Loves,

I came across this post today while searching for…don’t ask…and it’s become more relevant than ever as I traverse aging and what that even means for women over fifty in a program I co-lead with the intrepid Geraldine called Croneology. http://croneology.net

Middle age is a crossroads y’all.
You’ve either laid the track for where you’re headed in advance, or you’re about to——and there’s no alternative, because, as Brene Brown so eloquently puts it, “Midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear: I’m not screwing around. All of this pretending and performing—these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt—has to go.”

So, what tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

xox

“Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. … They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew someday, the train would come.”

When you read that story, about the train and the Alps, how does it make you feel?

Are you thinking, Why do I care about a train in Europe? I have three job interviews this week!

Or, are you more practical, like, How fiscally irresponsible is that to build something that no one can use?

Or… are you more like me?

As you’ve probably already guessed, that little anecdote gives ME goosebumps the size of Montana hail, a lump in my throat, and every time I read it my boobies tingle a little—because that’s just the kind of inspiring, real-life, stranger-than-fiction, magical nonsense that makes me excited to get up in the morning.

That passage is from a favorite movie of mine, Under the Tuscan Sun, which if you haven’t seen it or have read the book (which is marvelous) is about a woman going through a profound life change whose purpose, timeframe, and final destination are completely unknown to her. And yet, day after day, terrified and miserable as fuck, she just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

Like we all do.
Even people who aren’t steeped in faith find a way to carry on.
Maybe they get it from stories about trains? Dunno.

Anyway, if you think about it from my very Pollyanna Perspective, every great work of art, creative endeavor, and scientific accomplishment started with some track building. I’ll take it a step further and insist that we all lay down tracks we can’t use until we flesh out our ideas from start to finish.

I do it every freaking day and so do you!

A dear friend of mine has gone back to school to get her degree. There’s no job lined up yet, no clientele or guarantee of employment waiting for her at the finish line. Nevertheless, I see her working her tail off—laying the tracks.

From the age of thirteen, Misty Copeland would practice up to eight hours a day, barely listening to the naysayers who insisted that her skin was too dark, her body too curvy, and she’d started dancing too late to have a real career in ballet. But Misty wasn’t screwing around, she was too busy laying tracks for a position that did not exist before her—the first African-American principal ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre.

She gave us something we never knew we needed—that now we can never imagine living without.

Like a train across the Alps.

What tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

Carry on,
xox JB

“I will not write sales copy about the death of my mother.”

Writing, even under the best of circumstances can be an excruciating endeavor.

Authors, like most wizards, are supernatural in their ability to create something from nothing. Memoirists are a special breed altogether. I don’t know how they do it, how they manage to let us inside their lives, warts and all, literally turning themselves inside out— (I’ve seen it up close…it’s messy) and in the process wringing every emotion from their raw and ragged guts, and then managing to translate all of that pain, joy, grief, and love into words that live on the page long enough for our eyes to devour them.

It gets me all verklempt when I even try to imagine it, the tears running brown from the emotional-support chocolate that’s smeared all over my face.

Anyhow, my best friend, Steph Jagger, her life a seemingly endless series of Heroines Journeys (which comes in handy because nobody, except you guys, wants to read about a person’s mundane life) writes memoirs. Tales of courage and triumph, love and loss. Her latest,
Everything Left To Remember — My Mother, Our Memories, And a Journey Through the Rocky Mountains 
centers on her mother’s slow decline into early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and how that profound loss effects Steph and her family. Here, her editor describes it better than I ever could:

“An inspirational mother-daughter memoir that follows two women on a poignant journey through a landscape of generational loss. As they road-trip through the national parks of the American West, they explore the ever-changing terrain of Alzheimer’s, deep remembrance, and motherhood.

A staggeringly beautiful examination of how stories are passed down through generations and from Mother Nature, Everything Left to Remember brings us the wisdom of remembrance under the constellations of the vast Montana sky.”

I mean…come on!

And this is where you all come in. I love my blog community so much, wickedly loyal, you have been with me since 2012 so you know I love writing, connection, and passing along all the things I adore—And I adore my friend, and LOVE this book!

Here’s the deal, since the advent of social media, authors are expected to build an audience, publicize their own books, and endlessly pitch their stories to the various mediums. It can be soul-sucking, especially when your story starts living a life outside in the world while still inhabiting all your exposed nerve endings. There comes a breaking point. A boundary that begs to be set. I’ll just let Steph explain in her own words:

“It has been the greatest honor of my life to be able to write about my mother, to put our story into words. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude about the opportunity I have to share that story. And I am terribly excited about the idea of those words being in your hands.

I’m also looking forward to being on podcasts, to visiting book clubs, to talking with you about your mothers, and fathers, and sisters, and friends who have been, or are on, a similar journey.

I cannot wait to weave my mother’s aliveness, all the things she has left to give, into the world at large.

I am committed to doing that by way of words, shared in as many ways and in as many places as I can.

And . . . I will not write sales copy, for my mother and I are not things to be sold, but precious beings to have and to hold.” 

So, I suppose as an author you leave that to your council of writers, right?
Your friends.
Your sisters of the pen.
You let them be your hallelujah chorus and shout your name from the rooftops, “Come, pre-order and read Steph’s book, you will be the richer for it!” 

You guys, when have I ever steered you wrong?

Carry on, xox

Pre-order made simple: Amazon link 

https://www.amazon.com/Everything-Left-Remember-Memories-Mountains/dp/125026183X/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Hate Amazon? Here’s a link for Indie Bound —and Eagle Harbor Books, Steph’s local bookstore, where you can get yourself a signed copy!

https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781250261830

https://www.eagleharborbooks.com/signed-everything-left-remember-steph-jagger

More Steph: https://www.stephjagger.com

The tree surgeon paused out in front of our house for a long time. Too long.

He’d been called to do a “health assessment” on our two large trees.
The one in the front is a behemoth. Big-boned, magnificent in her splendor, she’s an almost two-hundred-year-old ash tree we call Grandmother. She’s a legend in our neighborhood. Cars stop and stare. People visit her on purpose. Once, when I was watering, a man took out a tiny flute and played a song he’d written just for her. I swear to god.

The one you’re looking at now is Mother.

Mother is a Chinese elm that was planted so close to the house I cannot squeeze between them without losing a boob. But that was over eighty years ago and we’ve appreciated the shade she so generously provides our courtyard, that although advised otherwise, we’ve ignored any suggestion that she’s compromised the foundation.

Anyway, one of Mother’s roots had started to crack and lift the tile and seemed to be headed toward the house, prompting concern.

I talked with her. Everyday. “Don’t do this,” I warned, “Don’t force us to make a decision like this.”

Just to be clear, I know my role. I am just the latest custodian of these beauties. There have been several before me, and there will be more when I leave. “I know, I got a little house with my trees,” is what I tell anyone who visits us after they close their mouths.

The surgeon’s mouth wasn’t agape, he was too cool for such an overt display of awe, I mean, caring for trees is his job.
But you could see it in his eyes as he stepped back, taking in Grandmother’s canopy. He was impressed.

“She’s a beauty,” he finally said. “And she’s so happy!”

Raphael’s face broke into a broad grin, I exhale for the first time in months.
You see, California has been suffering through a sustained drought and I’ve been so worried about our trees and all the stress they’ve been under. If anything happened to Grandmother I’d just die, but not before we were run out of town by an angry mob led by a dude with a flute.

“Seriously, are they okay?” I asked.

I really wanted to know. Or did I?

If he came back with a grim diagnosis, what would we do? Cut them down? Cut them down? CUT THEM DOWN?!!!  See, I cannot even write the words. What kind of a sick Sophie’s choice was the universe handing us? Kill the tree to save the house? It was unthinkable!

“I’m not cutting this tree down!” I announced defiantly. My arms were wrapped around Mother as far as they could reach as our tree surgeon inspected the cracked tiles.
“Oh god no!” he responded in shock. I just about died of happiness. “It’s an easy fix,” he said and then went on to explain in  tree-surgeony speak, what sounded like a very complex series of steps we had to take to keep everybody alive and well.

“She hugs these trees,” Raphael told him as he wrapped up his visit.
“See, I told you. You’re gonna be okay,” I assured Mother while caressing her bark.
“And she talks to them too.” He was making that she’s so crazy face he makes when I do stuff like that in front of strangers.

“So do I,” the surgeon admitted. Of course he did.
I wanted to tell him I loved him, instead, I told him he had a good face. He took it well.

Carry on,
xox J

                                                                                          GRANDMOTHER

A bit of Wednesday Wisdom from me—via the School of Hard Knocks.

When Having Something Is Better Than Nothing

A number on a scoreboard.
Dust at the bottom of a bag of potato chips.
Flip flops on hot sand.
A single match.
A piece of shit car.

Tits.

A thimble-full of milk for a bowl of cereal.
Crooked teeth.
Cankles.
A light sweater in a blizzard.
An ancient, stretched-out bikini in a hot tub full of strangers.

Common sense.

A hand towel after a shower.
Somebody’s toothbrush.
Map folding skills.
A bottle of Vodka in the freezer.

Talent.

But never, ever, under any circumstances do these apply:

Any man/woman/dog who you no longer care for—in your bed.
A crap-ass, dead-end, bridge-job.
A rat-infested, rent-controlled apartment.
An abusive partner.
A cubic zirconia.
Mean friends.
Moldy cheese.
A Toupee.

Are we clear?

Carry on,
xox

“WOMEN WILL NOT THRIVE IF THE COST OF OUR BELONGING IS OUR SILENCE” ~ Jen Hatmaker

“MY dream would be if it felt like we’re all sittin’ around the kitchen table.”

If you ever come to my house and sit around my table, just know that there will be more food laid out than anybody has any business eating, there will be adult beverages for those who imbibe, and other means of hydration for those who do not, and there will be hours and hours of conversation punctuated frequently by cursing, snort laughs, various forms of hijinks—and maybe even some tears. 

All my favorite songs play in the background.

Taboo subjects are be broached.

Dogs fart indiscriminately.

Truths are told, maybe for the first time ever.

There are twinkle lights and candles.

Bullshit written on paper will get thrown into the fire.

Someone will quote poetry, another will sing a song they wrote, and dancing has been known to break out, mostly around the fun moon.

Chocolate becomes its own closing ceremony.

And time will cease to exist.

That’s the feeling I wanted for Croneology, the program for women over 50 that Geraldine and I cooked up this year of our Lord of Perpetual Isolation—and she could not have been more enthusiastic. 

“Women are dying for REAL connection!” she said, only without the exclamation point because she’s Canadian and they aren’t prone to such outbursts. But I am.

And THAT is why we compliment each other so beautifully. Reverently irreverent, we tackle ALL the subjects:

Transitions. Career, relationship, bikini to one piece, blonde to gray, all of them. 

Empty nests (grieve, celebrate, or both).

Adult kids who leave and come back (celebrate, grieve, or move).

Aging parents.

Eldership (What does that even mean?)

Our changing bodies (To HRT—OR—to not to HRT)

Sex after 50. (So much to discuss, SO MUCH!)

Knowing your worth, using your voice, living your largeness.

Don’t feel like a Crone yet? There are other names for women on their way to Crone. Is Autumn Queen a better fit? (Yeah, I figured)

What to do with unexpressed rage.

Menopause is not the end of your life as a woman AKA How to hot flash your way to an orgasm. Swear to god, one of our Crones does this!

And SO many other topics you’ve been dying to chew on with super cool women your age — and didn’t know where to find them.

Shameless Endorsement Alert:

“Picture a round table of women desiring to ripen into their full expression to the point of falling from the vine and becoming seeds for the next generation…such is the energy during Croneology.” — Joanie

Well, as you can imagine, when I read this I died. We both did. Here it was, our dream come true and written with all the best words in a way I could have never imagined. Needless to say, I could not, in a gazillion years, explain Croneology any better so I’m going to stop right here. If you want more details, dates for the next session, and answers to all your questions about me and Geraldine, head to Croneology.net

Just one more thing. If you’re a dude and you’ve made it this far, WOW and congratulations! AND, you may want to share this with the women in your life. To quote a previous Crone’s husband, “Whatever you’re doing Thursday nights in the Crone group, keep doing that.”

Need I say more?

Carry on,
xox

This post from waaaay back has been requested twice in the past few months and I keep forgetting. So Sorry.

“My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I could have died last Thursday. You laugh. But I could have.

It was a distinct possibility. I was going to be put under general anesthesia. As dead as you can be without actually ceasing to live. The thought of my demise was planted via the doom-delivery-system otherwise known as the mountains and mountains of legalese the hospital, doctors, parking attendant, and cafeteria lady gave me to sign. This charming pre-op ritual made it clear that I was to hold absolutely no one responsible for my death—should I find myself actually dead while faking it.

Doctors make you do that just before they put you under.

“Do you have a pen?” The person in charge of responsibility-dodging asked with a straight face. “I’m wearing a paper gown, what do you think?”

Culpability. It’s a thing.

I could have choked on my pastrami sandwich at lunch today but the deli didn’t drown me in documents before I took my first bite.

Sheesh.

I get it. It’s their duty to remind you. That’s the thing about being injected with drugs that render you ‘fake’ dead so they can cut you wide open—they up your odds of becoming ‘real’ dead.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about dying.

About my “exit strategy”, which is a term my deceased friend uses to refer to death. “Everyone has one, you have several opportunities actually” she reminds me all the time. Apparently, it presents itself in the form of an illness, a car accident, an egg salad at the beach, or airport sushi.

Everyone keeps telling you that shit’ll kill ya.

So even though I didn’t have a reasonable reason to feel as if my days were numbered—I just did.

I lived as if I was going to die.

Imminently. Like Thursday.

I’m not gonna lie, my fake death made me a little fake sad. Mostly it made me crave bad food (because hey, why not)—and wish I’d had time to get my hair straightened (good looking corpse rule #2. Rule #1 – Mani-pedi.)

Oh, and it made me pay attention to my life. I was suddenly ‘all in’. No half-assing.

Everything I did I felt like I was doing for the last time, so I savored it. Kissing my dog was delicious. Ice cream tasted better if you can imagine that.

Dislikes became definitive: I can’t stand cheap vanilla candles or cologne on men in elevators.

I noticed things I tend to overlook: The sound of the rain as it hits the pavers in our courtyard.
And have you ever noticed that lots of people hold hands? Have you? I never did. And not just parents and kids. Couples of all types. Young, old, fat, skinny, young and skinny, old and fat, didn’t matter. hands were being held. I think that’s sweet.

Did you know that studies have found that holding hands is good for your heart? I looked it up.

I took my time. I dawdled. I went to the movies in the middle of the day and ate a hot dog—with extra mustard. I walked my neighborhood without my earbuds. I noticed my feet and my legs and how they move me through life and instead of run/walking everywhere like I normally do, I wandered. I looked more closely at the street art. I splashed in puddles. I said hello to strangers which isn’t new, I just noticed how often I do that.

I wondered if my fake death was making me lazy? Oh, look, a fake problem.

You wanna know what I didn’t do?
Hold on tight to anything.
Worry (why waste my time?)
Diet.
Walk on eggshells.
Work more.
Forget to say I LOVE YOU.

Saturday I came down with the flu and just like that it felt as if the rumors of my death would pan out to be true.

My surgery was canceled, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the energy of my “exit strategy” passed.

Again, just like that.

It has left my consciousness so completely that as hard as I try I can’t even conjure the feeling.

I know that when I do get this surgery the thought of dying won’t even occur to me.

I had my fake dry run and the take-away was something real.

Appreciating my life.

Carry on,
xox

This is a buck in Finland.

Supposedly, forest officials coat their antlers with glow-in-the-dark paint so they’re easier to see on a dark road, the goal being to save their lives along with the poor, unsuspecting motorists they have the misfortune to encounter.

As you can imagine, so many thoughts ran through my head when I saw this:

1. Man, being lit up like they’re sporting two freaking light-sabers on their heads— that’s either a boon or a drag on their sex lives. Curious to hear about that.
2. The internet is full of big fat lying liars who lie, so if this isn’t real, bummer. (Finnish readers, let us know).
3. Where was this when we rode our motorcycle through the dark pine forests of the Great Northwest back in 2005 and I found out I could possibly meet my maker as a result of one bad decision made by one of these majestic creatures?

Anyway, here’s how that went. Warning, I did not handle it well.

Excerpt from Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi , Part I

“One day in central Oregon, if I remember correctly, we saw remnants on the road of a deer who’d met the front bumper of a logging truck at 65 mph.

Then another. Then a third. Being someone who likes their animals fully assembled, I was traumatized.

The next day we encountered the remnants of a red pickup truck at a gas station. Barely recognizable, it had been totaled on all four sides by a huge buck who’d gone up and over the front hood and windshield, its legs making contact with the side panels on its way down the back and straight to heaven.

“What happens if we hit a deer?” I asked at lunch while picking all the good bits out of my salad.

My husband looked at me with a mix of curiosity and exasperation, as if I’d just botched the punchline of a joke (which I do, always) before slowly putting down his fork. Shaking his head, he fiddled with his paper napkin (he HATES paper napkins, he’s French) before letting out a long sigh.

“Well…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “If I have the chance I will try to slow down, I won’t jam on the brakes and I won’t swerve to get out of the way because THAT will kill us for sure.”

I stopped chewing.

Now he was gathering a full head of steam, gesturing with both hands, “WHEN we hit it, the deer will die, the guts will splatter all over us, it’ll total the front of the bike, but we should live.”

Shit. I dropped my fork on the floor as he kept talking. No five-second rule. No kidding.

“If it’s an Elk or a Moose, I’ll do all the same things, I’ll slow down and go straight ahead, but that’s a huge animal.” Now he had that same glint in his eye the salty old sea captain in Jaws had right before he got eaten by the shark. “You can kiss your ass goodbye,” he hissed, “Because we’ll all die.” Then he picked up his fork and took a big bite of steak.

“Looks like rain,” somebody next to us said.
Cloudy with a chance of body parts, Is what I heard.

I began to wail, “Wait, what?! You mean…we could DIE!”

He stopped chewing. “Let me get this straight?” He asked, “It never occurred to you that you could die on a motorcycle?” Now he was laughing.

“Well… no.” I wasn’t lying, until that day it had never occurred to me. Embarrassed, I felt the need to clarify, “Certainly not at the hands of a Bambi.”

My fate suddenly uncertain, I stopped a passing waitress and ordered a hot fudge sundae.

He went on to explain that the greatest threat was at dusk and dawn when the wildlife was most active. Apparently, that is when the highest incidents of vehicle-versus-fauna accidents occur.

My husband has this theory about accidents. They are a series of random events that converge at the same time and place. If you remove ONE component, the accident cannot occur. For instance, if you forget something and run back into the house delaying your departure by five minutes, that will either place you on or remove you from the accident timeline.

It had now become my mission to remove us from that timeline. New rule: No riding before nine in the morning and kickstands down by five in the evening, otherwise known as dawn and dusk.

Suddenly my beautiful pine forests were filled with terrifying, four-legged terrorists ready to leap out at any moment and render us dead.

Why I Ride is all about the experience. “It’s about LIVING life.”

Hadn’t I just said that to the person who asked me if I was afraid of riding on the back of a bike?

Now I found myself marinating in fear for tens of hours a day, my eyes darting around wildly, searching for animals lurking in the landscape, ready to leap.

Cute became creepy.

Fuck I hate fear, it changes you. It was changing me…”

You can read the rest at Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi, Part II

Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi , Part II

LEVELING UP: verb
Simply put, it means, to improve your current station in a way that feels like a powerful shift. And, it starts with a change in thought, a shift in mindset, followed by brave action.
~ Urban slang diction As you may have noticed, I haven’t posted anything in forever and that had me feeling bad.

As many of you have noticed, I haven’t posted anything in forever and that had me feeling bad.

I was about to go on an extended apology tour, one meant to explain the extended time-lapses, over-scheduling, and under-delivering.

Truth be told, I haven’t had a second to spare because I’ve been doing this new thing called “leveling up.”  Maybe you’ve heard of it?

For me, it started with the thought of changing my website to a place that showcased more than just my writing.  The time had come (even though I’m told websites are becoming obsolete, holding second place to social media which makes me want to gag) and that soon, people will just send pictures and resumes via telepathy. Now, that’s something I can get behind.

That was followed by an internal battle that would have put The Game of Thrones “Red Wedding” to shame.

I was shocked to discover how dug-in I’d become.
How rigid.
How one part of me wanted everything to stay the same. Blog-centric, nothing more. And that I’d kinda lost touch with the other part. The part of me who knew the time had come to shake things up, progress, pull up my big lady pants, join the 21st century, and get a real website.

The decrepit, shy-not-shy, old fart in me cried in protest.“NO!!!! Then they’ll know my name and (gulp) see my face!” SHE was more than ready to die on that hill. I would say SHE was coming unhinged only I’m not so sure she was ever that hinged to begin with. 

“Fuck you! You’re doing this!” The bravest part of me, My inner pirate, roared as it straightened its sequin eye patch. Then it called my favorite branding expert and spent dabloons like it was freakin’ Jack Sparrow.

And that is when the craziest, most bananas thing in the world happened. I started to care. Like a lot. This was my moment to shine. To show the truest version of myself to the world. To live my largeness.

And as is usually the case, there was no template for that!

“No problem, we’ll create one.” we squealed.

“Hold my beer,” answered Mercury who was spending the month walking backward.

I hate this! I cried, after being told that nice women don’t flip the bird on the introduction page or have the word fuck in their copy, well, ever.

So I did it anyway.

Ta Da!  Instead of an apology tour, I’m here to announce my new website:

www.janetbertolus.com

It’s all there (or will be soon). The blog, pictures, my mentoring programs, even a short video.

Warning: There’s some flipping and some cursing but you already know me so I know you’ll be just fine.

Continue to Carry on,

xox JB

STORY OF THE TAOIST FARMER

“There was once a farmer in ancient China who owned a horse. “You are so lucky!” his neighbors told him, “to have a horse to pull the cart for you.” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

One day he didn’t latch the gate properly and the horse ran away. “Oh no! That is terrible news!” his neighbors cried. “Such bad luck!” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

A few days later the horse returned, bringing with it six wild horses. “How fantastic! You are so lucky,” his neighbors told him. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The following week the farmer’s son was breaking-in one of the wild horses when it threw him to the ground, breaking his leg. “Oh no!” the neighbors cried. “Such bad luck, all over again!” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next day soldiers came and took away all the young men to fight in the army. The farmer’s son was left behind. “You are so lucky!” his neighbors cried. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

When we interpret a situation as an ‘opportunity’ or a ‘disaster’ it shapes the way that we respond.

But the Taoist Farmer shows that we can never truly know how a situation is going to turn out. There are no intrinsic ‘opportunities’ or ‘threats’ — there is only what happens and how we choose to respond.

In which case, doesn’t it make sense to look for the opportunities in every situation?

Are you facing a crisis at the moment? How might you turn it into an opportunity?

SO much has happened in the past year.

Some good, some just so-so, and a lot of it bad. Life had been a veritable roller coaster of disappointments.

“So much fuckery!” I am fond of saying. But,(and I’m asking you to bear with me here) what if there’s magic in the mess?

Inspirational speaker Rob Bell cautions us against judging a situation before we let it “play out”.
“Disappointment is taking score too soon,” he warns.

THAT has become my North Star and THAT is what has been playing out around me over and over and over again recently, so much so that I just had to write about it!

Imagine if you will, a non-believer in all of this hooey. We will call him, Husband.

A lovely curmudgeon of a man who, when confronted, refers to himself as a “realist”. Now imagine that as a cosmic joke perpetrated by the universe’s wicked sense of irony, this man lives with yours truly!

Now, take another leap and imagine that some of my woo, through acts of osmosis over twenty years together, has rubbed off on him.

Case in point: In the middle of the 2020 lockdown, he got kicked out of his “man cave” a place that smells of gasoline and beer, where he and his friends have hung out, tinkering with their various internal combustion gizmos while scratching their balls and watching car porn for over seven years.

“It’s the end of the world!” he howled into the wind.
“Maybe,” I responded from a safe distance away.

“I guess I could call my friend and see if he wants to split a place,” he posed one day after the crying had ceased.
“Sounds good,” I said, exercising a surprising economy with words.

“OMG! We found the PERFECT place but the landlord is a dick!” Husband complained one morning. “He wants to see every bank statement, five years of tax returns, social security, baptismal, confirmation, divorce and marriage certificates, AND a fifty-bajillion dollar deposit!”

“Feels to me like there might be a better place. I’d keep looking.”

“Noooooooooooo!!!!”

But there was. A better place.
The perfect place. Closer, cheaper, with a terrific landlord who basically agreed to the deal the day he met them—with a handshake.

And this has led to the man cave of all man caves and a side business that puts a sustained smile on that curmudgeon’s face the likes of which I’ve rarely (if ever) seen.

“What we need is an orange, rolling metal ladder!” Husband announced one day after breaking and building shit at the new lair.

And that is why god in her infinite wisdom invented the internet.

A couple of days later he received an email alerting him of the delivery time. You must be there tomorrow at 9am to unlock the gate to the parking lot and take delivery, it read.
“Yippee!” Husband exclaimed because this new 2.0 version of the curmudgeon is given to sudden outbursts of joy (but that’s a story for another day). He was about to receive the ladder of his dreams—only it wasn’t orange. “No worries, that’s just paint,” he assured me when I asked. This new guy was starting to freak me out 

Later the next day he returned home deflated, pissed, and ready to rumble—in other words, his old self.

As he tells it, he arrived for the delivery fifteen minutes early only to find the giant metal ladder crumpled into an origami swan inside the locked gate. Not only that, their brand new fence had been damaged in the process. Later, according to the footage from their security cameras, he watched the two delivery guys arrive really early, back their truck up to the fence, and after several failed attempts (and lots of fence bashing) they chucked the ladder in its box (which exploded) up over their heads and into the parking lot.

“This really sucks!” Husband hollered as he navigated the Amazon third-party refund labyrinth.
“Maybe,” I texted from the bedroom.

It turns out that damning security footage is just the evidence you need to get a full refund AND money for gate repair.
And in the meantime, he found an even more perfect ladder (if you can imagine that).

Taller, wheelier, cheaper…and orange.

“Wow! You’re so lucky!” I exclaimed.
“Maybe,” he replied with a wink.

If Husband can change his tune—we all can. Who’s still taking score? Not me!

Carry on,
xoxJ

Hello friends,

Pardon the interruption, but I couldn’t help but share this. If you’re one of my tens of Instagram followers you can go make yourself a sandwich because this is a repost from today, but if you don’t social media (good for you by-the-way) and you want to feel lucky take a look at this!

In the midst of this pandemic, I realize it’s easy to be infected with fear & fuckery.

But one thing I know for sure is that it’s just as easy to catch the good stuff and I truly believe magic is contagious. I believe that sharing it, talking and writing about it transmits it like a goddamn super-spreader!

So consider yourselves infected! Happy Friday you beautiful humans.

Sent with an embarrassing amount of giddy love,
Carry on,
xox

“0h look, a dollar!”

I shrieked inside my head so as not to scare the dog. 

I’d gotten the “hit” to walk an hour earlier than normal. And since it had been drizzling all night I also received the idea to take the road less traveled. 

A paved path with only a slight chance of mud, it was a bit more out of our way, but I listened just the same. 

Let me admit this right upfront—I’m someone who LOVES to find money. In coat pockets, crumpled up inside the car, but most especially—out in the wild. 

That’s why I’ve maintained the practice of leaving wads of dollar bills on neighborhood sidewalks, next to the trash can at my local car wash, and on the floor of the produce department at Trader Joe’s. 

I do it when I’m feeling “broke”. 

It may not make sense to you but it shifts my perspective. 

A lot. 

I mean, you must have an unending supply of money if you can just throw it away like that! Right?

Besides that, I love how it feels to find money. It makes me feel lucky, like someone’s looking out for me. 

Like I’m a magnet for blessings. 

So you can imagine my glee when, after I took this picture, I realized it wasn’t a dollar bill after all, but a FIFTY!!

Y’all, all I can say is Follow your “hits”.

No matter how counterintuitive. 

No matter how out of the way they seem to be taking you. 

And feel lucky as often as you can. I swear this shit is magic. 💫✨💫✨💫

Carry on,
xox Janet