Why does “A Case of You” By Joni Mitchell still make me tear up?
Because “Music makes room for our pain.”
Yes, yes it does, Jason Silva.
…Hold me.
Carry on,
xox
Taller, shorter, fat or skinny. Different, not wrong.
Black, white, orange or polka-dot. Different, not wrong.
Red hair, blue hair, or no hair at all. Different, not wrong.
Tattooed, pierced, bearded, half a shaved head. Different, not wrong.
Head-scarf wearer, wig-wearer, fully covered or barely covered at all. Different, not wrong.
Democrat, Republican, Independent, Libertarian. Green Party, Etc. Etc. Different, not wrong.
Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual,or Transgender. Different, not wrong.
Hindu, Buddhist, Catholic, Jew, Muslim, Unitarian, Baptist. Etc, Etc. Different, not wrong.
#ALLlivesmatter
This is a post from back in 2014 when things seemed less complicated.
Carry on,
xox
The other day in line at my version of The Happiest Place on Earth, Target or “Tar-Jeh” as I like to refer to it; I overheard a couple of women in front of me mercilessly scrutinizing the cashier.
“My God, will you look at those fingernails, they’re so long! And that color!”
Her friend stopped unloading the contents of her cart onto the conveyor belt just long enough to lean forward to get a better look.
“Oh yeah”, she replied, “How does she do anything?
It seemed to me she was doing her job just fine.
“And that blue color- bleck, all the kids are wearing that and I just don’t get it. It’s hideous.”
I was hoping that our checker Tracy, couldn’t hear them, even though they were making no effort to lower their voices, speaking with the same loud, rude, audacity I’ve heard some American’s use in a foreign country when they assume the victim of their vitriol doesn’t speak English.
Once they had finished verbally annihilating Tracy, they went to town on the lady in the line next to us.
“Oh jeeeeeez, she’s too old to be wearing shorts. Not with legs like that! One of the women snorted. “She should get that vein stripping surgery that Miki had done, then maybe she could wear those things…but then only in the privacy of her own backyard for godsakes.”
“Looks like a freakin’ roadmap. Disgusting! My eyes can’t un-see that” her friend chimed in, throwing cat food, tampons and a Snickers bar on the belt.
Because I was behind them I was fair game—and terrified. I became a swivel head, looking around with the intention of changing lines.
God no, don’t do that, you’ll just give them a perfect shot of your ass in yoga pants as you walk away. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them that nugget for their nastiness. Better I just stay put, duck down or become invisible…….
I was certain I was to become the next victim of the Target Fashion Police.
Do you know people like that? That judge anything that’s different from THEIR “normal” as…….wrong?
Hey, ladies, with your overdone Botox, orange skin, and fake designer handbags, (sorry, but you asked for it) it’s not wrong – it’s just different.
I once took a friend to a group meditation which I attended once a month. She was interested in starting a practice, and I’d known these people for over ten years. A previous friend I had taken, described this group as an old, cozy pair of slippers – warm and welcoming. I thought so too.
Meditation was great. My friend seemed to genuinely like the people, chatting and laughing afterward while sipping her alkaline water.
On the way home in the car, I was in for a rude awakening.
“Ernest guy…what’s his story?” she asked.
I knew who she meant, one of the men IS very earnest in his social interactions.
“Oh I don’t know, I’ve known him forever. He can be kind of intense – but he’s sweet, really.”
“Well, he creeped me out. Then that Birkenstock, ferret-faced lady, ha! She’s something else.”
“Hey! These are my friends, sort of….anyway…they’re sweet and harmless and they seemed to really like you.”
I was trying to keep my cool, but I wanted to punch her in the throat. OMMMMMM back to a loving place.
“Yeah, well, they’re not my people, too granola, woo woo, Patchouli, for me. But I did like the water. And the meditation.”
Too bad sister, because I’m never taking you again, I thought silently to myself, not wanting to start a car-fight.
I had heard this same friend level a judgment on everyone around her in ten seconds flat, but they were usually strangers, not people I knew. (I can only imagine what kind of animal MY face resembled.) Seems anyone who didn’t fit in some little box she had envisioned as “correct” – was wrong.
They were ferret-faced, creepy, granola eating (so what) freaks.
“The guy on the corner waiting at the light? He looks like a pedophile.”
“Look at that girl’s eyeliner, who did her make-up? A raccoon?”
I know this seems like a duh, but I’m going there anyway. Obviously, SHE had some self-esteem issues or she wouldn’t be looking around with such a cruel eye and a sharp tongue.
After I ditched that judgy friend for good, I still couldn’t escape it, the judgment that is—I started to notice it everywhere.
Two guys at Starbucks sneering judgmentally at one of those overly complicated coffee orders the Barista is shouting out at the pickup counter. You know the one: grande, half-caf, sugar-free, one pump, vanilla latte with extra foam.
So what! Why is my order any of your business and why is it somehow wrong?
Variety makes the world go ’round. I personally relish it.
In my opinion, it makes life and people watching supremely entertaining.
Because it is so glaringly obvious to me now, I promise to try not to make you wrong.
Be your badass selves.
Fly your freak flags.
Wear your blue nail polish, pierce, tattoo, gray out your hair, Kelly Osbourne.
I LOVE IT.
DIFFERENT inspires me! It gives me ideas, things I would have never have thought of.
As far as I ever contemplate pushing the envelope, someone has been there, done that, SO last Tuesday.
Start paying attention, see if you can catch yourself or someone around you judging different as wrong.
It’s okay if someone loves pickled herring or sleeps until noon or sings the wrong lyrics to every song (that’s actually endearing).
What do you think? Clue me in. Tell me about it in the comments!
Love you, my different little tribe,
Xox
When I remember—I do this.
Mindfully.
I imagine that the water sort of “clean slates” me. It removes all of the sticky yuck that had adhered itself to me during the day and brings me back to neutral.
Neutral feels good.
Neutral feels doable.
I can handle neutral.
Sticky yuck—not so much.
Who doesn’t feel better after a nice hot shower?
Another option is a hot bath. I like to add Epsom salt. It relieves muscle aches and pains and convinces me that it’s the next best thing to soaking in warm ocean water, which it isn’t, but I’m gullible when I’m wet.
To rid my body of toxins, I’ll add some apple cider vinegar. It is advisable to immerse your entire body, even your head, which, if you’re built like me, includes your face. So take off your false eyelashes.
Try not to breathe while your head is underwater. That leads to death, which, if you think about IS the ultimate in peace and quiet, but I think it takes that a little too far—so I’m not recommending it.
Just think about it. Water has the power to carve stone. Hello, The Grand Canyon?
It can surely wash away all of my jagged edges.
Happy weekend,
xox
A reader sent this to me, and I LOVE it! No surprise there.
These are some wise words. Thanks, Marie!
Carry on,
xox
I didn’t want to write this.
I sat on my hands, I bit my tongue.
I minded my own business.
Like I said on my Facebook page, I don’t usually editorialize other people’s break-ups.
But the force was strong with this one. It chewed at my insides.
And eventually…it wrote itself…in about seven minutes.
Then I hit publish.
On the Huffington Post.
It’s about love and fame and stories and potential happy endings.
It’s about a complete stranger who, through no fault of her own, feels like a friend.
Curious to see if you agree.
Carry on,
xox
I was saddened to read of the ending of Elizabeth Gilbert’s marriage on Friday.
Liz is the author of several best-selling books, the most well-known being EAT PRAY LOVE, which chronicled her global spiritual quest and search for happiness after a painful divorce. At the end of her soulful journey, almost unexpectedly, she finds love. And a happy ending.
I rooted for her, as I’m sure many of you did, which breeds familiarity and makes her feel like a friend.
She made the announcement of her separation on her Facebook page, which much to her credit is a place you can find her almost every day in the guise of a gorgeously written, unerringly kind and unflinchingly authentic essay. The line that struck me the most amid her request for privacy and gratitude for her reader’s continued kindness, was this:
“This is a story I am living — not a story that I am telling.”
Which leads me to the first reason we should care.
This is a woman who started her career as a writer. A writer is someone who sits in a chair for hours a day — alone — and writes. She could have never in her wildest dreams have known the universal appeal her story would have and the fame and fortune it would bring her. I’ve heard her say as much in interviews.
She never asked to be famous.
She never wanted to be a celebrity.
As a writer, I have watched the trajectory of her career and I’m always in awe of how generously she shares the details of her life, which is why she said she felt compelled to announce the separation.
I also suspect she wanted to “get ahead” of the story.
To break the news before anyone else had a chance to put their spin on it. Every media outlet covered her announcement, from CNN and People Magazine to the Hollywood Reporter.
She needed to remind us of the distinction between living — and telling.
That breaks my heart.
She shouldn’t have to do that. The end of a relationship is painful enough.
Fame…
The second reason we should care is that we need a reminder. And the reminder is this: What happens to other people is NOT ALL ABOUT YOU.
Most responses to her news were filled with love and respect, but as you can imagine some were more like this, how could you do this to ME? I believed in you, in love, in happy endings. How dare you! One woman from the UK was beside herself. “Not this week! How could you do this on the same week as Brexit? I can’t take it!”
We all know that ridiculously self-involved person who makes everyone’s story about himself or herself. Let’s all try really hard not be that person.
The third and final reason and the one that matters the most to me is this:
In her Instagram bio Elizabeth_Gilbert_writer, she describes herself as an Olympic-level long-distance optimist which can only mean one thing. That she will be sad for a time. And she will mourn her loss. And eventually, the optimist part of her will kick in because she’s been down this road before and she knows — she will not die.
And she will write and write and write some more.
Some really great stuff.
Because that is who she is.
Perhaps she’ll even be able to write about another happy ending — how to salvage the love inside of an amicable split.
Because THAT is something we should care about.
Here’s the HuffPo article.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/elizabeth-gilberts-marria_b_10788398.html
I was asked by the divorce editor at Huffington Post if I could add any horrible post-divorce pick-up lines to an article they were putting together The 11 Worst Pick-Uo Lines Divorcees Have Ever Heard.
Boy, could I!
Even though it’s been a while, I didn’t have to dig too deep to recall the ones that stopped me in my tracks and sent me running in the other direction.
I think you’ll agree, all of these are pretty cringe-worthy but I’m sure a few of you have some doozies thta you could add to this list. Please do! Share!
Carry on,
xox
This is from 2014—but it still holds up. Happy 4th!
Carry on,
xox
Dear America,
Home of these United States.
Happy Birthday, Girl.
I am eternally grateful, even after traveling the world, make that especially after traveling the world, to have won the cosmic lottery by having had the good fortune to be born in your golden state.
I have traveled this country, sea to shining sea, mostly on the back of a motorcycle, and I’m here to testify that it really does have purple mountain’s majesty and amber waves of grain.
It is gorgeous.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the trash, graffiti, and poverty through these rose-colored glasses of mine, but by and large, this country is a heart-swelling source of pride for me.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
That last pursuit, the pursuit of happiness?
We are unbelievably blessed that Thomas Jefferson had the wisdom and foresight to write that into The Declaration of Independence.
No other country in the world gives its citizens the RIGHT to happiness.
Who knows what that even means, what happiness even looks like?
To them, it meant emancipation from British Rule.
Happiness means something different to everyone, but we, WE are entitled to it thanks to that sacred declaration—and by God—we go for it.
The American people I’ve met all want the same things from life: Love and a good cup of coffee.
Americans are hard workers. Some of the hardest in the world – don’t argue, check the stats.
We love our pets
Damn, we love our kids.
We are an irrepressible bunch. We are gregarious, outgoing and LOUD.
We are innovative, curious, quick minded and clever.
And we don’t take NO for an answer. (Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs, my nephew).
We are MacGyvers. Most of us are industrious enough to fix pretty much anything with gum, a paper clip, and dental floss. It’s in the water.
We willingly give directions to people who look lost.
The Americans I’ve met, will help a stranger in a heartbeat. They are generous and kind.
The United States is only as great as the sum of its parts; in reality, it is only a landmass with man-made borders.
It is the people who make it great and make me grateful to have been born here.
Don’t agree? Travel outside the states and you’ll share my appreciation for :
Clean water
Indoor plumbing
Hot running water,
A toilet with Real toilet paper
Things that work as expected
Ice cubes. Cold anything really
Decent French fries
King size beds (not two twin beds pushed together)
Street signs that actually give you correct information.
7 eleven (the ability to buy tampons or Motrin or band aids at 2AM)
Personal space (other countries don’t have the same personal boundaries we do.)
Story: We were standing in some line in Europe, (where they are big on lining up for things to which Americans would say “No fucking way”), when my husband looked over at me with the saddest mix of incredulity and humiliation. The old man behind him was standing so close that if he even so much as puckered his lips, he would have kissed the back of my husband’s neck.
It freaked him out and he’s French…. So, personal boundaries.
A relatively dependable police force and fire department.
A somewhat workable bureaucracy. (Just try to get your VAT tax back)
Real cabs that don’t have hoodlums for drivers
Soap
Pillows that are thicker than 1 inch.
CUSTOMER SERVICE. DEAR GOD, CUSTOMER SERVICE!
I’m serious, these are things we take for granted that some other countries just haven’t figured out yet.
Happy Birthday, America. I do love you. You don’t look a day over two hundred.
My birthday wish for you on this momentous day is a big fat cake with tons of candles, heaps of vanilla ice cream, and the most badass fireworks display ever, complete with marching bands and a flyover by the Blue Angels.
Too much? Nah, we’re Americans.
*Addendum: there are some things that other countries do that kick our ass.
My husband was riding in the middle of the Namibian desert last year and he had cell phone service – like four bars – four bars is unheard of in LA.
The electricity was dicey, but he was able to FaceTime me every night.
So, yeah, they’re killing it with cell phone service.
Want to wish her a Happy Birthday? Put it in comments below and I’ll forward them to her.
Much love,
Xox
The magic is back by popular demand!
And by popular demand, I mean all of the neighborhood daddies pushing babies in strollers who have both demanded, and by both I mean daddy and baby (and the occasional nana), who in no uncertain terms, some covered in goldfish orange-colored drool, have yelled loudly, and in unison, “Where are the magic wands?!”
Calm down everybody! (By the way, babies stained orange yelling about magic—is just adorable.)
I LOVE doing this for the kids, and the Agapanthus (the wands), which have bloomed late this year I’m sure due to the drought, LOVE being wands!
So… yesterday, in the early morning hours, I was forced to sneak up and down the streets around my house, darting in and out of the bushes to hide from cars, clippers in hand, cutting wands.
What I won’t do for a pail full of magic!
Magic is everywhere you guys. It’s the hummingbirds crowded around fragrant flowers in your garden, your babies first tooth, peach pie and an unexpected phone call from a dear friend.
Wands are just a small reminder every summer that we can abracadabra some magic right from our fingertips!
Have a joyful, magical holiday weekend!
xox
It’s not a good idea to touch your hair when you are in transition. Or change your appearance at all for that matter.
I can offer that advice because I know from personal experience.
The first time was second or third grade, I can’t remember which, when I was unceremoniously transferred without any warning from Miss Law’s classroom, which I adored because it was very progressive (she had us sit with our desks in a circle), to Sister Francis Ann’s dark and dreary classroom where the desks were all in ROWS.
That night I cut my own bangs. Badly. With plastic doll scissors. But I never admitted it. Until now.
I always seemed to get a bad haircut right about the time I was losing my front teeth or getting braces. Like I couldn’t just leave well enough alone.
What about you?
Was it bad timing?
One of the traumas of childhood?
Or a tragic coincidence?
I can’t be sure, but I have the pictures to prove it.
Due to the fact that pixie cuts were all the rage for little girls in the 1960’s, and that I wasn’t asked or consulted in any way because, well, because it was back in the days when kids didn’t get a vote and my mom chose my stylist and paid for my haircut, I decided to fly in the face of conventional thinking I followed the trend and wore my hair like a boy.
At first a toothless boy.
Then a little boy with teeth too large for his/her face to which the braces only added insult to injury.
Nothing says “Hey, I’m well adjusted”, like showing up to the first day of a new grade wearing braces, a uniform, and your dad’s haircut.
Damn…childhood. It’s no wonder we’re all so fucked up when it comes to transitions and change.
Make yourself look as bad as you possibly can—venture out into an awkward social situation—and then try to make new friends.
Which I think became a pattern for me.
I remember once, in the midst of a terribly painful break-up (to be distinguished from all the other break-ups that were a laugh riot), drinking and dialing my hairdresser who was a friend. I needed to re-invent. So…we proceeded to spend the rest of the night smoking cigarettes, drinking two-buck-Chuck, cursing sexy bad boys and dying my blonde hair a hideous shade of eggplant purple/red/black/vomit.
Then we both agreed (at least that was her side of the story), that the only thing I needed to make me look even cuter—were bangs.
The next day I wanted to die. No, seriously. I wanted to drop dead at the sight of myself.
I had an audition and I was now sporting bangs. Bangs the color of eggplant vomit; that matched the rest of my hair; and that was the least of my problems.
I was single.
Again.
It was a real catastrofuck.
This is my darling sister, whom I lived with at the time, and I’m sure we’re laughing at the eyebrows I had to draw on with a black pencil to match my hair.
Even my mom, the one who had me pixie-cut, hated it. She actually cried and asked why I was deliberately defacing myself. Like I was cutting or something. She said I “needed help.”
I didn’t need a shrink to tell me I sucked at transition. I had a bigger issue. Control. If something happened that I didn’t have any control over…watch out! Bangs were in my immediate future.
They still are.
If you know me, you know how many different colors and styles I’ve worn my hair over the years and if I trace it back, something emotional was always happening, some change or transition, right around the time I did the big ones.
I just did it recently. When I decided I was a writer, I also decided it was time to stop dying my hair and go gray!
So, that just goes to prove that old neurosis die hard although I’ve gotten a gazillion times better.
I recognize what’s about to happen when I get wobbly and start fingering the scissors.
Bangs.
Then I go and hide them from myself.
I’ve also outgrown drinking and dialing my hairdresser and I try not to make huge changes in my appearance before an important event—although I have a big meeting at the end of the month and I’m not sure my hair is purple enough underneath…I’m serious.
The other day I tore a picture out of a magazine of a cute way to wear gray hair with…bangs.
I’m doomed.
What do you do under similar circumstances? Loose weight? Buy boobs? Grow a beard? (Yeah, me too)
Carry on,
xox
“You can’t ride two horses with one ass.”
While I was growing up I used to hear that phrase all the time from my dad.
What? What does that even mean?
This was his reaction to my teenage stress. After he’d watch me fumble and stumble, struggle and juggle; fitting in play rehearsal, singing practice, homework, and my part-time job, he’d admonish me, “Janet, you can’t ride two horses with one ass.”
My reaction was to roll my eyes, snap my gum, turn my head toward the heavens, and exhale the long, deep exhalation of the exasperated teenager. “Okaaaay, daAAAAaad, I get it, make a decision. Do one thing at a time. Gawd.”
I always knew the one thing he thought I should choose to focus on was my job at the supermarket. It could end up being my security, after all, my future, just like it had become his. But truth be told, that was NEVER gonna happen.
He had little patience for my “extracurricular” pursuits. He, as the father figure, the patriarch, the breadwinner, just couldn’t understand what he considered frivolous time wasting.
And I, cast as the dutiful daughter, continued to struggle with not enough asses.
Those extra things were far from superfluous to me, hardly! They were actually my life’s blood –– my passions.
He was unable to wrap his brain around multi-passionate people, and that never changed.
I can’t say that I blame him. Us multi-passionate sorts are hard to figure out.
He’s not alone, there are many out in this world that can’t stand those of us who won’t seem to commit to just one pursuit. “Jack of all trades, master of none” was another of his old school, paternal pontifications.
After a while (years), I understood. I didn’t like it and I was incapable of abiding by it –– but I understood his confusion.
He was from the school of one horse, one ass.
Pick one thing, focus on it, and do it— for the rest of your life.
Then, and only after you’ve collected your retirement, are you allowed to entertain frivolous pursuits. Hopefully, you still have your health, vitality, and a little sass to keep things interesting.
Many in our family died soon after they retired, without enjoying any of life’s extras.
Here’s what I’ve come to realize as I’ve gotten older and hopefully a little wiser.
The things that hold passion for us in life are hardly extras. To me, they are the makings of a life well lived.
Jobs can be had, money made, the focus narrowed, and direction figured out, but it’s the multiple horses that we have the audacity to ride with our one crazy, creative, freedom-seeking-ass, that make us who we are!
Singularly Focused Exemplary Employee is not what I’ve ever wanted written on my headstone.
Badass of sass, multi-passionate creative, who can’t stay in the saddle; sloppy rider of an entire herd of horses, who you may hear whooping and hollering and having one hell of a ride –– and the time of her life. Now that’s more like it!
Ride all those horses with your one wild ass.
Own it.
Sorry dad.
Carry on,
Xox
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