awareness

This level of creativity leaves me giddy…and grateful…and hopeful. Take a look.

Xox

All the world’s a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players; 
They have their exits and their entrances, 
And one man in his time plays many parts.
~William Shakespeare 

On top of writing this blog, putting together my book, my women’s group and modeling for Victoria’s Secret, I’m also birthing,(with my composer friend Les) a Broadway musical. (Only four of those are true – can you guess which ones?)

It’s been such an interesting process and I’ll tell you why.
We have the whole story in our minds, we just have to get the characters to say, sing and do all right things to make that story come alive.
We’ve spent the last nine months letting the characters tell us who they are (their backstory) so we can write the dialogue and songs that will suit them.
We HAVE to know their motivation before one word is spoken.

A favorite saying of mine is: even the villain has total conviction and thinks he’s doing the right thing.

When you think like that, it brings compassion, and the words that appear on the page never have a false note; they always ring true. (That, and a chocolate chip cookie sacrifice to my Muse every Friday as we brainstorm really helps.)

Imagine if we did that with our lives.
If we questioned our motivation with compassion, making sure to say and do the things that will move us forward in life. 
If we could reverse engineer our paths and never make a false move. 
Impossible right? And we really wouldn’t want to bypass some of those mistakes because they did lead us here, but…

You know when you’re engrossed in a movie and the main character, who you’ve fallen for, big time, does something stupid? 
They cuss out a co-worker and get fired, they choose the dangerous, douchy guy over the boring sweet guy, they sleep with a married man, they spend all their money on shoes, they drink and dial their ex, or they stand in front of the fridge at midnight finishing their kid’s birthday cake?

Don’t you just want to yell at the screen and throw popcorn? “NO! Don’t go there! Stop it! That is SO CLEARLY the wrong move! Ugh, now you’ve done it. How are you going to get out of that?”

Think Liz Gilbert (Julia Roberts) in Eat, Pray, Love, when she meets the young, boy toy actor (James Franco) and starts a fling, right on the heels of her divorce.
“No Liz, Don’t do it! Take some time alone. Don’t go there. He’s not right for you… Shit.”

You just know how that’s gonna end. We can all understand, we’ve been there.
It’s the sex – the blood leaves your brain, and it’s always phenomenal with completely inappropriate people.
It’s one of life’s great mysteries.

I have an exercise that I use in the woman’s group, to try to see the wrong moves before you make them, and I think it’ll help you with your future choices.
It’s a trick to get you to live more consciously.

Imagine your life as a movie. Right now.
In full HD color, on the big screen and YOU, are the star! (played by Kate Winslet or Reese Witherspoon, George Clooney or Hugh Jackman).
You can view, from afar, in your seat in the theater, all the options in front of you and watch as the character (you) makes their choices.
Are you watching YOU take some chances, have adventures, fall in love, laugh and have fun? Or are YOU miserable, on unemployment, being a sad sack, staying in bed, eating cheesecake?

Are you yelling “yes! Great decision!” or “No! Turn around and walk away!”

Remember, You are extremely fond of YOU (hopefully) and you only want the best.

If viewed on the big screen, how are YOU doing?
Are you avoiding the pitfalls and dick-heads, or are you going for the instant gratification? (the great sex with the wrong people)

Pulling back and watching the movie of my life has helped me immeasurably in my decision making. Sometimes I just shake my head, and other times I smile. 

I’m really rooting for me.

One of my friends imagines herself atop an impossibly high mountain and looks down at the overview of her life. She’s done it for years and it helps her so much to gain a better perspective.
I love that.

Think about this the next time you come to a crossroads.
We all know deep down what’s right for us. What would you want the YOU in the movie to do?

I’m rooting for YOU.
Much Love,
Xox

* I haven’t told many people this story for obvious reasons. Let’s just keep it between you and me.;-)

Perhaps the shortest and most powerful prayer in the human language is help.
~Father Thomas Keating

Men show up at the foot of my bed. I can’t help it, it’s a gift.

No, really.
Once, when I was living with my sister and a roommate, a “drunk as a skunk” friend of my roommate’s boyfriend got lost on his way to the bathroom, and I woke up to find him at the foot of my bed, mumbling incoherently – with no pants on.
If I’d had a gun, he’d be dead. And THAT is the end of my anti gun story.

The second time it happened was even weirder, if you can believe it.
It was during the time of my spiritual awakening, so I was living alone on the ninth floor of a high-rise, crazy, mystical shit was happening, and I felt like hell.
I had my pocket shaman, his team, and pennies in my shoes to keep me grounded.
I wasn’t sleeping much, but when I’d laid down to try, I would beg God or whoever was on duty that late at night, for peace of mind.
My prayer was always: Dear God, please help me to handle this.
Someone told me that prayer was magic, so I would whisper it softly, every night, and wait for relief.

One particularly bad night, after I finally managed to nod off, I was startled awake by some commotion at my window.
I actually had a whole wall of windows, which looked out over the Hollywood Hills and the double towers of Century City. The view at night was ridiculously stunning, (if I had been able to appreciate anything at all), and because I was up so high, nine stories, I never closed the blinds.

I heard the rattling and scraping, but in my stupor I had incorporated it into a dream.
When I finally did open my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
I blinked. And blinked. And blinked again.
Then I tried to jump up…but I was paralyzed.
There, looking me straight in the eye, as he made his way one foot, then one arm, then sloowwwwly the rest of his body – was a man.

“Am I still asleep?” I was asking myself, still blinking and trying to move.
My mind was racing and my heart was pounding.
“Was it the drugs? Oh yeah, I’m not on any.”
“This can’t be real, I must be hallucinating.”

Never once breaking eye contact, the man walked ever so deliberately to the end of my bed.
Something was wrapped around him as he crawled though the window, it looked like a cape. Once he came to a stop, facing me; with a bit of dramatic flair, I saw the glistening of snowy white feathers, and I heard a very distinctive swooooooosh as he unfurled the most massive set of… wait for it…wings!
They were enormous and majestic with their etherial,shimmery,almost iridescent feathers. I’ll never forget the sound of them. Have I mentioned how huge they were? They filled the room.
The wings definitely made an impression.

He was an angel. At the foot of my bed.

“Oh it’s an angel – well, that’s okay, um, wtf? NO it’s not! What does this mean? Shit. It can’t be good.” (Sample of my train of thought at the time).

I was scared, but I can’t say I was terrified. You have to remember, some weird shit was going down in my life at that time on a daily basis, but this? This took the cake. A visitation. Like right out of the bible. Not to be irreverent but, Holy cow!
How did I rate an angelic drop in? Surely, he had better places to be, like the Vatican, in a war zone, with the dying…’uh oh, am I dying?’

I was still paralyzed but wide, wide awake. I’d never been so awake in my life. I was almost hyper aware.

“What would help you feel less afraid?” He asked in his manly, telepathic angel voice.
“My cat” I answered in my mind. (for the love of God, why didn’t I say George Clooney?) I had given my cat to my sister because I was traveling so much back then, and I missed him desperately.

As fast as you could say abracadabra, Moomie was on my pillow, purring his trademark motorboat purr in my ear. I could move my hand up to touch and hold his furry paw – but only my hand. Believe me, I tried to make a run for it.

Then I fell asleep.

What?! I know. I couldn’t believe it either.
I hadn’t fallen asleep that fast for months…and there was an ANGEL AT THE FOOT OF MY BED.
What can I say? His presence was actually very comforting, and with that angel telepathy he was reassuring me, telling me I was safe and everything was going to be okay.

I woke up a couple of times and looked toward the end of the bed, and there he was, standing vigil, wings spread out wide, showing off. That surprised me. He must have drawn the short straw, and been relegated to pull an all-nighter.

I wished I’d asked questions. I’m sure I must have, it IS my nature, but I don’t remember any conversation between us, only his reassurance.

The next time I opened my eyes, the room was light – and he was gone, my angel intruder. So was my cat, darn it.
But I felt rested and safe and somehow…special.

It was a turning point in my awakening journey. I started to feel better. I would pray to HIM every night now. For comfort, for peace, for a return visit.

So far no such luck, but occasionally I feel him. We have a “thing“.

Sending you angel love,
Xox

PS. I went to the library (pre-computer) and looked at books about angel visits, you know what makes the biggest impression on everyone? Yep, those wings.

Listen to it:
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/angl-at-the-foot-of-my-bed

“You did not come to this Earth now to just pay bills, follow rules, watch your body age, and live a random life. You came here to fulfill a purpose, to live your life alive, to view all your changes as sacred meaningful soul passages.”
~Leo at “Perspectives From the Sky”

Walking semi-concious through those same glass double doors every morning, I would say “hey” to the guard, glance at the fading green paint and take in the general shabby condition of the place. “Long in the tooth” is how my husband describes buildings that are past their prime.
Except for the small missing pieces of the parquet wood floor and the dilapidated condition of the grey, two stall bathroom; if you entered from the front – you could be dazzled.

There were more millions of dollars of jewelry in that one thousand square foot foyer, than any showroom on Rodeo Drive.
Maybe all of them combined.
While those shops are sparsely merchandised, a large diamond ring with a spotlight on it for instance, the showcases in the foyer of Antiquarius, were literally crammed with goods.
New people often asked if the jewelry was costume. They couldn’t comprehend that all the emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds were real.

Rooms filled with antiques have a very distinctive smell. A dash of Aunt Barbara’s sickening sweet perfume, mixed with Pledge and silver polish. Add the smell of coffee from the restaurant upstairs and some random cinnamon potpourri and you get the picture. When I walk into an antique mall…it takes me right back.

I loved working there. 
I worked inside the Antiquarius building almost every day without fail, except when we were out of town at jewelry shows; for eighteen years. 1988-2006.
About five years in, the diamond dust had cleared from my eyes and I started to ask myself,
‘Is this all there is?‘ Even the “glamour” of the travel had worn thin.

I would feel it the most profoundly walking in those back doors from the parking lot every morning.
‘There’s the guard, say “hi”, don’t get your high heel stuck in the missing pieces of the wood floor, smell the coffee – there MUST be more.’

Even diamonds and being surrounded by beauty can become mundane and mediocre, if there’s no Zah,Zah,Zoo.

As I’ve stated before in this blog: I despise mediocrity, I think I’m allergic to it; and I’m a firm believer that life is too short and we must live with a sense of urgency.
For me that means adventure, life with a bit of an edge.
I tried all those exercises where you drive a different way to work, or order something new for lunch, in order to break out of the rut – that’s all bullshit.

I’m one of those people that needs a quest. What’s a quest you ask?
To me, it’s a challenge or long term pursuit to which you are devoted, and it changes you along the way. I adore travel, so I knew that would play a part in my quest.

I just watched an interview with Chris Guillebeau about his new book “The Happiness of Pursuit” and it very much reminded me of the dissatisfaction I felt all those years ago. The book is a collection of stories about people that are wired like me. People that are compelled to pursue a quest.

A quest can be anything from wanting to complete a triathlon, to, like his story and another in the book, travel to every country in the world or to knit ten thousand hats.

Mine is seeing as many places around the world as I can, on the back of a motorcycle.

“It is more about the emotional awareness of mortality, rather than the intellectual understanding. Life is short.”
~Chris Guillebeau

In his book Chris talks about the characteristics of a quest: a clear goal, a real challenge and a series of milestones along the way. It should be something you’re REALLY excited about. Check, check, check and big fat check.

Your quest will have stops and starts, born out of practicality; like running out of money, time or steam, and I think the most important component is to chronicle the journey. To me, this is non-negotiable.
It keeps the momentum going when you can’t see the end. You’re able to see how far you’ve come, AND, you can keep track, in writing, of all the changes you’ve gone through along the way.

That was what happened on our Continental Divide Quest last summer. 5000 miles in seventeen days.
I took you with me. I wrote about how I wanted to stop about half way through, how much I cried and how certain circumstances scared me shitless.

“We’re not in the Antiquarius anymore, Toto” 
~J Bertolus

I can’t tell you how many times I have looked up at the sky on the back of that bike and thought to myself ‘I am NOT at a desk, I am NOT sitting in traffic on the 101, I am NOT bored, and I am certainly NOT asking ‘is that all here is?‘
I Am living Life.

Find your quest. It will be the best obsession you’ve ever had.

With lots of love,
Xox

Marie Forleo interview with Chris Guillebeau
http://www.marieforleo.com/2014/09/happiness-of-pursuit/

I wish I could explain this life, this crazy world; to us all.

If I could, I would be the opening speaker at Stephen Hawking lectures, with an intellectually rich, but exasperatingly hard to follow Ted Talk. I would be rocking a tan corduroy jacket with elbow patches, an impossibly dated comb over…and I wouldn’t have time to write this blog. 

I wish I could schedule a breakout, breakthrough, or break up like I schedule my appointments to get my hair this incredibly natural shade of bley (blondish-grey).

It would really make things so much easier to be able to count on a pimply weekend or see your bat-shit crazy attack penciled in for a week from Friday.
I appreciate dependability; like daylight savings time, or how I remember my period being – from days of yore.

I wish things made sense.
Like nice people always finishing first and prayers being answered in the order they are received. I wish that anything that tasted good or was fun, like donuts, bacon, drinking wine and smoking; were good for us.

I appreciate challenge and adversity, I really do.
I get that they lead to change and growth and general growing up. I would just like to go on record, insisting that there should be a quota per lifetime, and once that has been fulfilled, that shit,
Has. Got. To. Stop.

No recurrences of cancer, or anything heinous for that matter.
One painful divorce, miscarriage, job loss – and that is that.

My husband had menengitis. He should never have to suffer with a headache or the common cold ever again.

One almost deadly car accident, ski accident, motorcycle accident or choking on a peanut and your lifetime bullshit accident quota should be fulfilled.

I suppose we are required to pick from the “Menu of Happenstance” before we embark on this wild adventure, and are eyes are too big for what we can actually stomach; when we’re on the other side, filled with grace.

I like to think that from that vantage point all this hub bub looks easy.
Like fun even. An adventure. In the cosmic scheme of things, over in the blink of an eye.

That’s why we come.

When you think of it that way…things aren’t so bad.
Love,love,
Xox

For your listening pleasure 😉
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/thats-why-we-come

I just went away for five days and had the best time a fifty-six year old woman can have without getting arrested.

I’m serious.

I’ve been nervous to make the seemingly Grand Canyon size leap from blog writer to author, and I desperately needed a writing “tribe” …and a net.
Real writers to give me honest, constructive critique, yet not break my heart.
I found them there, in Carmel By The Sea.

As far as acquiring a tribe goes, I am thrilled to report that they are mine, and I am theirs.

The people, the writing, the instruction and feedback were of such high-caliber, I described it one afternoon as the Harvard of Writing Workshops.

SEX IN SPACE

This wildly talented crew kept me on my toes, in the game, and laughing every minute of every day.
I LOVE to laugh, but I never imagined I would be laughing until my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. These people were wicked smart; and smart people are FUNNY…and to my surprise and delight… they’re silly.
Like I said, I found my people, so I joined in.

I talked to my finger as if it were giving me sage advise, smeared gravy on my face as a parody of a fellow table mate who was enthusiastically enjoying her bread with gravy, mimicked a fellow writer’s teenage character from her brilliant novel, with a Valley Girl voiceover, and gleefully joined in, every time we would all put our hands up to cover our mouths, moving them rapidly for an echo chamber special effect, shouting,
SEX IN SPAAAAAACE.

I’m not exactly sure how SEX IN SPACE came to be. It became the “working title” for *New York Times Best Selling Author D’s science fiction thriller, even though he had a perfectly good title, it doesn’t take place in space, and the only sex he read to us, was implied.

He did write about scrotums a lot, I’ll grant you that. He is a doctor after all – and a man.

What’s for lunch? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.
Stumped on a particular section of your book? SEX IN SPAAAACE.
Just heard someone read something so incredible from their book that you want to slap their mama? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.

You get the picture……Guess you had to be there.

*by the end of day one, we all insisted that when our name was said, it had to be preceded by the title,New York Times Best Selling Author… I know.

WHALE ENERGY
“Examine your own use of creativity and apply your own creative intuition to formulas as this is what imbues them with power and magic. Creativity for the sake of creativity is not what the Whale teaches. It awakens great depth of creative inspiration, but you must add your own color and light to your outer life to make it wonderful. The sound of the Whale teaches us how to create with song.
You are being asked to embrace the unknown.”

In between group mastermind sessions and binge eating, fueled by exhaustion and the close proximity of delicious food; we would each, the six of us, ascend the stairs to Mount Olympus (Linda’s room) for a forty-five minute one-on-one intuitive, brainstorming session with the ‘Master’, as I now refer to her.

After each one, I would gather the contents of my brain, which after failing to contain all the mind expanding concepts discussed, had exploded in an embarrassing mess all over the room; descend the stairs…and take a nap.
It was THAT intense.

The house, like a silent sentinel sitting high above Highway One, overlooked one particularly beautiful stretch of the Carmel coast, with its giant picture windows.
Mount Olympus, being on the third floor, has a staggeringly beautiful, breathtakingly uninterrupted view of the ocean.
One afternoon, during my session, as we were working to steer my writing ship off the rocks, the sea came alive.

I’d just had an idea: “I think I’ll call it One Ride Away From…”
“OH MY GOD JANET!” Linda squealed, “A whale just breached as you said that!”
I turned my attention to the roiling waters below.
“LOOK! There’s another one over there!”

We were both on our feet now, running toward the window, screaming screams that only dogs – and whales, can hear.

Below us the ocean had become Whale Soup.
Everywhere we looked, tails were breaking the surface, slapping the water, producing torrents of white foam. Noses were poking through the froth. Water was shooting into the air from their blow holes, giant saltwater geysers reaching toward the sky in every direction.

We went insane with excitement. We had to share it with our tribe!

Knowing that on the floors below us, everyone had their noses buried in their computers, diligently typing away at their respective masterpieces, we bound down the stairs, screaming the whole way.

“Are you guys seeing this?! Oh My God, come up here, the whales are going crazy!”
Seven of us were now running excitedly, back up the two flights of stairs, to the Mount.

Like little kids we danced and squealed and jumped up and down, arms around each other, hugging and laughing, for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, sharing the magical whale show that the Universe was providing just outside our windows.

“Look over there! No! Over there, shit! I don’t know where to look!”
“Wow…”
“It’s a bathtub full of whales!” Someone said in a sing-song voice.

“I’ve NEVER seen this before, EVER; and I’ve been coming to this house six to nine times a year, for over five years” said Linda with reverent awe, never breaking her gaze, entranced in the spectacle below.

The logical explanation was the unprecedented anchovy bloom off the Central California Coast.

Our tribe, the mystical creatives upstairs, writing our heads off?
We knew in a moment, that those majestic creatures had arranged that show. Just. For. Us.

BOB

On our final full day of the retreat, Linda took us on an early hike through the rocky outcroppings and tidal pools of Point Lobos State Park. It felt amazing to breathe the fresh, ocean air and move my ass, which had been in the seated position for days on end.

We walked along the dirt paths that weave in and out of the cypress trees, with the spectacular Pacific Ocean to our left; pairing up with one of the tribe, or hanging back, alone, lost in thought. Was it technically a “hike”? Maybe not, but it was delicious just the same.

When we came to a particularly beautiful viewpoint, we all gathered for a photo-op, steadying ourselves on the rocks, the calm blue ocean as our backdrop, Linda as the photographer.

“Are you all from here or are you visiting? Do you want me to take a picture of ALL of you?” he asked with a slight hint of a Detroit accent.

Suddenly, there before us stood a big bear of a man, with his affable manner, and giant smile. Bob, the accountant from Michigan.

“Sure” said Linda, handing Bob her phone and quickly getting into the shot.
“Now take one with my phone, I want one of all of you” he said, and even though I’m happily married and so is he, I fell a little in love.
I think we all did, as Bob unobtrusively joined our hike and inadvertently, our tribe.

I believe in the magnetism of energy. In our days, sequestered together, the seven of us had congealed into a kind of containable Super Nova. I think Bob was drawn to us, to our collective glow.

Bob was in Carmel to golf. It is the golfer’s Mecca with Pebble Beach just a stone’s throw away.
“Wow, you all are writers, I could never do that, I wouldn’t know how” he said as he took turns walking and chatting with each one of us along the trail. “Well, I can’t balance my checkbook” I said, joking around, searching for common ground.

We arrived at the spot Linda was leading us to; the branches of a long dead cypress, splayed open like a throne, wood worn as smooth as marble. It faced north, looking out over a small, placid, kelp filled cove.
“The Indians would sit here and meditate” Linda said.
“Look how worn it is, people have been sitting in that spot for hundreds of years.”

We all took turns, this group of mystics and shamans, healers….and Bob.
Bless his heart, he took a turn too, sitting inside the open arms of that magical cypress tree.

As we were gathered, waiting for everyone to take their turn, deer appeared, so we all quieted down and Bob became introspective, talking to me in hushed tones about some experiences he was having, and his revelations about love. “Now THAT’S what you can write about, everyone can relate to matters of the heart.” I whispered.
He nodded his head looking out at the sea. I could FEEL him opening in the silence between the words and even though I didn’t think it possible, I fell in love with Bob, the accountant from Michigan, even a little bit more.

I gave him this blog address as we all hugged goodbye about ten minutes later in the parking lot. He had a tee time to make and I had an appointment with my iPad.

I hope you read this Bob. You, along with this transformational time in Carmel, left a mark on us all, and THIS – from the heart; this is how you write about amazing stuff when it happens to you.

Love to all,
especially NYTBSA Dave,Murphy,Orna,Matthew,Jeannie,Denise,Master Linda and Bob
**Bob took the picture above.

Linda Sivertsen is the author, co-author, or ghostwriter of nine books–two NYT bestsellers among them. When she’s not writing her own books (Lives Charmed, Generation Green, and the most recent Your Big Beautiful Book Plan with Danielle LaPorte), Linda teaches writing retreats in Carmel-by-the-Sea. She and her work have appeared in/on CNN, E!, Extra, the NY Post, New York Times, Family Circle, Teen Vogue, the Huffington Post, and Forbes.com. She lives in Los Angeles with her man, their horses, and a couple of perfect pups.

www.bookmama.com

Xox

okay, okay, here’s the audio!
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/sex-in-space-whale-soup-and

Sunrise At Burning Man – Stunning – Enjoy Your Sunday!

Xox

This is SOooooooo true! You know why my tribe?
Because they are the MOST interesting, sensitive and insightful souls.
Because they see the world differently than most.

Slightly tinted, and a bit skewed through the outsider’s lens.

Because they have an edge.
In their work and words and life.
It wraps it’s pointedness around their soft gooey hearts to keep them safe and sound, and if they let you inside, it feels like the Fourth of July, your first kiss and Christmas morning all rolled up into one.

Are you one of these wonderful, ragged, gypsy souls?

Then know I love You. Happy Saturday.
Xox

There’s a lot of media lately around the subject of loneliness, and it got me to thinking: When in my life have I felt real loneliness?
Not to be confused with spending Saturday night without a date.
That is an appointment with Ben and Jerry’s and “The Way We Were.”

Loneliness is so much bigger, darker and deeper than that.

By definition loneliness is a feeling of isolation, of feeling alone and separate.

I’ll talk about my friend’s loneliness first…because I felt such empathy for her, I can still feel it today. 
I’ve known TT since high school. We became fast friends the first day of ninth grade, when I told her I thought she was beautiful. I know, great opening line, Right?
But she is and I really meant it.

In the late 80’s, she married Andy ( I love him too, truly; I used him as my husband template for years, but that’s another story). 

They moved to Santa Barbara to do their post grad studies, and since I live in LA, I drove up every other weekend. We nicknamed it a JJ (Janet jaunt). 

They lived on campus, had a huge circle of friends, and since everyone was financing their tuition cooking in restaurants, we ate incredibly well, and since they were all so smart, the conversation wasn’t bad either.
A few years in, TT had a baby. I was in the room, again, another story for another day. 
Let me just say…A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!

Three months later they moved lock, stock and baby to Italy.
To Trento, for an actual paying research gig at the University there, were Andy could move further toward his doctorate.
Neither spoke Italian, so communication was…interesting, and after they got there, it was revealed that the money would be paid at the end of their 9 month stay. So, after thirty days…they were stone broke.

Since Andy was at the University all day, TT was left at their small apartment, or to her own devices. The first few weeks of enthusiastic exploring, turned into aimless walks around a foreign town, where, even when she eavesdropped on other people’s conversations, she could only make out a couple of words.

I’ve been there, it’s like you’re invisible, and she really was!
All the Italian women saw was “Bambina!”
Except, they couldn’t tell her what to get for the diaper rash, or the teething, or share her frustration about the fact that the hot water literally shut off at 9pm…in the whole town!

I could feel her deep isolation and sadness come right through the paper of her letters and faxes.
I swear, there were tear stains. My vibrant, beautiful, friend was dying of loneliness, and it made my heart actually HURT.

So…I gathered the troops, and one by one, we staggered our JJ’s throughout that summer and fall, so she wasn’t alone as she learned how to be a mom in a small medieval town in northern Italy.

I have felt the MOST profound loneliness on two separate occasions in my life, and they both caused me great sadness, even despair.

I’m sure there were more, I’m in my fifties for God’s sake, but these two have burned their memory into my brain, so as not to be forgotten.

One was in my first marriage.
I was about 23, waaaaaay too young to be married, and I remember lying next to my husband and trying to identify the deep pit in my stomach. It was like a dull ache. I can remember the night it finally hit me: Shit! I married the wrong person, because he’s right here and I’m lonely as hell.

Great. Now what?
I smoked a joint, ate a box of cookies and had months of anxiety attacks.
Then I filed for divorce.

The second one that just about killed me, was when my store was dying.
Many days toward the end it was “crickets”. By that I mean, days of no phone calls, no deliveries, no people coming in at all.
I am WAY too social for that kind of day to day isolation.
I NEED to talk to people to live, it’s like breathing to me.

Often when I got home at night, I realized I hadn’t spoken a single word THE ENTIRE DAY!

I had never felt such deep loneliness
I would watch people walking to their cars and I wanted to yell out, “Hello, I’m in here, come talk to me!”

I just knew somehow, in my gut, that if something didn’t happen fast, the loneliness would start to affect my health.
There have been recent studies that back that up.

Luckily, the flood came, and saved my life.

Oprah has a campaign to help alleviate social isolation, and potentially some loneliness. “Just say Hello”
It’s a simple greeting, but it’s power is profound.
What it is, is a connection, and that connection can help someone feel less isolated, not as solitary in the world.

Let’s smile and say Hello to everyone, to strangers, we could make someone’s day. It would have made mine.
Xox

As we rushed out though the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my bonus. It stopped me in my tracks.
Damn him!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day – in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood.

We had grossed over one million dollars – in a week, the two of us, and I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss that hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes, or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be? The third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating fucktard, power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but instead his pocket change, I had won one battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he yelled impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked back in my direction with a “help me” face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door, not even turning around to see where I was.

“ I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me when, in one fluid motion, he arced to the right, making a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Then he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached with out with both hands in time to catch most of them, but watched several make a break for it, rolling on their sides with great momentum underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it; now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing I didn’t have any time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in every pocket of my purse, and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

The pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, who was dangling a cigarette with two inches of ash from her lipstick stained mouth, straddled two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her concentration.

“Janet, let’s go!” He bellowed from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors and then turned right to join the cab line.

I could hear those damn plastic chip clinking together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour that it takes to get from Vegas to LA, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly ask him, he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames, tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with he and his wife. I know that’s what we had agreed to but seriously, someone was going to die if I got in that car with him— and I was way too overdressed to go to jail.

As we walked out to the curb, I saw his wife’s car to the left and without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right and jumped into a cab that just happened to be waiting there in front of me.
The moment the door shut… I lost it.

I began to sob like a little girl, gasping for breath, snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat with respect and they blatantly disregard that?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! I couldn’t quit. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was single.
Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That always made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late night traffic on LaCienega, I could see the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, looking at me in the rear view mirror. If I hadn’t already guessed that he was from India, with his deep brown skin and white turban, his accent gave it away as he asked softly,

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so saaaaaaaad, I don’t know what to do.”

I could see his eyes searching my face in the rear view mirror as I accidentally wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he cooed in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail louder, “With poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

For dramatic effect, I grabbed a couple out of my bag and threw them on the seat.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
Really? I guess he had a point.
The cab slowly came to a stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, I had to scramble around to find my bag and scrounge for cab fare. As I did, the lovely turbaned cabbie grabbed my suitcase from the driver’s side backseat where I had launched it, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me.” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to clean the river of snot from the side of my face.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could argue with him or even thank him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived.

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, which is a labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts and one way streets. Even with the best directions from the back seat, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises. How is it that he had he managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one way streets inside the complex to deposit me right at my door?
The only answer? He was an angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor and slowly walk inside to the elevator, I noticed he had propped the doors open with my bag and pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox