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Flashback Friday ~ Don’t Worry…It’s Not You.

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“Writers are cannibals. They really are. They are predators, and if you are friends with them, and if you say anything funny at dinner, or if anything good happens to you, you are in big trouble.”
― Nora Ephron

Morning Peeps,
This is from last year but it’s something that happens on a regular basis and it makes me howl with laugher…on the inside…while I dictate notes into my phone.
Carry on,
xox


“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much every day for almost three four years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?”  Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.

I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. These days I can barely remember to wear pants.

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel immense unending gratitude for all of you.

So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper to me with pleading eyes.
Even in the car.
Like I’m wearing a wire!

Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Huffington Post, The Washington Post or something. Like I’m going to publish an essay about their shitty boss, how much they hate their boobs or describe what their husband’s sex face looks like. And funnier still, that their boss, boobs, or husband would ever get wind of it.

It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a “friend” in the blog—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride, and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

So here’s the official disclaimer: If I say “a girlfriend”— it’s not you. Even if I mention your name—it’s probably not you.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself? Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: ‘I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.’

Well, it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in the third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me every time.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”

I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

Everything Ends Better With Bacon

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Okay. So, tens of you, my darling readers, have been living in suspense, asking me for days how I broke my green drink fast and if indeed I found some clarity as a result.

The rest of you didn’t care—Good for you!

Well, the answer is—bacon and sort of.

By Wednesday (the fourth day), I had so much energy there wasn’t a speck of dust left on any surface in my house, all the prep and chopping was finished, and I baked several pies in the afternoon. That was after I completed a triathlon and learned Mandarin.

Boundless energy. Apparently that is the side effect of every cell in your body silently screaming for carbs.

My friend Kim came by to witness my bought of plant-based beverage madness. And steal a pie. She can attest to my supernatural buzz and cheerful disposition.

Apparently that was side effect number two—I was delightful. Ask Kim. Ask my husband. Ask the girl at the gym and the guy walking his dog past my car, (who I thought I’d spoken to earlier that morning so I picked up the conversation where we left off only to find out it wasn’t the same guy OR the same dog, but I just smiled and kept on jabbering away like he was my long-lost BFF).

Gaunt and boney, (hardly), even dingier, (hard to imagine, but true), and delightful (oh absolutely).

Because I wasn’t hungry. Not at all.

So here is what you’re waiting for, oh patient reader; you want to know how I broke my fast.

“Go slow”, everybody advised. “Eat deliberately, take your time. Start with something bland and inert, like, like, a lemon. Suck on a lemon. Or better yet, sip hot water with lemon.”

Yeah, That’s so me. I’m someone who’s going to suck on a lemon after four days without solid food.

I could not disappoint. Not myself and certainly not you guys. You don’t come here to read about a spiritual guru who sits in perfection and quiet contemplation—fasting—then sipping warm lemon water while they advise you on all things holy.

Fuck that! You can read Deepak or Marianne Williamson (both whom I adore BTW) if you want to read the obvious. The expected. Perfection personified. THAT is everywhere!

Nope, I broke my four-day fast with bacon—on. the. grill.
Stop gasping, or laughing or applauding, I can’t hear myself think it’s so loud!

Here’s the thing, the kitchen was otherwise occupied Thanksgiving morning. My mad scientist/chef of a husband had the stove and oven firing on all cylinders—but I wanted bacon.
I needed bacon.

So I became inventive, industrious and clever as I utilized all the benefits of a four-day brain cleanse.

I cooked bacon—in a pan—ON THE GRILL! BAM!

Genius! And delicious. And satisfying as hell. It made me so happy I had a stupid grin and bacon grease on my face all day.

See, aren’t you happy it wasn’t freakin’ lemon water? I see you grinning, I can guarantee you—nobody grins all day from lemon water.

Besides, I’m not that girl and this isn’t that kind of blog.

Someone asked me the other night about the blog and I told them this, “I write the blog I always wanted to read: Sassy, messy, with stories of tragedy and triumph, tales of sorrow and success, with a dash of irreverence and a touch of cursing all wrapped in humor…and bacon.”

See that? Clarity.

Carry on,
xox

Don’t Worry, It’s Not You.

image

“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much everyday for almost three years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?” Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.
I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. You guys, I can barely remember to wear pants!

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel unending, immense gratitude for all of you.
So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper.
Even in the car. Like I’m wearing a wire.
Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Washington Post or something. It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a friend—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride; and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself! Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.

Well it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”
I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

One Whopper Of A “What The Hell Wednesday”

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A famous photo of Picasso and his Muse

SUPERFLUOUS
su·per·flu·ous
so͞oˈpərflo͞oəs/
adjective
unnecessary, especially through being more than enough.

synonyms: surplus, nonessential, redundant, unneeded, excess, extra,

As you all may or may not know, I am an intuitive writer, meaning: I sit in stillness and basically say to the great cosmic soup of writers that reside in the ethers, “What do you want to write today?”

After almost three years of supplying content for this blog just about EVERYDAY—I—the me that thinks she’s a writer, would have run dry of ideas a LONG time ago!

So I’m smart. I outsource my material to those that are wiser, braver and funnier than I could ever hope to be.

My Muses.

These experts literally mine my brain for life experiences and then craft a story around them utilizing my language skills, which as you know, means raw and real with plenty of f-bombs.

I don’t flatter myself to think that this is a new story specific to me.

Muses have been around since time immemorial, and I know that all of the great art and music, literature and any role that Meryl Streep has inhabited, has come into the world this way. Some of us middle-men (receivers) are just more aware of the process than others.

So that being said, I have been told lately by one Muse in particular, that my blog is superfluous. Okay…

By not knowing the exact meaning of the word I took it to mean insignificant, and THAT hurt my feelings.

How could that be so if they are the ones writing everyday?

Well, because they have moved me to explore other intuitive pursuits. I’ll get to those in a minute.

And because superfluous doesn’t mean that at all.

It means unnecessary because it’s more than enough, redundant, extra—NOT insignificant at all.
Note to self: Janet, next time grab a dictionary before you get upset, and remember—muses always pick the perfect word. Every single time. It’s uncanny.

Still I was confused.

You see, I thought my future would revolve around this blog.
A book, maybe three. Spoken word events with me telling the stories found here.
I have become so intertwined with this blog that I don’t know where it ends and my true self begins. The essence of my Muses has integrated to the point that they are me—and I am them.

What that means is that I am either mentally ill, (the jury is still out) or just a fucking great conduit (I vote for the latter).

“We bamboozled you” chortled the most prominent Muse recently while I was out on my walk. She is a recent addition. An overachieving, comedic, bossy pants who has hijacked…well, everything.

As you know, my walks often prompt conversations and ideas, even arguments between my Muses and me. “Oh you did, did you?” I responded, silently of course.

“We got to you through the writing, you were open and eager enough to accept us coming through that way”.

She was right. I had been fighting the process of accepting the involvement of disembodied, outside forces since the early nineties when they had first made themselves known to me.
Back then it scared the shit out of me.
Me? A channel? No fucking way!

Twenty years later they got smart. “We’ll tell her we’re Muses,” they conspired.

A writer with a Muse? Sure! okay! I can do that. And off I went, full speed ahead into the blogosphere.

Bamboozelment achieved.

That was 2012 and ever since then I have sat my ass in the chair every day and waited for them. And they always show up.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

Once you become an open conduit like that, it gets easier and easier for their thoughts to come through.
And not just when I’m in the chair. No, they chat away while I’m driving, in the shower, on my walks, going to sleep, waking up, even while I’m cooking.

There is a cacophony of—not really voices—but thoughts and opinions going through my head that I know are not my own. The difference is subtle, but I have been doing it long enough that I can differentiate who is who.

Sorry, I promised interesting and I can feel myself beating around the bush so here goes: People that have passed on, dead people, now talk to their loved ones (usually someone I know) through me. It’s really quite beautiful, not creepy in the least. The conversations, and they ARE conversations, are so filled with love and interesting, private information that they’ve even made the most skeptical among us—ME—a believer!

Also, in the last six months I have been introduced to the most brilliant, witty and profoundly deceased famous writer, who has captivated my imagination and bamboozled me into believing that my blog is superfluous and that our story, the story of the collaboration between she and I, which is mystical, and magical and hysterical—is my future.

That will be my book. That is the life that has chosen me.

She has been gracious enough to help write the dialogue for my musical, (that’s how she sucked up and gained my trust), she writes the best of my blog posts, and most recently she has been teaching me to write the screenplay of our relationship.

I don’t feel comfortable disclosing who it is yet. I’m sure I will sooner or later…Baby steps.

All this to say: The greatest impression she has made on me so far has been her sheer exuberance at being dead. She had NO idea it was so…interesting…and full of potential.

The fact that she continues to remain bossy, funny and highly opinionated; that she still gets to write via our collaboration, that she is able to focus on her loved ones, and reach out to people—has blown her mind—and subsequently, my own.

“Death has gotten such a bad rap” she reiterates over and over again laughing her wonderful laugh.

Don’t you love knowing that?

What a wild journey this life is, and I’m just beginning to see the purpose of it all.

Hope I didn’t freak you out too much, Carry on,
xox

Currently Un-Cool

Currently Un-Cool

“The only currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.”
~from the movie Almost Famous~

I love that line. It’s delivered by the disheveled, “uncool” underground DJ played by the late, great Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He drops that little truth bomb on William, the 15 year old who is touring with an up and coming band, trying to capture their story for Rolling Stone magazine.

I can relate to that…now more than ever.
I am the un-coolest blogger in the blogosphere, THAT I know for sure.
I’m not really sure why I got the “hit” to blog, I’d never even read a blog before I 
started my own a year and a half ago. I just got the urge to go public.

Confession: When I look at the other blogger’s sites, I just want-to-die…of un-coolness.

When a blogger “likes” something you write, it is only polite to go check out their site. Even more so if they start to “follow” you. 

Some of these people are kids! But they have got it more together than I EVER will!
15 year old girls have blogs that link to their websites. These websites have so much content, it looks like they cost $30,000! They have paid advertising and products for sale, some have books.
WTF? At 15, I had pimples…end of story.

There are incredible 20 something fashion bloggers with tens of thousands of followers, one Italian street fashionista has over 10 million!
There are all these badass photographers who take amazing photos from exotic locals all over the world.
There are ridiculously talented writers and poets. I mean seriously good.

Then there’s me.
Almost 56 year old me, who lives in the burbs, sings musical theater (gleek), rides on the back of a motorcycle and writes about spirituality, life, and and
occasionally I throw in a poem.
I send these musings out into the world every morning. I post them, I tweet them and Facebook them, ( which I’m sure is SO last Tuesday) wondering if anyone reads them.

But every now and then, something will resonate with one of the “cool kids”
and they’ll email me, (They never leave a comment; too un-cool) to tell me it touched them or made them laugh.
They encourage and push me. They tell me I should vlog (video blog) and suggest I self publish.

Whoa, cool kids, let’s take it slow here, I’m just getting the hang of this stuff.

I do have to say, the spiritual blogosphere in general, has such a generosity of spirit. They are a community that embraces everyone. It’s where the cool kids dane to talk to the uncool, and give great advice. They are big hearted smarty pants’ who talk the talk and walk the walk.
I’m starting B-school with Marie Forleo in March. It’s an online business school that all the cool kids suggested, and which I’ve been stalking for a couple months.

I can’t even imagine it now, but I’m cautiously optimistic that I will be just a smidgen cooler come May.

By then I’ll be privy to what all the cool kids know. 

Note to self: stop using words like “smidgen”. 

I’m afraid I’m just terminally un-cool.

XoxJanet 

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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