“Our self-systems are like leaky buckets. No matter how much pleasure we’re getting, we’re bleeding from our many holes” – Jamie Weil

There’s something I never really gave any thought to:  While human beings are wired for pleasure, sadly, we are incapable of collecting and stockpiling joy?

No one can argue that we are experts at doing that with fear and anxiety. It seems as if humans are hardwired to hoard all of those bottom feeding emotions. Collecting them in the storage unit parts of our brains that we visit much too often.

When something good happens I always say to my friends, “Wow! I’m going to live off the fumes of THIS for a while!” Because I have to remind myself to do that.
To inhale deeply while it lasts.
Because…Fumes!

The joy leaves only fumes while the shit sticks. It sets up camp inside my narrative complete with a big old tent, a canoe, some jet skis, a generator, and a box of graham crackers.

Am I right?

In other words, after a peak experience, we as realists go right back to chopping wood, carrying water.

“After the ecstasy, the laundry.” ~ Puritan mindset

Shouldn’t we try and change that? I think so. So does Jason. Take a quick listen.

Carry on,
xox

This childhood memory came flooding back to me the other day and I felt compelled to share it. I’m curious to see what you hink.

I have a thing about promises. They make me uncomfortable mostly because they’re seldom kept.
I have a bad history with them so I try not to make them and I’m wary of the people who do.

I will never understand how someone can look you in the eye and make a promise they never intend to keep.
It’s a character flaw disguised as a talent. One that I’ve seen come in handy in politics, poker and adultery.

I can trace it back to my first broken promise which was one summer when my me, and my little sister and brother were kids.

The summers seemed hotter as a kid in the early 1960’s and although we were fortunate enough to have a house with central air which I realize as an adult was like being born with not only a silver spoon but the entire set of sterling silver flatware in your mouth; but…to balance that out we also had a frazzled mother who was perpetually locking us outside.

And not in a neglectful, call Child’s Services kind of way—more like the “get out of my hair—go outside and play” way.

But that wasn’t us. We weren’t cut out for suffering. God’s smart. He puts the altruistic, brave kids with tons of stamina in Africa. He sends all the weak sucks to Los Angeles, California.

So, needless to say, if anyone owned or had access to a real built-in swimming pool, well, we were on them like white on rice.

My dad, (who, as it turns out also had a very loose and one-sided relationship with promise keeping) had these two friends/employees, a set of identical twins named Bob and Ray. They were single young men in their early twenties who were young and ambitious. They had that “we’re good with kids” quality that was like catnip to the three of us.

So, they played with me, and rough-housed with my little brother and held my baby sister in their laps and just basically sucked up to their boss by paying attention to us when they came over for beer and a bar-b-que.

I’m sure they were exhausted when they left. I’ve been them. The single person at a family home who gets to entertain the young kids while the parents take advantage of that time to suck down a couple of cocktails and do the unthinkable—speak in full sentences to each other.

On one such occasion Bob or Ray, I can’t remember which (I hadn’t quite mastered telling them apart), mentioned something about a swimming pool. I think they were staying somewhere that had a pool or they knew someone who did. Anyway, if anyone says the words “swimming pool” in front of little kids (who are only several years removed from being fish) it triggers them like the secret code word in a bad spy movie. We kind of froze and our eyes spun around, and then the begging began.

“Can we come over and swim? Pleeeeeeease? Pretty pleeeeeease? With sugar on top?”

Completely unashamed, we crawled all over them like a couple of spider monkeys and begged until our throats were sore and no more sound came out. Looking back I’m sure that was fun for them.

Knowing the begging would only cease when my mom (who I’m certain secretly wore earplugs) would shoo us off to bed and in order to shut us up and gain back control of their adult evening, one of them, ( I think it was Bob. No. Maybe it was Ray) anyway, he caved and invited us to come and swim.

“You guys want to swim? Sure. Maybe on Monday.”

Well, we were little kids—we took this to. The. Bank.

This is the point in the story when I grab you by the chin and make you look me in the eye, and I say to you with all the sincerity I can muster, “Please do not EVER promise little kids that you will do anything—let alone take them swimming—if you have no intention of doing so. Because kids take you at your word. They take you seriously. We most certainly did.”

Monday! Monday! We were going to a real swimming pool. To swim. On Monday!! Yeah!!! Was our chant.

Finally, (in dog years time) Monday arrived and a miracle occurred. Our mom didn’t even have to encourage us to brush our teeth and get dressed because my brother, my little sister and I were in our bathing suits and ready to go by 8 am. But by mid-morning things turned vague. I remember it distinctly. That weird sinking feeling in my belly. Suddenly, my mom wasn’t really sure the swimming was happening THIS Monday.

“Wait. What?”

I can’t remember exactly how this next part came to pass but somehow we got Bob and Ray’s telephone number and before you could say Cannon Ball—I called them. Me. Little seven or eight-year-old me. And one of them answered. I think it was Ray but it was probably Bob saying he was Ray because he was about to break the hearts of three little kids.

“Oh not today, sweetie”, he said, “We’ll do it soon”, he promised. I could barely breathe, a wave of something I later learned to identify as disappointment washed over me.

“Okay”, I said, trying not to cry. “But when?”
“Soon”, he said and hung up.

Dial tone. Remember dial tone? It’s the soundtrack behind both a beginning and an end. Anticipation and sorrow.

That day is still so vivid to me. I was changed after that. Maybe some innocence was lost.
I know. Boo hoo, Some children know REAL disappointment. In Africa.
But this felt huge to us.

After lunch, we went outside to play and run through the sprinklers. I remember my mom, sensing our disappointment, giving us fudgesicles as a treat.

Chocolate and disappointment. Now I can trace the birth of this unbreakable partnership to that very day.

Carry on,
xox

There are those of you who tease me in a semi-snarky way about never making a misstep. Of projecting the illusion of a perfect life.

This post is for you.

Sunday started out like a cream puff of perfection if a day can be such a thing. (Don’t get mad. Keep reading, it’s gonna go south fast.)

After the brutal heat of the past week, the morning dawned clear and cool. The sky was so blue it hurt my eyes.

My coffee was perfectly creamed, my bed head only mildly Einsteinian, and even though we’d splurged on some fried food the night before, the little white shorts I’d found in the back corner of a bottom drawer fit like a glove. Okay, so maybe as tight as the OJ glove—but fuck it—I didn’t have to wear my Spanx (I have a “no weekends” rule with them) and even then the velcro stayed closed—so I’m calling it a win.

After spending an hour watching Sunday morning politics I put my head in the oven to stop the madness but nothing happened so I had another idea—food numbing. I texted my friend the “Hike Nazi” about meeting me for breakfast after she was finished hiking (any cardio in temps over 68 degrees is unacceptable to me)—and she agreed.

On my way up the hill, I could see that the temp had already climbed up into the eighties so I made a pact with myself. After breakfast, I would complete all tasks that required being outside before noon. I had to water the plants in the back and run to the market. Then I would spend the rest of my alone time (Raphael and the whiney little brown dog had left early for a car show) watching movies in our den which for some unexplainable reason gets as cold as a meat locker when we run the AC.

Say what you will, at least I know myself and the fact that this older 2.0 version of me has a very low heat tolerance, ask anyone. I am a delicate flower and I no longer have the stamina for triple digit heat.

Up at the top of Beverly Glen is a little deli my friend frequents so we met there and that is when she introduced me to Mrs. Harris.
I’m in love with Mrs. Harris.
I want to lick her all over.
Before you barf up your bagel let me explain. Mrs. Harris is a scrambled egg and cheese sandwich on rye bread (because any bread other than rye would be a crime against humanity) that completely erased any memory I had of Trump, Mitch McConnell or that miserable snake woman, KellyAnne Conway.

Life was good.

(Insert sound effect of a needle scratching across a record, the air being let out of a balloon, or a giant dog fart.)

When I went to pay for my Mrs. Harris I noticed that my debit card was missing from my wallet. No big deal I thought, it’s probably at home or in the car or…anywhere other than my wallet. Nevertheless, I had like seven dollars on me and when I pulled out the pockets of my tiny white shorts to check for change—tiny moths flew out. In other words, my friend paid for breakfast.

On my way down the hill, I forgot about it completely because Prince was on the radio. Right? I mean, Prince!

Anyway, when I got home I immediately went online to check and make sure that some culprit hadn’t absconded with the gigantic balance in my checking account. You see, my much too enormous to talk about health insurance payment gets automatically taken out this week. I’m never sure exactly what day that happens, so I could picture the money being spent on somebody else’s idea of fun, like bungee jumping or a trip to see the world’s largest sticker ball in Longmont, Colorado, and the Blue Shield ordering the hospital to put my uterus back in!

I could picture the crooks furiously hacking their way into my account only to experience emotional schiophenia—hysterical laughter followed by unexpected feelings of pity—and then rage—at the colossal waste of their time. Minutes later I see my card being thrown out the window of their fast-moving car into the dry brush on Mulholland.

After I was assured that my vast fortune was intact and that there had been no activity since Thursday, I felt bad about my boring life and the sad fact that I hadn’t been anywhere or done anything that cost money in three days— then I breathed an enormous sigh of relief and started wracking my brain while I watered my plants.

Where in the fucking fuck was my debit card? 
I don’t normally lose things. I misplace them, that’s different. It’s one of the quirks that makes me delightful.

You know that sinking feeling that grips you in the guts when you can’t find your wallet or your credit card goes missing? I had that. The dreaded gut grab.

I mentally retraced my steps (there weren’t many so it didn’t take long), called a couple of places, struck out, and finally decided I’d cancel the card and then just let it go. But alas, I couldn’t let it go. In the supermarket, I appeared to anyone watching to have a nasty case of Tourette’s. I’d walk halfway down an aisle, stop, think of a potential debit card scenario, yell “Shit!” or “Fuck it!” when I’d realize that it wasn’t a viable solution—and then keep walking.

In other words, I was mildly obsessed.

I bagged my milk and frozen stuff together at the self-check-out putting everything in a “cooler” bag and made my way back out into the one-hundred-degree heat. By the time I got to the car, I was a mumbling, twitchy, sweaty mess. Since I only brought my car keys (which this high-tech vehicle only has to smell to open and start) and my wallet with me, I threw them in the bag with the groceries and then watched in horror as the back hatch of the station wagon clicked shut…and locked.

With the keys inside.

Not surprisingly this had happened to me once before and the experience was burned into my memory. In a frenzy I called Raphael, whose reassuring response went something like this: “How can that happen?” and “What can I do from here?”

For some reason, the doors won’t lock if the keys are in the front of the car but I have it on good authority that the car can’t sense them all the way in the back—in a bag (or at least that’s what the internet says).

So, that’s when I went full Tourette’s. I ran around the car trying every door while cursing a blue streak. It was like a scene out of Saving Private Ryan—flying f-bombs landing everywhere!

Nooooooo! It was so hot I could feel the skin on my shoulders sizzling. I didn’t even have my phone with me to call Raphael so he could say the same damn things and offer the same useless solutions. Finally admitting defeat, I threw my hands up in the air in surrender.

I knew what must be done.

That’s I started the one-mile walk home in my stupidly small white shorts and flimsy black flip-flops, wondering why it felt like August in the Sahara Desert, and why in god’s name I was dressed like a seventeen-year-old Daisy Duke impersonator at a 4H State Fair. 

Looking at the big picture the whole thing was kinda funny. I mean, I was so wrapped up in the debit debacle, and that energy got so much momentum going, that it distracted me enough to make me do something I swore I’d never do again!

The lock and walk. 

Then it happened. I hadn’t even made it fifty-feet when I experienced the mother of all fails. The fucking flip-flop fail.

My flip-flop chose that exact moment to fall apart causing my bare right foot to hit the superheated black top, scalding it in an instant. Imagine being barefoot on hot sand or walking across hot coals. Yeah, like that.
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck!” I yelled, hopping backward on one foot in the middle of the parking lot while awkwardly bending over like some ridiculous French fried Flamingo to pick the thing up, fix it, and nonchalantly walk away. “There’s nothing to see here!” I yelled in my head. But I had to admit…there was.

Soldier on. Keep walking, I told myself.  Three steps later it flew off again! Foot burned. Fucks flying.

Always a quick study, I hopped over to a postage stamp sized bit of shade to assess the situation and that’s when I started to laugh because:

A: I was shit out of options. I knew I’d have to hop on one foot the entire mile home or just burn the shit out of my foot and deal with it.

B: Once momentum gets going in a downward spiral you’d better figure out a way to change its course—or else. (Or else your clothes start on fire and your shoes explode.)

C: I’m sure I looked beyond ridiculous! A sweat-drenched fifty-nine-year-old woman in tiny white shorts, one flip-flop, and a scarlet red right foot hopping down a busy street. I mean, I can’t even!

Holding the irreparably broken flip-flop in hand, I hobbled home praying the entire way for Raphael to be there so I could beat him with it, he could hug me, kiss my blistered foot, and give me a ride back to my melty groceries. He wasn’t, and I couldn’t walk on my right foot it was so burned, so I grabbed better shoes (ouch), and the spare key, jumped into his big van, and drove myself back to the scene of the crime.

I figured we could pick up my car later.

I was gone all of five minutes but when I got home he was there—wondering how one person was driving two cars. He figured the van had been stolen. As I told him the story he shook his head (because he knows I’m Lucy Ricardo) and gave my foot tons of sympathy.

Wait!… Don’t you want to be me? Don’t you wish you had my glamorous life? And is anybody still worried about the debit card?…ha! exactly!

#flipflopfail
#Sundayfootfry
#animperfectlife

Carry on,
xox

I was lying in bed last night listening to the crickets who finally got a chance to chirp since Raccoon Fight Club has relocated and I remembered this:

https://www.facebook.com/soulseekers.worldwide/videos/1810889285894025/

This is something you have to listen to! In 1992 Jim Wilson got the idea to slow down a recording of chirping crickets. He referred to the revealed sound as “Gods cricket chorus”. They sing in perfect harmony to each other. How does that happen?

It’s gorgeous and mind-blowing and better than…a frog chorus.

Quick cricket story (of course). Back in the day, in one of my apartments, during the summer the crickets would find their way inside and chirp all night long. It wasn’t slowed down to an angelic sounding chorus—it was simply annoying. I couldn’t escort them back outside like I did with the spiders and daddy-long-legs because they hid from me. As hard as I tried I just couldn’t find them.

So like the bitch says above—my idleness, laziness and the desire to save myself the trouble of moving necessitated being inventive.

Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I got a bright idea. For three nights in a row, I decided to have a chat with them, a cricket “Come to Jesus” so to speak. I walked around and politely asked them to be quiet, explaining my need to sleep at night and giving them permission to chirp their little hearts out during the day while I was at work.

Night one: A full chorus. Nobody felt like not chirping. As a matter of fact, I think they invited friends.

Night two: A little better. They must have started after I went to sleep because when I got up to pee—it was full Woodstock.

Night three: Silence. Nothing. Crickets. (I just cracked myself up.)

The things that nature hides from us are astonishing.

Carry on,
xox

Get a house in the suburbs they said. An ivy-covered cottage with mature trees just north of the hills.
That way you’ll get to experience all of the flora and fauna the area has to offer, they said. So much better than the concrete jungle of mid-city, they said.

So, we did.
We listened to “them”.

And for almost twenty years it’s been exactly as advertised—idyllic—except for that July a few years back when the coyotes ate my two Siamese cats. I can honestly say that put quite a damper on my summer. Still, we have managed to co-exist with nature in a very cordial and symbiotic way.

I leave past-its-prime fruit out for the squirrels so they’ll leave my bird feeder alone; we tolerate the enormous spider webs that are mysteriously woven overnight in high traffic areas and happen to always be at face level. There’s nothing like walking outside in the early dawn hours with a cup of coffee and becoming entangled in a giant, sticky, web that entraps you like a mummy and leaves you batting at your hair like a crazy person—all the while wondering where the damn spider went.

But like I said— we agree to co-exist.

Well, except for the crows. My husband wants to shoot them because they’re colossal pains-in-the-asses whose poops are ruining the paint on our cars. I fight, like a cheap defense attorney, for their right to occupy our giant tree in the front even though the evidence is overwhelming AND it pisses me off too. The sheer volume and size of their shit attacks are hard to fathom. I had one last week, the size of a serving platter, that blotted out the entire driver’s side of my windshield. And it was purple. Wtf?

Nevertheless, I won’t allow him to kill them although I’m pretty sure he’s already had target practice with a few.

But only the ones that laugh at him. Crows laugh you know.
At you.
At your dog.
At your poor choices in cargo shorts.
But you wouldn’t know that unless you live in the suburbs.

Aside from that; things have been quiet. That is, until this year, or as we like to call it: The Year That Wild Kingdom Took Over Studio City.

Lest you label me a complainer—I will first tell you some things I love about living amongst nature.

I love the squirrels, they’re chatty and cute and they hide peanuts in my flower pots… Yipppeeee.

I love the birds. They sing and crap joyfully while building their nests in the drawers of the outside potting table where I keep the clippers and the tiny garden spade—so I can’t get to them until the babies are hatched and raised and go off to college.

I love all the spiders and their cobwebs (which I learned recently are abandoned spider webs that have dust bunnies stuck to them) but I already said that.

I love the hummingbirds who actually come up to my face and make their cute little brrrrrrrrrr sound while I’m watering.

Ok. I’m done.

This year has been the year of the skunk and now, as of late, the year of the raccoon—and I don’t mean I’ve gone schizophrenic on the Chinese calendar.

We have captured and released three skunks after our beautiful but stupid boxer, Ruby, got skunked four times.
It has cost us the equivalent of a monthly car payment for an exterminator to wait them out and once caught, have them relocated to a more hospitable zip code.

But who needs money anyway?

Once those little rascals went bye-bye we mistakenly let down our guard thinking that the worst was over.

Until last week when twice, Ruby and I were woken up by the smell of skunk. Again.

One of my friends joked that the skunks are hitchhiking back to our house because they miss us. I had her killed.

This week there hasn’t been any skunk stench. Nope. Just the terrifying screaming that accompanies Raccoon Fight Club which starts promptly at 2 am—two shows a night—two mornings in a row. The sound is SO loud and horrific I’m certain that if a skunk were anywhere in the vicinity the smell would be scared right off.

“It’s just a cat”, my husband mumbled in his sleep the first night. “Yeah, if a cat was as big as a dog and screamed like a child whose foot was caught in a bear trap,” I replied. To add to the racket, Racoon Fight Club had a cheering section like it was a championship prize fight in Las Vegas. The rats who inhabit the Bougainvillea covered fence like it’s rent controlled apartments, were squealing their little hearts out. Favorites were picked. Bets were placed. Peanuts exchanged hands.

Oh, the rats? Haven’t I mentioned them yet? Oh, pardon me. Yeah. Our house is a veritable torture museum obstacle course of mouse traps that are set…everywhere. Apparently, all of Studio City is infested with rats.

They say it’s all the ivy and mature trees. Fucking “they”!

Anyway…After fifteen minutes of cowering in the corner with Ruby, it finally stopped. All of it. The screaming, the squealing, and our whimpering.

Last night it started again only this time it was so deafening and ferocious I could have sworn they were inside the house. Ruby and I jumped into each other’s arms, shaking like two pitiful Chihuahuas. It even woke up my husband and forced him to put on pants.

You don’t want to do that in the middle of the night.

You don’t want to make my husband put on his pants because then he means business—and somebody’s gonna pay.

I heard him grab the giant industrial flashlight that occupies valuable real estate on his nightstand. I hate that thing. It’s ugly AF, weighs a ton, doubles as a weapon, and is so bright I’m sure they can see the light from space.

Husband opened the door to the backyard and yelled “Hey!” because wild animals respond to bald guys holding klieg lights yelling at them. In reality, the screaming didn’t even miss a beat. I wondered how any of our neighbors could sleep through this horror movie nightmare, I’m sure I’ll read about it in the neighborhood blog: Neighbors hold middle-of-the-night, illegal racoon fight club on their rat infested fence.

After another ten minutes of relentless screaming from the raccoons with the rats cheering loudly in the background —I’d had enough. Someone had to do something! I left the safe embrace of my cowardly dog and barefooted my way out the door to the deck on the far side of the yard. I could see the glaring beam of light shining from the flashlight on the other side of the lawn where my husband was hiding standing.

It seems he had bestowed stadium lighting upon Raccoon Fight Club which caused the rats to cheer even louder!

“It’s two raccoons”, he whisper-yelled over in my direction. I could barely hear him over the commotion. But I know they heard us, those two raccoons, yet, whatever they were fighting about overrode their fear of two humans.
And a dog.
As an aside: Were’s the memo that goes out to the wildlife in the neighborhood that lets them know that our house is probably not a good idea for staging Fight Club because —it has a DOG. A little brown dog that will…right.

Anyway, this next section sums up our marital partnership in five or six sentences. Maybe it will sound familiar to you?

“I’m hosing ‘um!”, I yelled over to my hero who was shining his beam of light right on them like it was the Super Bowl half-time show. Meanwhile, the raccoons gave not one shit. They just kept on with the scream fighting. So I turned the hose on full strength and blasted them with everything I had.

I think for a minute they thought it was part of the show. But Lord have mercy it shut them the hell up.

Blessed silence.

“They’re gone”, he informed me. “Good idea”, he added as he powered down the klieg light they can see from space.

”Uh, ya think?”, I muttered under my breath as I wound the hose back up—stood for a moment like Wonder Woman—and went back to bed.

Being the woo-woo, California knucklehead that I am, I saged the entire yard this morning concentrating on that corner, which I’m convinced is a portal to the mouth of hell.

Hmmmmm…I wonder… how much is it going to cost us to trap and relocate two raccoons? They are definitely meaner than the skunks. Hear that? I’m starting to miss the damn skunks!

I think I’ll start a Go Fund Me Page.

Carry on,
xox

I worked as a supermarket checker until I was thirty. It was mindless work, paid decent money, and had the flexible hours I needed for the other things I cared about; school and acting.

I was a damn fine checker. The best. Fast, nice, with a minimum of small talk. Standing and scanning groceries has a zen quality about it. The repetition can send you into a zone of complacency. If you’re lucky faces blur and time flies.

That was the case for me maybe 10% of the time. The other 90% of the time I was judging the contents of everyone’s carts, making up stories about what they were buying and why.

I know! Your worst nightmare, right?

I was the girl who stifled a giggle when the dude with the greasy hair and the porn mustache who was drowning in Brut came thru the express line EVERY Friday night with a case of Coors, a carton of Marlboro reds and Maxim condoms (whose tagline was printed on the box: For those who live large). His story was a no-brainer.

“For those who live large!” Can you stand it? I couldn’t. The minute he was ten paces out into the parking lot, racing toward his Trans Am—I’d burst out laughing. Nobody else in line was paying much attention so my outburst probably appeared a little manic.

Whatever.

There was Ms. Shaw, an ancient, (she was probably in her late forties at the time) spinster/cat lady who arranged her cat food in neat stacks by flavor in her cart. Anal-retentive doesn’t do her justice. She bagged every red delicious apple in a separate plastic bag and grouped all of the green vegetables together—away from the other colors. And none of the food could touch. (Is this making you a bit twitchy?) She also bought bourbon if I remember correctly, which seemed so out-of-character that I made up an imaginary life for her. In my imagination, she still lived at home with a boozy parent.

There was a woman who came in once a week and bought six bottles of Clairol #6 blonde hair dye. She had dark brown hair so I’m not sure what that was all about. Maybe she dyed her kid’s hair. Or her pubes. Who knows. Maybe she was a hairdresser who only likes to use that one color because she believed that blondes had more fun.

Whatever.

There were a lot of women back then that bought douche. Is douche still a thing? I read somewhere that it’s unhealthy for you since your vagina is self-cleaning, like an oven. Anyhow, if it went on sale there’d be a run on douche, these women would buy entire baskets of it. We often ran out and had to manually write up “rain-checks” for Summers Eve douche while they made the entire line wait so they could take advantage of the sale price another time. I had one woman who bought douche and two pints of rocky road ice cream EVERY DAY. Eventually, the store had to put a kibosh on the douche hoarding. They came up with a limit. No more than three at a time. When we tried to enforce that rule I thought there was going to be a riot! These women wanted their “fresh feeling!”

I’m curious—Is douching addictive? Does your va-jay-jay forget how to self-clean?

Speaking of fresh, I had a man who used to bag his meat and Irish Spring soap together and when I’d try to separate them he’d grab them away from me and reunite them. Finally, I asked him why. “I like the way it tastes”, he replied.
My intuition told me he lived alone. One evening the assistant manager was helping out, bagging groceries for me and when he saw me throw the soap in with the meat he just about lost it. “It’s okay”, I assured him, “he likes the way it makes the steak taste.” He looked back at the customer who was nodding enthusiastically. The guy swore by it.

I never had the courage to try it. It reminded me of menthol cigarettes. Bleck.

I’m going to say this—I can’t help it. The buying habits of the general public are weird. There were people who lived on TV dinners, people who, in my humble opinion drank WAAAAYYY too much diet coke, people who spent all their money on junk food and cigarettes, and the young anorexic girl who only and ever bought celery.

You can tell a lot about a person by what’s in their grocery cart. It’s a snapshot into a life—a peek into some of our most private habits—eating and personal hygiene.

So, I curate my cart when I go to the store. The implication of shame keeps me honest. Lots of fruit and kale, no candy or donuts. I know that no matter how disinterested they look the checker is making up stories about me so when I buy anything remotely embarrassing (like Monistat, lubricant, four boxes of Triscuit, or the second bottle in a month of the sour mix for my whiskey sours) I go thru the self-check-out line because I’m a damn fine checker. The best. Fast, nice, with a minimum of small talk—and mot of all—discreet—not at all judgy.

Carry on,
xox

“What is with all those people who are shouting their shitty statistics at us? Stop it! Stop trying to convince me that the world is a horribly dangerous and massively disappointing and unfulfilling shit-show!”
~Me

The doctor stands there with his hands together, fingers interlaced, the corners of his mouth downturned into a solemn expression.
“I’m afraid your prognosis is grim”, he delivers the news in an equally grim monotone.

Then it starts.

“The odds are against you. Only sixteen percent of people with this thing you have live past a year. Eighty-five percent survive the chemo and radiation only to expire after ninety days.”

Blah, blah, yadda, yadda.

I know you’re just doing your job but I can assure you, nobody heard a thing after the word grim.

I know some really amazing doctors who have saved a ton of lives but why do they insist on immediately covering us with a sauce that smells like death?

Because they don’t want to give anyone FALSE HOPE.

False Hope
To look forward to something that has a strong chance of not happening—that you may or may not know.

Yeah, that would be awful. By all means don’t look forward to anything that might not happen.

Wait. Most things in life have a strong chance of going down the drain. We have no idea how they will play out. That’s why it’s called hope. We hope for the best. Otherwise, it would be called certainty, or ForSuresville.

I remember being a single forty-year-old when I was told that I was more likely to die at the hands of a terrorist than to get married.

What?

A very successful and famous writer, who an entire room of us not so famous and successful writers had gathered in order to hang on her every word, ended a really sweet and uplifting day with this nugget.
“You can’t call yourself a writer unless you’ve been rejected many, many times.”
That was the “let’s get real” portion of her talk. It was supposed to be motivating but for me, it was mildly nauseating because if you know her story that was not necessarily the case for her and I think, like the gloomy-Gus guy in the white coat—she doesn’t want to prescribe any FALSE HOPE.

If you beat the odds you’re lucky. I suppose I agree. Or tenacious, delusional, persistent and optimist.

Here’s the thing, this is not a one size fits all world. If it were we would all be the same color, height, and weight. We would all look like Cindy Crawford or Bradley Cooper. Then and only then could anyone tell you EXACTLY how something was going to go down.

There are as many different possible scenarios as there are individual souls in this world. So, at last count just over seven billion.

I don’t care how many people survived six months. If you tell me that, I just may believe you because you’re a doctor—and then I’m fucked. I can’t have my own journey. I won’t make my own miracles.

I don’t care how hard it is to get a movie made in Hollywood. Four or five come out every week, so I know some bozo beat the odds.

I don’t care if ninety percent of writers fail at the premise. Ninety percent of screenplays and eighty percent of novels are rejected because of poor structure.

Dan Brown’s three novels before The Da Vinci Code all had printings of less than 10,000 copies.
Other rejection counts: Gone With the Wind, 38 times; Dune, 20 times; A Wrinkle in Time, 29 times; Lord of the Flies, 20 times; Kon-Tiki, 20 times; Watership Down, 17 times; Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, 18 times; Chicken Soup for the Soul, 33 times; James Joyce’s The Dubliners, 22 times; Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, more than 100 times; MASH, 21 times.

I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!

I believe in FALSE HOPE. I love FALSE HOPE. I spread FALSE HOPE on crackers and eat it.

All of those people had hope, false or not, that they would succeed—or they would have given up. The same goes for those who survive past their expiration date. They didn’t listen to the statistics and I can guarantee you they mainlined FALSE HOPE.

I for one, think we all should all believe in FALSE HOPE. About everything. All of the time.

I shudder at the alternative.

Carry on,
xox

Hey you guys, 

Have you ever pushed a button for an elevator or started the bar-b-que and then stepped away thinking that something was in progress? Yeah, me neither. I’m a watcher. I watch for signs of progress. 

If you have profound trust issues like I do, then you push the button to call the elevator like a junkie with a self-administered morphine drip. I know that the more I push it—the faster it will come.

Can I get an AMEN?!

But have you ever been distracted enough by let’s say Snapchat, or a CNN news alert about the latest asinine Trump tweet, that you missed the fact that you pushed—and nothing happened?

That’s the feeling I’ve been having lately. Like I pushed the Easy button and looked down at my phone for a minute and everything got hard. Harder. Hardest.

So what does this self-confessed lover of all things easy do in a situation such as this?

Well, I push harder. Duh! Don’t you?

My neurosis looks like this: I make a phone call to clear up some bureaucratic snafu and it goes straight to voicemail (which you have to admit is SO un-gratifying!) so what should I do? I think the answer is clear: I wait an appropriate amount of time for a reply (one hour) and then I call back obsessively and leave another seventy-hundred messages that start off nice and polite—and slowly devolve into a monologue that sounds like it’s taken from the pages of an old Andrew Dice Clay stand-up act circa 1980.

I push harder.

I sent important emails last week and haven’t received any responses. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Do dah.
Well, that’s just bad manners Fancy East Coast Magazine. At least send a confirmation that you received my submission and let me live in peace. Instead, I’m two whiskey sours away from risking looking like the insecure, over-zealous, micro-managing, control-freak that I am by re-sending it when you’ve specifically asked writers not to. You obviously know my type and want to save yourselves from four million re-submissions of the same essay.

They say on the submissions page, “We’ll get back to you in 90 days.”
Sadists.

That just makes me want to push harder. I could be dead in 90 days, killed by a horde of marauding middle-aged midgets who’ve been sent by my husband to put me out of my misery.

I suppose this will be a good lesson in “trusting the fucking process” (I added the fucking for emphasis. Pushing it?). But ninety days is an eternity when you’re waiting!

I have five articles out in the world right now with various publications, waiting for the green light.

I continue to push the Easy Button. Hard. And often.

I’m fifty-nine. When does this striving thing go away? Sixty? Seventy? Never?

Oh…wait…I forgot to say please.
And abracadabra.

I forgot to use magic! Shit. (Forehead slap) I do that all the time!

Sorry, gotta go.

Carry on,
xox

Dear swing set lady,

Hello, I am the pre-school aged escape artist who lived in your neighborhood back in the 1960’s, you know, the one with the raging case of swing set envy.

Apparently, on afternoon walks with my mom I had spied what I determined to be the top of a beautiful red metal swing set in your backyard. Please forgive me, but I couldn’t wait the six months for Christmas when I had been promised to receive my very own swing set straight from the North Pole.

I was obsessed! I had even marked the page in the Sears catalog.

But sometimes a girl’s just gotta swing and I could get to yours without crossing any streets so…

Now, don’t feel sorry for me I got plenty of swinging done on our family excursions to Petit Park, but when you factor in my fearlessness, my ability to wander off and my insatiable need to swing—well, I just couldn’t be stopped.

Or at least that’s what I’ve heard over the years.

People discover their wanderlust in many different ways. Most of my friends found theirs in the gap year between high school and college. You have to understand wanderlust. It is fueled by curiosity and funded by courage. You could say mine followed the same path. It started with curiosity but since I’m pretty sure four-year-olds don’t possess courage per say, mine was fueled by envy.

And an insatiable need to swing.

Also, my profound lack of understanding of and general disdain for delayed gratification —an affliction which haunts me to this day!

So you can look at it this way swing set lady, my wanderlust kicked in when I decided to embark on my solitary field trip to your backyard.

I don’t know what got into me that day. Maybe we couldn’t go to the park, or I was shown on a calendar that Christmas was a shit-ton of days away but as the story goes: one minute I was there, the next I was not. Apparently, I was one of those shape shifting little kids and my thirty-pound, white haired self could disappear as quickly as a puff of smoke.

Now don’t think for one second that it was my mother’s fault. I hate it when you get judgy.

You know how it is! You must have been a mother, you had a freakin’ swing set in your backyard!
Raise your hand if you haven’t turned your head for one second to see if you have a chive in your teeth and the baby rolled off the changing table—or the couch—or the bed. Or your toddler wandered into the abyss that is Nordstroms.

I thought so.

Anyway, you have to admit, the fact that I knew my name and phone number at that age was impressive (EM 363-6932), and if you’d asked me I would have read you Green Eggs and Ham and any other Dr. Seuss book you owned. You have to admit—that’s some damn fine parenting.

Anyway, back to you. You were very nice to me while we waited for my mom to stop vomiting and come and pick me up. I remember she wasn’t mad at all! She was crying she was so happy to see me! I almost expected a parade on our walk home.

I guess I want to thank you, swing set lady; for being my childhood neighbor. Your kindness (I remember you giving me a cookie), and your ability to keep your wits about you and not freak out when you looked out your kitchen window one morning to see a strange little girl swinging, made me feel safe in my lust to wander and THAT has been an invaluable gift to me.

And thank you for talking to my mom because I never had to wait until December—I got a brand new swing set of my very own like, the next day.

xoxJanet

This is the dating “us” circa 2001.

I met my husband through the most old-fashioned of means—the blind date.
I know in this time of hooking up via the worldwide web this sounds as antiquated as sidling up to a bar and ordering absinthe. Oh, wait, that’s a thing again, isn’t it?

Anyway, here is how it worked—friends fixed us up.
My friend Sharon was dating his friend Bert, and when she met Raphael she thought of me. Nice, right?

I’ve often wondered about that though. How much thought is put into a friend’s fix-up?

I wondered if it was pondered thoughtfully, carefully… like a wine pairing? Or was it knee-jerk, impulsive like, “You read books and John mentioned that he read a book once, so…”

In our case, my friend knew I liked European men and his friend knew he liked big boobs, so, yeah, what our fix-up lacked in depth and substance it made up for in that personal touch—two people who actually knew us thinking that we would make a good match.

Bert was a serial fixer-upper and at the time that ours was suggested Raphael had a serious case of blind date fatigue. Nevertheless, when Bert uttered the code words, big boobs, it triggered a deeply embedded Pavlovian response in Raphael which overrode all of his reservations and prompted him to ask for my number and give me a call.

Now on dating websites, I’ve heard that hours of very careful consideration are given to filling out the personal profile. I’ve known people who’ve hired a ghostwriter in order to convey just the perfect blend of desperation and disinterest.

As far as the photo goes, I have friends who have been known to enlist the services of a professional photographer. As I understand it, lighting is a life or death proposition. There is one guy in town who has a waiting list as long as one of Donald Trump’s ties because he manages to give everyone that “bewitching hour” glow.

You know, the kind that renders you unrecognizable even to your own mother.

Giving our friend’s good judgment the benefit of the doubt, without the ability to Google each other, or the benefits of viewing each other’s carefully crafted social media narrative in advance, (because neither of those things existed), we agreed to meet at a bar in Brentwood. Here is a frame of reference for you: Brentwood happy-hour was used as the basis for the movie The Hunger Games. It is savage. It is every man for himself. You try to escape with your soul intact—and nobody eats.

That is except for me.

I was the new improved, fully revised, 2.0 version of blind-dating Janet, which meant that after surviving nearly twenty years of this contact sport I had decided to reinvent. To adopt a new and audacious persona. I had decided to just be myself.

So, after nursing a glass of wine while we exchanged pleasantries, I determined that I liked this Frenchman enough to sneak out and let the valet know he didn’t need to keep the car running—and because I was STARVING I also agreed to have dinner.

This sent a shockwave throughout all of Brentwood and any “wood” within a twenty-five-mile radius. You see, as I would come to find out, women in the metropolitan Los Angeles area do very little eating on first dates. And if by some magical twist of fate you DO find yourself seated across from a man by the dinner portion of the evening—you do the sane thing—you order a salad.

Leafy greens.

Never carbs. Carbs are strictly forbidden. They are horrible and terrifying, and they scare women to death.
You may as well just order a bowl of live snakes.

I could tell I’d broken a cardinal-dating rule by the puzzled look on Raphael’s face as I dug into my pasta entrée with gusto.

As soon as the shock of this spectacle wore off enough for him to speak, he educated me on the dating habits of the West Los Angeles female in the 20th century. It started off with this pronouncement: “Oh my God! You EAT!”

He continued, “I am SO SICK of watching a woman push a piece of salad around a plate. Honestly! There is so much incredible food out in the world to share!” He shook his head, bewildered, as he tore off a piece of the warm focaccia and dredged it through the pungent, green, extra-virgin olive oil.

I nodded enthusiastically while at the same time sucking a stray piece of linguine drenched in the most delicious clam sauce through my puckered lips.

Sensing he was in the presence of a fellow foodie he went further. “Or… they order the most expensive thing on the menu, poke at it and take it home. What is with that?” His lightly accented voice was filled with genuine curiosity.

I couldn’t answer because well, my mouth was full.

“You eat with appetite”, he declared, a huge smile hijacking his entire face. “I like that!” Then he said something so perverse I almost dropped my fork. “I like women to look like women”, he said, “To have a little meat on their bones. None of those skinny-waif, teenage boy looking women for me.”

Had I heard him correctly?

Well, you’re in luck mister because I am none of those things…except the meaty woman part… I thought as I smiled back broadly, daintily dabbing at my lips with the cloth napkin. Damn. Who knew this being myself stuff would pay off so well?

Then I swooned. Or at least I think I did. Having never really swooned before I did my best impression of a swoon. It probably looked like I had gas.

Undeterred, he continued, “We share a passion for food, that’s obvious.” His swoon-inducing sweet-talk continued while he deftly reached for the bottle of wine. “I’ve always felt that passion translates into every aspect of life. Work…play…even sex.” His eyes sparkled as he re-filled our glasses with the hearty Cabernet.

“Cheers!” I toasted in agreement as our crystal glasses clinked together melodically. “Salute” he replied, locking eyes with me in a charmingly wicked way.

We have been savoring life together ever since.

The moral of this tale? Ladies, order the damn pasta!

Carry on,
xox