The Tipsy Tomato puts psychotherapy playfully & intelligently into garden metaphors. Because, in the garden of life, what we long for most is not found on the back of a seed packet.
Most Popular Mashups
Where to find Tipsy these days. It hasn't been in the garden.
The illicit lover hadn't left. So, why wasn't I angry?
A whopping 75% of couples who exhibit one particular trait will breakup. Are my garden and I at a crossroad? Find out what trait.
If it's not one thing, it's your mother. A case of mother-daughter happiness in adulthood, plus leaving one's safe place on earth (sometimes).
Post in progress. . Could I distract you to peek at the other ones for now? : )
At first, sleeping bags and IQs might not seem like they've much in common. But, they do, especially if you're into Happy.
Winter can try all it wants to wangle me into a wee bit of the blahs. But, I’ve got other plans.
As a therapist, I know that on many (most?) occasions lots of good people have to fake thanksgiving. Here's how to do that well.
Hey, Marilyn Monroe might take most everyone to town with her red-hot tomato looks. But, talk about the real thrill of being a green tomato? Woohaa!
When a season’s end pushes itself into my head, like right now, I make an appointment with Chicken Little...
Becoming "weird, wild, & wonderful." Just how do we find passion?
Before slugs crashed my garden, I never knew the thrill of a wet t-shirt. After all, a lot less calculation and a little more mess can do a girl a lot of good.
Therapists like to float the word "acceptance" into sessions. Just don't ask how that's working for them. Besides, I've got vole-itis.
Much of your potential waits for you underground, and an orchard ladder helps.
To germinate, seeds don't need sunlight. They need only warm soil. The most basic gesture of warmth makes a seed’s (or a friend's) life silently burst forth from its shell. Hope starts in the dark...
As a psychotherapist, I know the usefulness of anticipating the metaphorical potholes that routinely lay ahead of us. But, my mind just keeps pacing in its cage with a bag of potato chips ~ that is, it did, until wisdom parachuted into my restless head teaching me about what we have in common with the winter's trees...
My scruffy flannel loungewear informed me that, I’m pretty sure, I was not the sprightly sage that the young inquiring woman imagined she was seeking…so I started.
Emerson was to rescue me from the Twitter scrublands. Instead, he opened his own Twitter account and posted his profile as @RalphBeReal...
I don't live in South LA and I've got gourmet compost. But, curbside dead dirt is my richest inspiration ~ plus, a man called Ron Finley.
Here, I am in front of you feeling like broccoli. Tell me again why chocolate cake gets all the love?