awareness

Apropos to what’s been written about this week.

Big love,
Xox

Chemistry
chem·is·try
ˈkeməstrē/
noun
1. the branch of science that deals with the identification of the substances of which matter is composed; blah, blah, blah, more scientific jargon.

“there was a chemistry between them” (…and they didn’t sleep for a week)

So after yesterday’s post about my lapse of good judgement due to some “intense sexual chemistry”, I decided to give this elusive beast more thought; seeing that it can ruin our lives and such.

So what is chemistry anyway?
If I knew the answer to that, well, I would be bottling it and living on my private island with all the subjects of my “research.”

There are studies that chalk it up to smell, to pheromones. According to the dictionary, Pheromones are chemicals, hormones, capable of acting outside the body of the secreting individual to impact the behavior of the receiving individual.

In other words, little invisible sexual secret agents, that overrule all common sense, decorum and self respect. They blind side us, leaving us slaves to our lady parts.
Men, I suppose you can blame your struggles with self control on chemistry and pheromones – but what’s your excuse the rest of the time? – just sayin’.

People that say they don’t “believe” in chemistry, have never experienced it.
Right?
I just felt the slow, collective, nod of thousands of heads.

I mean, it can strike you when you least expect it.
It’s a form of sexual terrorism, with the MOST wicked sense of humor. 

Chemistry has no conscience, that I know for sure.
It seems it’s the strongest with the most inappropriate people; at the most inopportune times.

Haven’t you ever locked eyes across a crowded party with…the cater waiter?
Come on! I know it’s not just me!
What about the guy in the Home Depot outdoor department? Or the beautiful man in Starbucks?

A friend of mine locked eyes with a stunning, young woman, on an airplane, seated in first class.
He was walking down the aisle to his cheapest of the cheap seats, in the waaaaay back of bitch/coach.
He knew she felt the chemistry too, when she walked all the way to the back of the plane to use the restroom, forgoing all the comforts of the first class potty, just to flirt with him.
They exchanged magazines, book titles, recipes and phone numbers, annoying everyone around him; late into the night.
The pheromones were so strong, she had to be warned sternly, several times, to go back to her first class seat during turbulence.
Sadly, she was met at the gate by a much older husband and three little kids – and my friend is gay.
Hey, I’ve already told you, chemistry knows no boundaries.

My philosophy is this:
Feel the chemistry. Marvel at it. Admire it even. Then walk away.
Except if you’re single, some chemistry is a must have in any relationship, because, take it from me – if it’s not there, the first time you get a wiff of it; you’ll bolt.

My heart still flips over when my husband enters a room. Not every time – but most of the time.

Listen, mark my words; that wild, mad, leave your wife, make bad decisions, rip your clothes off in public, kind of chemistry does NOT makes for good RELATIONSHIPS.

Relationships require some intellect, intimacy and love.

Chemistry is not to be mistaken for love. Ever.

Pheromone fueled chemistry rules the region south – of – the – border; if you catch my drift.
It’s the stuff of books and movies and it NEVER works out in the end. Trust me.

Knowing the difference, can save you a lifetime of hurt.

Sympathetic kiss,
Xox

Have you got a juicy chemistry story for me?

“Everything about me is a contradiction, and so is everything about everybody else.
We are made out of oppositions; we live between two poles. There’s a philistine and an aesthete in all of us, and a murderer and a saint.
You don’t reconcile the poles. You just recognize them.”
~Orson Wells

I used to LOVE loligaging around, reading and listening to music – simultaneously.

It was a habit I got into during school. I could only study with music playing or the TV on in the background. Nothing too heady, The Price Is Right or The Sonny And Cher Comedy Hour would drone on in the background, helping my brain process information.

Studies confirmed that there were others like me.
At least that was the lame excuse I would give my parents. I would sneeeeeer it out of my sideways, teenage mouth, like a hoodlum with the stub of a cigarette; when they’d yell for me to “turn that shit down!”
I lied about it so much, it became…true.

So what the hell has happened to me?
Now, as a writer, I need complete and utter silence when I sit down at the computer.
Is it age? Is my brain so busy just trying to conjugate a verb, that I can’t handle the distraction?
And forget about reading. I have six books open right now, all of them half read and only partially understood.

Suddenly, I’m a writer who doesn’t read, a singer that doesn’t listen to music.

I guess I can just add that to the list:

I’m also a woman that never lactated, or used her uterus for the good of the world in ANY WAY.

I’m a ex Jeweler who does’t wear or look at jewelry.

I’m a former Nationally Rated (fibbing here, but I could have been) professional shopper who hasn’t bought ANYTHING that wasn’t for someone else, since the inception of the boyfriend jean.

I’m a foodie who consumes steamed veggies and green drinks everyday and just to be cruel, I force my husband to do the same; utilizing his Catholic guilt.

I’m the biggest slug. The most ginormous lazy bones Jones, exercise loathing, couch potato, that God ever had the imagination to create; yet, I go to the gym – everyday.

WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH ME?

I’ve become a walking contradiction. But what I’m starting to realize is that we ALL are…in our own ways.

I know certain individuals that are vegan, gluten free, alkaline water junkies…who smoke and eat bacon; hoity-toity fashionista’s who wear Target with their designer duds, Yogi’s who teach meditation that are high strung and judgmental, financial advisors that are millions of dollars in debt, Prius drivers who waste every resource imaginable, and drive like bats out of hell; and intellectual giants – who can’t tell time.

So I figure, seeing that it’s part of the human condition, living a contradicted life, that it would be unfair, almost cruel, to hold ourselves or anyone else for that matter, up to too much scrutiny.

I promise to look the other way, if you promise to do the same. (As far as I know, I’m still someone who can keep a promise.)
Deal?

You KNOW you’re contradicted, think about it and tell me how!

Loving you all…today.
xox

If you want to listen instead:
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/youre-a-walking-contradiction

Damn! I love when someone get’s it right. This is SO right.

Enjoy your Sunday, save those memories.

xox

My friend and I were talking yesterday, reminiscing about the state of the world, immediately following 9/11.
Everyone was shell shocked, which disarmed their defenses.
People were kind. They went out of their way to help, they got involved.

Even the French. If you can believe it.

I can say that. I’m married to a Frenchman.
Actually he’s half French, half American.
He has the arrogance and love of food of a Francophile, the other half, Yankee Ingenuity and some Huckleberry Finn “Aww shucks.”

We were given ninety days to use our honeymoon tickets, whose dates fell inside those post September 11th “no air travel” dates.
Wasn’t that nice of them?
It was Air France, so yes, it was EXTREMELY nice of them.

Just under a month later we jetted off to Paris to visit his family.
Italy would have to wait.

“Air travel is safer than it’s ever been” he kept reassuring me, “they’re not going to use planes again, not with everyone watching.”

I suppose he was right, but there weren’t enough drugs in the world to get me through the airport, with the new security and National Guard presence, and then allow me to spend eleven hours in high altitude anxiety, without a puke or five.

Once we landed, I noticed it right away. The energy was palpably different.

There wasn’t any fear in Europe. No recent trauma.
No low grade anxiety that we, in the US, had been marinating in for a month.

I felt lighter immediately.
I felt I could smile and laugh again – except it was Paris and that’s forbidden.

Then an anomaly occurred.
Once a person heard me speak English, they would ask: American? I’d nod, and they would touch my shoulder or take my hand, “So sorry” they would attempt in their best American accent.

Are you kidding me?

In bistros, they would meet my eyes when they heard me speak, and give me a very soulful, extremely sympathetic, little grin. A sort of Mona Lisa smile of compassion. With a tilt of the head.

That’s a HUGE outpouring of emotion for them. I was very, very touched.

The take away for me on that trip and in the weeks and months that followed the tragedy of 911 was this: the world can feel like such a small place. Like a little community, where we all feel each other’s pain.
It was the first time in my life I’d ever noticed that.

The country that holds most Americans in low regard, (I know, BROAD generalization, but…) touched my heart and shared my grief.

Instead of cringing when they heard me speak, which I’ve experienced more times than I can count, my American-ness drew them to me like a magnet, so they could extend their sympathies.

We were all just citizens of the world…for awhile.
I miss that.

Sending Saturday Love,
Xox

It is ridiculously dark in a hotel room with the black-out drapes closed.

It is trip over stuff because it’s a strange room; blink, blink, blink for your eyes to adjust; bang your shin and stub your toe, dark.

I experienced all of those things on the way to answer my phone which was shoved in my purse, somewhere under piles of room service napkins, magazines and assorted other crap.

La la la la la la, my phone chimed its little heart out.

Who is calling me? Everyone knows I’m on my honeymoon and judging from how dark it is, (forgetting the drapes) it MUST be three am.

Five minutes earlier the ringing had woken me up, and I had stumbled like a drunken sailor, half asleep in the pitch blackness, to the bathroom. ‘Wrong number‘ I thought, still half asleep as I felt my way like a blindfolded mime, back to bed.
I heard it go to message. Now I was awake.
Hmmmmmmmm…that’s weird.

It started to ring again; this time I could swear it sounded more insistent.
LA LA LA LAAAAAA!
Curious, I quietly slid out of bed and started moving heaven and earth to find it, only to hear it go to message a second time.

Not even a moment later, as I was finally holding it in my hand, it started ringing again.

So did my husband’s phone, next to him on the nightstand, and so did the hotel room phone on my side of the bed. All at the same time it became a cacophony of three different rings, each one of them trying desperately at that point to get our attention.

I heard my husband’s voice behind me in the bed, “Shit, this CAN’T be good”.  He was suddenly wide awake as he grabbed both the room phone and his cell, putting one to each ear.
“Hello!” he announced tersely into both.

I had just flipped mine open to hear someone mumbling and weeping, and at the same exact moment we both lunged for the remote as three different people screamed into our ears “TURN ON THE TV!”

We were two days into enjoying our post wedding coma. Ensconced in a room overlooking the Pacific at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara, still feeling giddy from the excitement of such a magical night.
Exhausted, we had given ourselves a couple of days to decompress before we were to fly to a friend’s party in Chicago and then on to Italy to have a motorcycle honeymoon.
None of those plans would come to pass.

My brand new husband pulled open the drapes with one swipe to reveal bright sunshine; it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was after six in the morning. It must be a movie, I thought, as we both slowly sat on the edge of the bed; watching in stunned silence; as the second plane hit the tower.

I think I screamed.

Friends and family were calling; apologizing for bothering us, but wanting us to know.
That’s what family does. They share bad news.

Just thirty-six hours before, they had all been loopy from too much champagne and wine, toasting and celebrating love—now they were crying and asking me Why?

I couldn’t wrap my brain around what was happening. Everything felt surreal, like a slow motion movie.
I certainly didn’t have any answers.

My husband is an architect/builder. He knows about steel and fire and in his most serious Bob The Builder voice he didn’t pose a question or wonder aloud—he made a statement: “I hope everyone’s out of there, that building’s coming down.”

And right on cue, as he finished that sentence…the first tower fell.

“Shit, shit, shit” he yelled, jumping to his feet.
I was screaming and shaking uncontrollably, “No, No, No…Oh MY GOD!”
Was this really happening?

Peter Jennings’ solemn voice said something to the effect of, “This has turned from an act of terrorism to an act of war.”

It was impossible to look away from the TV and I could not stop crying.

My mom called to tell me Pam, who is like a big sister to me, and had flown in from San Francisco for the wedding, had to deplane on the tarmac at LAX and run for her life; as fast as she could, away from the terminals and the airport, as directed by the pilot.

Really. He told everyone to RUN!
No one knew what was going on, and where the next attack, if there were to be others, was going to take place. Lee and my mom picked her up as she ran east on Century Boulevard with a whole crowd of other panicky, thwarted travelers.

Many of the woman had ditched their heels along the way, running in bare feet and business attire.

They had no idea where they were going.
How far would they run?
How far was far enough?
Where could you go that day to feel safe? I sure as hell didn’t know.
If you’d told me a place, I would have run there with you.

After the second tower collapsed and the news went into perpetual recap mode, I couldn’t watch another second; so I pulled on some sweats and sunglasses to hide my red swollen eyes, and walked like a zombie downstairs to the lobby.

My inner historian/collector had kicked in and I wanted to see if they had the newspapers in the gift shop without the headline of the event and also a later edition, with it.

The adrenaline of the past few hours had subsided, which had dropped us into a kind of numb stupor, so we also needed coffee. Bad.

The lobby was deserted. Everything was closed. No gift shop, no Starbucks, nothing. There wasn’t a soul in sight…this huge hotel felt deserted.

Back upstairs, I called room service.
It rang for what seemed like an eternity, then the voice that finally answered sounded out of breath and off of hotel protocol. She didn’t say Hello, Mrs Bertolus, (which I was loving by the way), like they had been doing for the past couple of days.

“Yes? Hello, I mean, room service” she said.

“Um, are you guys open? Is it possible to get a pot of coffee?”

“I’ll try my best, I’m sorry ma’am, but no one has shown up for work this morning.”

“Oh my gosh, I completely understand—it’s just so terrible…”

“Yes ma’am” she said, “it’s so sad.”
She started to cry, which set me off.

“Don’t worry about the coffee” I sobbed, feeling like an ass. “Just forget it, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No ma’am, don’t be silly” she had composed herself, now the epitome of professionalism, “Your coffee will be right up Mrs. Bertolus.”

Ten minutes later a young man brought up a pot of coffee and some croissants, and after some caffeine and food, the shaking stopped and I felt a little better.

The government had halted all air travel until further notice. Planes were finding a safe place to land and staying put. It was unprecedented and I was relieved.

The absolute LAST thing I wanted to do was get on a plane.
We had a lot of phone calls to make and rescheduling to do.

Against my better judgement we kept our reservations that night for a seaside dinner. The place was beautiful… and depressing as hell. Everyone seemed to just be going through the motions. I sobbed like a three-year old through the entire dinner, having a hard time forgetting those faces we’d seen all day of the people who were missing.

“How can I enjoy any of this? People lost husbands and fathers, brothers and wives and sisters. So many people died today!” I put my head in my hands, I couldn’t eat.

“How can you not?” my husband whispered, resting his hand on mine.

“Those people would give anything to be here, where we are right now, enjoying life. We don’t join them in death, that’s an even greater waste. We enjoy our lives. Every minute. Every day to the fullest. I think that’s what they would want. That’s what I would want.”

Damn, he’s good.

Just writing these memories makes me cry. It instantly brings me right back.

I think it’s important to tell the story. To never forget what happened.
Everything before 911 feels different, simpler, like we lost our innocence.

It just happens to coincide with my wedding. I can never think of one without the other. I celebrate the ninth of September, and I light a candle on the eleventh.
In my life they are forever intertwined.

Just like our parents had the Kennedy assassination, this is our generation’s “where were you?” moment.

Do you have a 911 story? Tell us.

much love,
xox

Half of me was wondering: Am I awake? But the other half KNEW it was a dream.

It was vivid and lucid. I could smell the dankness that hung in the air.
I could feel the powered sugar softness of the dirt under my bare feet.
I had entered a cave of some kind.

My hands ran along the cool, damp, uneven walls as I slowly made my way, back, back, back inside, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.

There he stood, at the end of this narrow, winding,descent; a very tall figure in a black hooded robe.

I stopped. And stared. ‘I hope this is a dream, or I’m screwed.’

He put out his hands in a friendly way, beckoning me forward.
I walked toward him slowly.
“Show me your face” I said.
“In time” I heard back.

He started talking to me, telling me this and that about my life at the time. I just stood there, listening intently.

I was 26 years old, freshly divorced and in a new, rambunctious, highly sexualized relationship with a twenty year old boy/man who had saved me from having to think seriously about my future; and then after a summer of love, had left for college.
Deep down I knew what that meant, I was almost twenty seven after all, but I wore denial like an ivory cashmere shawl. It was cozy, and it made me happy.

“This relationship you’re in, is going to end.” he said after lulling me into complacency.
“Nooooooooo” I whined, not wanting to face the truth.
“That is not the direction your life must go. He is not your destiny.”
My heart literally hurt in my chest. “But we’re so happy.”
I swear he said, “Not for long.”

Asshole.

I put my head in my hands and started to cry.
There was so much misplaced sadness there inside me, so many tears I hadn’t given myself the time to cry. I had run away from a seven year marriage without missing a step. I hadn’t looked back, I’d only felt a combination of freedom and elation. I had never shed one tear.
Yet, having to leave the arms of this young lover, who felt so misguidedly right, hurt like hell, and I sobbed like a blubbering, sex crazed idiot.
Tall hooded guy stepped forward and enveloped me in a full body embrace. I barely came up to his neck.

When he did that, it unleashed a torrent of sights and sounds that my brain was having a hard time keeping up with.
I suddenly had ALL KNOWLEDGE. 
Past, present, future.
My life. ALL life.
Earth, our galaxy, the Universe and beyond.
I knew the answer to every question that had ever been asked…and some that hadn’t been asked…yet.
It was all so simple. ‘Why did we make things so difficult?’ I remember thinking in a blurrrrrrr.
I knew the cure for cancer, the end of hunger and I saw lasting peace.
War seemed barbaric, as a matter of fact, so did humanity.
The twentieth century felt like the movie Braveheart, inside those arms.

He was right, I had strayed off destiny’s path. This dalliance had to end, and I had to start going inside to look for love.

It was over in a second. He dropped his arms and the rush subsided.
I came back to my present. To the cave, with this man.
I had no words.
He turned and started to walk away, his work here was done.

He’d broken my heart and then sent me on an amazing journey to explain why he’d come.
“Turn around, show me your face!” I yelled. I was smad (combination of sad and mad)
He was far away, I could barely hear him now, “In time” he said, never turning around.

I woke up to a bright, hot summer morning in my shitty apartment, feeling such gratitude. The phone next to me was ringing.
“Thank God, that was just a dream.” I chanted over and over in my head, still processing my “know everything” moment, as I rolled over to pick up the receiver.
“Hey” my beloved’s sleepy voice said on the other end, “we have to talk.”

My heart sank as tears immediately filled my eyes. They’d been waiting there for a long time.

I knew what was coming next. No more fucking around. 
Somtimetimes, before a big life shakeup, the Universe gives you a head’s up, This was mine.
It was time to start living my destiny.

Xox

COM.PRO.MISE

ˈkämprəˌmīz/
noun
1) Settle a dispute by mutual concession. (In my opinion this is ABSOLUTELY the cornerstone of a happy relationship. Pick your battles, people)

synonyms: meet each other halfway, come to an understanding, make a deal, make concessions, find a happy medium, strike a balance; give and take.
“we compromised” (yes, yes, yes, yes and yes!)
(And my personal favorite, agree to disagree, Relax! we’re not attached at the hip)

2) Accept standards that are lower than is desired.
(What? No! ABSOLUTELY NOT That is NOT what it means to compromise. No wonder people are still single. Jeez)

My sweet darling, husband and I are celebrating our thirteenth wedding anniversary today.

We met and fell in love late in life. I was 42. He was 47.

He is a wonderful man, but he is curmudgeon.
He has a giant heart, surrounded by a hard, opinionated, veneer …wrapped in bacon.

When a friend asked me today what the difference was between people who marry late and the people who never marry at all…I said:compromise.

Don’t get all pissed off, sit down and hear me out.

I think the people who wait and wait and then never find the “right person”, believe that the second definition is true.

I did for a while. I thought compromise meant I had to lower my standards.

“No way! I will not! I want what I want, and I will not rest until I have dated every guy in LA (it just felt like it) to find the man of my dreams. He must be perfect in EVERY way.”

Good luck with that Janet.

And like the amazingly flexible person that I was; I wanted my life to stay exactly the same…except exponentially better.
More love, more travel, more money, definitely more sex, more friends, more, more, more, more, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I was willing to give up…nothing.

“GIVE UP something to be with a man? Nope, if that’s the case, then he’s just not the right guy for me.”

My husband is a contractor, and he espouses his Triangle Theory and assures all his clients that THIS is the way things work in the world. It goes like this:

Money + Time + Quality
When building something, you can only have two out of the three.
Quality is not cheap.
Fast is not cheap.
Quality takes time and costs money.

Cutting corners either in cost or time spent, sacrifices quality.
It is impossible to get all three.

Along the way I slowly and clumsily learned this lesson.
Compromise became my co-pilot.
Was everything on my list REALLY non-negotiable?

Here’s my triangle from back in the day.

Gorgeous, and artsy = unemployed.
Rich and smart = hooker fucker
Rat faced but kind = the guy you date in between rich and smart; gorgeous and artsy.

You just can’t get the Prince Charming trifecta.
You can get damn close, and that’s okay.
It’s NOT settling. It’s being a grown up and realistic.
Just like I’m realistic, acknowledging that I’m no prize.
I’m only two out of three, and that’s okay (can you guess which?)

Is it a compromise if your two out of three match your beloveds?
I think not.

Carry on, know that there is someone out there for you.
Do you want to be right…or happy?
Stop looking for perfect.
It’s highly over rated.
And expensive.

Love, love,
Xox

A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
― Jackie Robinson

I missed the email when it came in.
Contrary to what most people believe, I am NOT on social media 24/7. 

It was Sunday so…I was doing assorted Sunday stuff; sleeping past six, eating pancakes stuffed with blueberries, carbs and gluten (because on Sunday, none of that stuff counts and calories don’t stick. Trust me, I’m a Doctor*) and engaging in general goof-offiness.

When I finally did check in, I noticed that one of my readers/friends had left me some very lovely feedback on Saturday’s blog, the one about viewing your life as a movie.
It always moves me when people take the time to write and tell me how something made them feel. I know everyone is crazy busy, so it’s much appreciated.

It’s like finding blue sea glass. It’s like a gem, out of the blue, completely unexpected.

My point is this: out in the world, right now, someone thinks you’re awesome. 
I swear to God.
And you don’t even know it.
If you COULD somehow feel it; you’d walk a little taller and maybe put on some lipstick.

I have teachers from grade school that I STILL revere, and if they were alive…they would be surprised.

The same friend that wrote that email, is herself an extraordinary woman.
Yet, she has NO IDEA.
In the jewelry world, she is a badass. She is an expert in time periods, stones, and things I can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Her lectures are always packed and she commands the stage like a rockstar. Believe me when I say, that many, many of us think she’s awesome – and she doesn’t even know it.

I was just lucky enough to meet a brilliant, funny, and wise woman who lives in Paris.
An expatriate married to a Frenchman. She has such style and is so impossibly chic that French woman must ask her for fashion advise. I’m sure of it. I’m also sure that wherever she goes, she leaves a wake of awesome behind her.
And she is blissfully unaware.

Our friend Clay is knowledgeable in SO MANY fields, that I can feel equally stupid about music, computers and food around him. THAT my friends is a talent. 
My husband marvels at Clay’s humble manner and down lowness.
He’s a pilot and we didn’t know that for a year. He owns several patents, and again, we just somehow found out; and I’m pretty sure he invented the internet (sorry Al Gore).
We think he’s covered in awesome sauce, and he has NO IDEA.

It’s startling when people let you know that they hold you in high regard. It’s like you were just going about your business, being you, and someone noticed your sparkle.

Telling extraordinary people how much they’ve impacted us is wonderful, please, do it.

But it’s a safe bet that we each have several silent admirers who think we rock.

People we haven’t seen or spoken to for years AND people we see every day.
Isn’t that crazy wonderful?

There are people breathing air, living right now, looking at the same moon, who think you’re covered in awesome sauce.

I do.

You’re all amazing!
Xox

*I’m not really a Doctor, I just play one on TV.

The house is still. It’s the middle of the night so…that’s appropriate.

The only sound I can hear is the soft whrrrrr of the refrigerator, which spends its nights keeping my kale and green drink ingredients cool and fresh.

Damn you stainless steel box of cold air! (yelled dramatically while waving a fist).

Rant Alert:
Why can’t my protein, vegetable laden juices taste like a chocolate malt?
Is that too much to ask?
I’m submitting a formal complaint right here and now. This healthy shit has GOT to start tasting better…or else…

Anyway…
My refrigerator has undergone a recent renaissance.
It seems to follow my life’s trajectory. Right now it’s all cleanses, bitter greens and shit.

I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few options so I won’t cheat with fat infused deliciousness. As a matter of fact there is nothing delicious within a three-mile radius. I’d have to get in my car and drive to get it, and my laziness overrules my craving for gooey goodness, so I think technically, I’m not an addict, which gives me some solace.

What I am is: a vessel seeking clarity…with a bad attitude…in dire need of a cheeseburger.

For about two decades the freezer in my apartment contained two things: vodka and cigarettes (if you’re just a casual smoker, keeping cigs in the freezer keeps them fresh) not even an ice-cube dared show its face. Later, ground coffee replaced the cigarettes.

Quick story about how THAT happened.
Back in ’93 when I had my first “energy work” done, a friend came by the apartment to get the dirt. Remember, I had been violently ill for three days.

She was one of my gossip girls, so she knew about the cigcicles, and since she could tell my story was going be juicy and warrant a smoke, she walked over to the kitchen, which was just to the left of where I was sitting, and opened the freezer.

Suddenly, she jumped back, as if she’d seen a ghost, slamming the thing shut.
I watched it all happen, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, with my head tilted sideways like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle.

My friend still standing in front of the closed freezer door says, “A voice just said DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“I’d better go”

Man, the disembodied voices in my apartment in those days were bossy!

“Sit your ass down, I’ve got a story to tell.” I barked, taking a page out of their book.

And THAT was the end of my casual smoking.
I tried one occasionally in the years that followed but they made me feel awful, and when something stops being fun, I quit doing it. Think Jane Fonda Workouts.

So, back to the middle of the night as I tossed and turned and awfulized; mulling over this decision or that.
I finally made the first decision and that was to switch my brain from FU mode to productive mode, remembering all the recent things I’ve heard and read on making life altering choices when you’re at a crossroads.

So, to save you the obsessing and the time and trouble, here is a list of the things you should ask yourself:

1) Will I regret not making this change? (Regrets are like walking around with a wet coat on. They are killjoys.)

2) Why exactly am I hesitant/ indecisive? Make a list. (The list that you make in the light of day will always be shorter than the phone book sized one you make at three AM…just sayin’).

3) What doors will close if I make this change? Do I care? (That one makes my butt clench. Here’s a great quote from Mark Nepo for the people pleasers among us: “I tried so hard to please that I never realized; No one was watching.”
Right!? Did the top of your head just blow off? Mine too)

4) Which choice will make the better story? (kinda like the movie viewing analogy from Saturday’s post.)

5) How does the choice or change FEEL? (that really should be number one. Check your kishke).

6) What’s the worst thing that can happen? (consult your three AM list, believe me, they’re ALL there).

7) Whats the BEST thing that can happen? (usually written on a Post It)

8) What would I tell my best friend to do? (sans snarkiness, jealousy, competitiveness and ego).

9) What’s the “next right thing” to do to stay free of ego? (In other words, check your motivation. Is it pure? Not really? THERE’S your answer.)

10) What choice or change would make me the proudest in five years? (That’s often the clincher for me. Can’t say I’m too proud of myself when I can’t be brave and I play it safe.)

There you have it. I hopes this helps. Clarity is key to making the best choices. That and chocolate.
Love you all,

Xox