takes pride in it. He is a master. Legendary. I can’t tell you how many times a friend has said to me, “You are so lucky. He is amazing.”

And part of me wants to say, “Lucky? Whadyathink he fell out of the sky like that?”

But instead I say, “I know. He is. He’s amazing.”

He is.

Happy Wife, Happy Life. It’s true. For me, at least.

Originally published in 2011 & excerpted from the New York Times Bestseller Carry On, Warrior.

Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
Join the Momastery community on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & Pinterest

Mar 112015

Hello friends. Got this letter in the mail. Please meet my new favorite person in the whole wild world—Rachel. Warning: a bit of profanity ahead. To me it is perfectly placed, exactly right profanity—but I am just telling you so you’re ready.




I have been writing this thank you card in my head since July. Your blog post “Your Body is Not Your Masterpiece, Your Life Is” changed my life. That make sound a bit dramatic (not too surprising with my personality) but it is 100 percent true. I have been working for years in therapy to find peace with my body. I had been working and working and trying and trying and together, my therapist and I have made some progress. But a few days before your post, I experienced a pretty major setback and felt pretty torn up inside. I had worked so hard and it felt like my battle with my body was in full swing. And then—and then, sweet G, your blog post landed like magic in my inbox. Paintbrush! My body is my paintbrush and my LIFE is my masterpiece?! Tweet: My body is my paintbrush and my LIFE is my masterpiece! @momastery Something about your words just moved me. Literally moved me to tears, moved me forward on my journey, and moved me towards peace in a lifelong battle. It was like I had been humming a tune with no words in my head, at times it was so quiet and all the nasty voices in my head so loud, I couldn’t hear it. With therapy, I worked on quieting the nasty voices and listening carefully to the music and humming along. But G, your blog was like hearing the words to the song for the first time. Your blog gave me lyrics to the music I had been trying to write, language to hold onto when the battle felt fierce. THANK YOU. That doesn’t even seem like anywhere close to what I want to say—like it’s a tiny fraction of how appreciative I feel.

“Paintbrush” has become a special term for me. It’s my mantra. I meditate on it and repeat it to myself every time I do pretty much anything. I say it to myself at the gym when I am celebrating my body by using it, I whisper it to myself on the way to first dates. It’s my thing. In fact, on the day I first brought your blog to my therapist, through tears I exclaimed, “My body is a fucking paintbrush! It’s MY paintbrush! I am going to dress up like an effing paintbrush for Halloween!!” So enclosed, please find a photo of me dressed up like an effing paintbrush for Halloween. Thank you so much, G—for so much.

Love totally wins,


With her letter, Rachel also sent me a copy of the book Tattoos on the Heart, along with this postscript:

Tattoos on the HeartBooks are pretty much my favorite ever. So my favorite way to say thank you is to pass along special books to special people. I hope you enjoy this one. Father G is an inspiration. Homeboy Industries is an incredible agency that teaches former gang members to find the love they have been missing…inside themselves. (I have no affiliation with them, I am just sort of a stalker of Father G’s amazing love from afar and, since I am a social worker in LA—he is a bit of a rock star to all of us working with the underserved.)  Father G’s book is one of my favorites of all time. I read it over and over, listen to the audio version like it’s going out of style, and cling to his words (like I do yours) for strength and inspiration. A priest who devotes his life to teaching gang members to love themselves and each other and writes to us all about it? Brutiful! I hope you enjoy.

“Here is what we seek: a compassion that can stand in awe at what the poor have to carry rather than stand in judgment at how they carry it.” – Gregory Boyle 

Rachel: I read it. Then I read it again. Then I begged everyone I know to read it. It is now one of my all-time favorite books and Father Boyle is one of my all-time favorite humans.

Carry On, Warrior
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
Join the Momastery community on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & Pinterest

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